Diplomacy Game One

[quasar]

As the great far distant observer from the far reaches of the universe, this quasi-stellar object must say that y'all are cracking me up

[Psychovant]

I must agree with the "great far distant observer" Quasar in the fact that I have spit up on my monitor repeatedly and have fallen to the floor from my chair even more often. Y'all are witty as all hell and hillarious to boot.

May the force be with each of you. Oh yeah, and where do we place our bets?

Shannon ...

[vonboob]

Originally posted by CurtisEdmonds
...

Those who desire friendship and peace from the halls of Istanbul will find it; those who seek war and strife will find that as well.

...

Dis is so well said, it brings tears to my eyes.
The brand new opera production is in the making. Imagine…

In one corner a crescent of Turkish belly dancers; barefooted move like the zephyr. In the other, representing Britannia, the Lord of Dance himself, stomps and shuffles the V-formation. The circle of Cossacks makes their Trepak squats especially low; they are just trying to get a better look at the French Can-Can line…
Unfortunately, they have to go through Germans and Austrians (celebrating October Fest and twirling Tyrol Polka in the center).
And of course, everyone takes five then Diva makes appearance.
Ya, wunderbar, I’ll submit my script today.
Roob von Boob, chair of Danube Ballroom Society

[vonboob]

Originally posted by Psychovant

.... Oh yeah, and where do we place our bets?

Shannon ...

Great idea. I can't participate (of course ) but maybe someone should start a poll...

[soxfan[$]]

Originally posted by Psychovant
May the force be with each of you. Oh yeah, and where do we place our bets?

Shannon ...

The simplest way to do that would be to forward cheques directly to yours truly. I would then be able to distribute them appropriately ... or, more likely, deposit them into my account.

Ailsa

[kuuleimomi]

Keeping us in total ignorance, ain't ya? Damn you, guys, speak up!

Finn

[vonboob]

As the D-day approaches, it seems that while most embassies in Vienna are celebrating, one is packing in hurry. There is also one ambassador who had decided not to contact Danube Ballroom Society, possibly in fear that their dancing inaptitude would be exposed…

We deny any prejudice then it comes to rhythm challenged diplomats. Our own Beethoven can’t hear a thing, yet would anyone doubt his genius?

Wishing everyone a very productive Spring 1901,
Roob von Boob, chair of Danube Ballroom Society

[nicholmere]

Yes, with ony a day left before the Great Powers meet for the first time the air is filled with the sweet smell of an...tic....i...pa..tion (RHPS anyone?). Or is that the sweat of perspiration?


Either way, there is something out there . The troops are packing their rations in preparation for a long battle. The thought of Victory is on everyone's mind as they practice their drills one last time. Perhaps behind some of the bravado is a simple soldier's wish of "don't hurt me!" while others crave for the sound of bone crunching tanks marching across the lands.

Where are they going? Who is their enemy? Who is their ally? Do they even know? Have they received their orders yet?

Ah, all will be revealed Tuesday night.

Remindingly Yours,
OyI-GM
Katrinka

[nicholmere]

Greetings and Salutations are extended to all the leaders of the Great Powers.

The Deadline for 1901 Spring's moves has come and gone.

Did you keep your promises? Did your allies? What will the future hold? All will be revealed by midnight tonight (EST).

[nicholmere]

As your OyI-GM I would like to take this interlude to announce that due to the world's fascination with the cyclical undercurrents of loyalty, treachery, honour, cowardice and audacity when it comes to the strategic movements of armies and fleets, I have retained the services of Alek deTalkville, formerly of both the Royal Society of Historians and the Polytechnika Salonika, to analyse the movements of the Great Powers, and provide a commentary to the events unfolding.

There is no need to welcome him or acknowledge him in anyway. He will not be swayed by gifts or threats; his commentary will always be his impartial view of the battles.

Sincerely,
OyI-GM
Katrinka

[hypotenuse]

Originally posted by nicholmere
There is no need to welcome him or acknowledge him in anyway. He will not be swayed by gifts or threats; his commentary will always be his impartial view of the battles.

Sincerely,
OyI-GM
Katrinka

There are always exceptions, but....

- îí êàê ïðî÷íûé, ëîÿëüííûé, è studmuffiny êðàñèâûé ïîäîáíî ìîèì Cossaks? ß èùó Öàðÿ, êîòîðûé Âû çíàåòå. Îí äåéñòâèòåëüíî íå äîëæåí áû äåëàòü çíà÷èòåëüíî êðîìå îáÿçàííîñòåé ìîåãî ïîëîâîãî ðàáà. Íå ñëèøêîì òÿãîñòíûé çàäà÷è, eh?

Àëåêñàíäðèÿ Tzarina

[nicholmere]

The following are the orders received by your OyI-GM Katrinka.

All orders were successful unless otherwise indicated.


Austria-Hungary
-Failed- Vienna Army moves towards Galicia -Failed-
Budapest Army charges on to Rumania
Trieste Fleet sails to Albania


England
Fleet London sails into the North Sea
Fleet Edinburgh heads into the Norwegian Sea
Army Liverpool advances into York


France
Army in Marseilles moves to Spain
Fleet in Brest moves to Mid -Atlantic
Army in Paris moves to Burgandy


Germany
I would like to move my army in Berlin to Kiel.
I would like to move my army in Munich to Ruhr.
I would like to move my fleet from Kiel to Denmark.


Italy
Army Venice to Piedmont
Army Rome to Venice
Fleet Naples to Ionian Sea


Russia
A Moscow-Ukraine
-Failed- A Warsaw-Galicia -Failed-
F St Petersburg-Gulf of Bothnia
-Failed- F Sevastopol-Black Sea -Failed-


Turkey
The Sword of Allah army division, currently stationed in Constantinople, will march into the cursed land of Bulgaria and free the local population from the iron hand of oppression.

The Anvil of Allah army division, currently stationed in Smyrna, will move to more spacious quarters in the province of Armenia.

-Failed- The Sails of Allah fleet group, currently at anchor in Ankara, will sail into the Black Sea to challenge the might of the Russian bear.-Failed-


OyI-GM
Katrinka

[CurtisEdmonds]

In the name of Allah, the Ambiguous, the Secretive;

- îí êàê ïðî÷íûé, ëîÿëüííûé, è studmuffiny êðàñèâûé ïîäîáíî ìîèì Cossaks? ß èùó Öàðÿ, êîòîðûé Âû çíàåòå. Îí äåéñòâèòåëüíî íå äîëæåí áû äåëàòü çíà÷èòåëüíî êðîìå îáÿçàííîñòåé ìîåãî ïîëîâîãî ðàáà. Íå ñëèøêîì òÿãîñòíûé çàäà÷è, eh?

The Sultan's codebreakers are hard at work. We will determine the Cossack code or they will die trying.

-- Sultan CDE

[hypotenuse]

http://www.rustran.com/socrat.php4



Lynne/Alexandra

[CurtisEdmonds]

FYI, that didn't come up as Cyrillic when I looked at it. Hmmm....

-- Sultan CDE (who did have two years of Russian in college)

[hypotenuse]

Dear Comrades and Fellow Áîëüøàÿ ìîùíîñòü æîïû âàøèõ ïóñòÿêîâûõ ñòðàí,

Please forgive my íåâîçìîæíîñü ñâÿçûâàòüñÿ but this has been a time of personal mourning for me. I know you will grieve with me as I relay that ìîè ïîëîâûå ðàáû horribly áûëè óáèòû, èõ ãîëîâû ÿâëÿþòñÿ òåïåðü óêðàøåíèåì ðÿäîì ñ øïèîíîì Àâñòðèéöà.

I have endevored to carry on as we, who carry the weight of nations upon our heart, must always put the well-being of those nations before any personal trials and tribulation.

However, I shall be looking to fill the ïîçèöèè îñòàâèëè îòêðûòûé ìîèì ãðóñòíî óìåðøèì è ÷ðåçìåðíî ïðîïóñòèâøåå ïîëîâûõ ðàáîâ. È ìîæåò áûòü ïûòàéòåñü íåñêîëüêî íîâûõ ïîçèöèé òàêæå.

So if you see me in your area, I am simply checking the qualifications of applicants, personally. It may take a while.

The woes of leadership...

Your desolate, but true comrade in diplomacy,

Tzarina Alexandra

[mtbat]

and so it begins-

France sits back, smokes a cigarette, drinks some wine, eats some bree and sourdough and thumbs her nose at all of you!

[mtbat]

Translation:

îí êàê ïðî÷íûé, ëîÿëüííûé, è studmuffiny êðàñèâûé ïîäîáíî ìîèì Cossaks? ß èùó Öàðÿ, êîòîðûé Âû çíàåòå. Îí äåéñòâèòåëüíî íå äîëæåí áû äåëàòü çíà÷èòåëüíî êðîìå îáÿçàííîñò&aring

[pageclot[$]]

Headline: International relations at a crossroads?
By Alek de Talkville

Great movements are afoot on the great continents this spring. Armies, long dormant, have dusted off their armour, and great fleets have been assembled in anticipation of mass movements of soldiers, administrative staff, materiel and really big boats.

In France, with the tricolour flapping in the early spring fresh breeze, an army in Marseilles sheds their camp followers briefly and marches into Spain, a trail of baguette crumbs in their wake. These bread crumbs to be followed by the inevitable flotsam and jetsam of international conflict and diplomacy. At the same time, the French fleet at Brest, topped to the gills with diesel oil stinking in the midday sun, baguettes, and pain au chocolat, casts off its heavy lines and the heavier bonds of history and with a stately majesty belied by the feverish activity below decks, sets sail for the midatlantic. We, of course, dispassionately wish them well. Despite my French origin, I must, for the sake of posterity, maintain my objectivity (but go boys, go!). The mobilization of the country has not escaped Paris, the city of lights. Strict rationing of paints has caused several painters to develop a technique called pointillism, which uses much less paint, but still gets the gist of the painting across to the viewer. It is good to see that Parisians firmly back the military effort. Paris has never looked so beautiful as it does this fine spring day. But this fine day is soon disturbed by a cloud of dirt and flour dust that rises along the fields of the Bois de Boulogne. Ah, c'est merveilleux! ‘Tis the army of Paris. They look so smashing good in their white boot gaitors, and shiny leather rifle straps. Ahhh, mon ami, the region of Burgundy, where they are headed, will surely have a shortage of fine wine this spring.

The movement towards a military solution to the problems of international relations has also affected the fair Sceptred Isle, England. Fleet Admiral Nielson has waited for this chance for
years. He’s never really liked the smelly Thames, and is willing to go anywhere, bear any burden, pay any price, to further the cause of England anywhere. “This season will be a good one”, he said to this reporter, while I was paying a flying visit to several country’s military leaders. “I can feel it in my bones.” He directed his Ensign to put out the orders. To the North Sea! They leave the confines and stench of London behind. Me too, unfortunately. But I’m off to Edinburgh, to visit the English fleet there.

A nostalgic journey

"Head North!" came the order to the navigation room.

"Cap'n knows what he's doing, boyo! Set a course! We're leaving Edinburgh!" said the chief navigator to his trainee.

"For where?" said the trainee.

"The Norwegian sea, boyo", and I saw a memory of an old pain film the chief's eyes for a moment. Then he gripped his pipe in his teeth, slapped the trainee's back, and went to grab another cup of tea.

These men are tough, and ready for anything. From the bustling decks and clear air of the British warships, I take a skiff to a local harbour and catch a coach to Liverpool, where I spend a leisurely afternoon contemplating the purchase of a cavelike pub where the locals like to hear a fiddler or two play. The acoustics are all wrong, however, and I decide to invest the proceeds of my last book on two pints of execrable ale. Then I’m off to the field, to view the dusty field army just outside town. Advancing on roads that were old when the Roman's were finally driven off the Sceptred Isle by pestilence and surly tavern owners, the Liverpool army dustily makes
its way overland. Travelling alongside them, I am hard pressed to find any leadership amongst the crowd, but that could be a function of the mixture of fog and dust. Before I know it, however, we have completed our journey, and encamp in the fertile and industrious area of York! Surely, things are looking up for this group of fierce, but dusty, fighters.

I take an evening to lie in a field and sleep, comfortably esconced beneath an artillery piece, which saves me from the rain, which falls throughout the night.

I catch a head cold, however, and am determined to head to sunnier, warmer climes.

The best plans of mice and men are soon come to ruin, however, and I head to Venice, where the Italian army, resplendent, but damp, in their tricolour uniforms, are scraping the rust from their weapons and preparing to move to the dryer environs of Piedmont. I elect to stay behind, having found an excellent pension, with a room with a view of the canals. I stand before the windows, and throw the shutters wide, breathing in the dank, but oddly comforting air of the canal. It is while in Venice that I hear the sounds of yet more boots and the clank of iron. What, have the soldiers returned from Piedmont, having missed the glorious artwork? NO! It is the Roman army, well-fed but exhausted from the automobile noise, who have come to Venice for a well-deserved rest. I shake hands all around, and spend some time touting my previous book. It meets with a good reception. I ask for news of the fleet. A grizzled scrounger (every army must have one) declaims offhandedly that the fleet at Naples has pulled up anchor and is headed for the Ionian Sea.

“Not the Ionian Sea, surely”
“Yes, the Ionian Sea.”
“Oh”, I respond. And with troubled thoughts, I am on my way…

to Vienna, for hot coffee and some strudel, perhaps. I am just in time to witness the Viennese army, fortified during the winter by sacher torte, climb on their shining mounts and move north, to Galicia. Two days later, barely having moved from the café, I am witness to their return. Crowds cheer their return, then fall oddly silent. “Where is the booty?” cries one scamp.

“There’s no booty for strategic victories” said one wry soldier. It turns out they had met up with the Russian Warsaw army, who were also trying to invest Galicia, and both sides were not ready for a fight yet. So they both retired. Fair enough.

The Austrian army at Budapest has a better time of it. They meet no opposition in their quick romp into Rumania, where they discover the delights of old castles and some obscure legends about people getting bit on the neck. Pish posh, I say. Yet it is with a sense of uneasiness that I decamp from Rumania and run like hell to Trieste.

You have to be pretty desperate, or scared, to run to Trieste.

Sir Richard Francis Burton is said to have spent several miserable years in Trieste, but you’d never know it to be a miserable place from the spritely activity this morning. Quartermasters attempt to get everything squared away for the voyage. The word is out! They're going with the fleet to Albania! I am bemused, but saddened to see them go. Albania doesn’t have nearly the nightlife that Trieste does. I continue my wandering, sending urgent missives to my publishers in Lyon for more funds. I am on the cusp of a breakthrough; I can feel it. To find out for sure, I head to decadent Turkey, to visit with the Sultan, an old friend of mine from the camel training camps of my youth. The Sultan is kind, as always, and informs me that I just missed a great military movement. The remains of ammunition boxes, and camel dung litter the road, and he informs me archly that The Sword of Allah army division, previously stationed in Constantinople, has marched into Bulgaria.

“But, whatever for?” I ask.
“It is written”, he says.

Man, that always annoys me when he says that.

“Furthermore” he continues to intone in a tone that history would judge wheedling, “The Anvil of Allah army division, currently stationed in Smyrna, will move to more spacious quarters in the province of Armenia.”

“Did you know they make Saturns in Smyrna?” I ask.
“What’s a Saturn” he asks.
“Never mind”, I say.

Momentarily befuddled, he continues: “The Sails of Allah fleet group, currently at anchor in Ankara, will sail into the Black Sea to challenge the might of the Russian bear.”

“Is that them coming back now?” I ask.
“Why, surely it is, fair friend de Talkville. Can you read morse code?”
“Uh, yes. Met…up…with…Russian…fleet….from….Sevastopol…stop….they….just….about….creamed… us…stop… We…sent…them…back…and…came…back…for…resupply…stop…cream…in
my…coffee…please…”

Hmmm, I decide to make my exit, and speed on towards Germany. The proud Berlin army is marching when I arrive. "It's time to march!" cry the young, brave warriors. Slogans of the day march up and down the ranks of the elite infantry, as they happily trudge onward, towards Kiel.

Desirous of a beer and a bar maiden, I make a pitstop in a Munich beer tent. Palavering with a bar maiden, and admiring her forearms, I manage to squeeze out of her some information about the local recruits. It appears the Munich standing army is on the move. I offered to pay the bar bill of a grizzled veteran in return for the information about where they were going. “The Ruhr” he rasped.

Hardly seemed worth 400 marks worth of beer. But in this life, sometimes you make bad bargains. Nature of the game. But what of the fleet? Where are they headed? Or are they standing fast, to defend the port of Kiel?

Turns out no. They are not standing fast. Typical of the aggressive nature of the German fleet commanders, they aren’t letting salt water dry out their leggings, and head to Denmark, possibly to sample the cheese there. I’ve heard it’s good. On my way to Denmark, I take a wrong turn and end up in the trackless wastes that are Moscow’s suburbs. Catching a cab, I look up my old friend General Argounova. I ask him for news over a glass cup of hideous tea.

“My courageous and well equipped Muscovite army, bristling with brand new artillery, purchased at the cost of many privations of the private citizenry, and ably commanded by myself, gives up its
comfortable tents, and marches, under cover of darkness, towards the breadbasket of the far east, the Ukraine.”

No kidding, he actually talks like that.

“What else is going on?” I say, somewhat put off by his tone.

“The army of Warsaw, steeped in the traditions of dacha to dacha fighting, and expert in the urban warfare popular in this area, polishes their armour, oils their tanks, and sets off, confidently, towards Galicia, hoping, perhaps to partake of the early spring harvest of juniper berries.”

A John Jakes historical romance could do no better.

“And the fleet at St. Petersburg?”

“It is the expressed wish of the Tsarina Alexandria, acknowledged leader of all things Russian, and coiner of the phrase "If it's not Russian, it's something else!", that the fleet currently residing at St. Petersburg (busily emptying the city's bakeries of rye bread and carroway seed buns) pack up their anchor chains and chug out to the Gulf of Bothnia.”

The fleet, mindful of the results the last time someone crossed the Tsarina, complied happily.

“Any news of Jabberoski?”

“Fleet commander Jabberoski, supreme leader of all he surveys through his near-sighted eyes, consults a map, points a querelous finger at the Black Sea, and says "Go there."

His chief of staff, the canny Mitsyov, directs his efficient staff to "make it so".

Later, his efficient chief of staff notes that they almost took the mast off a Turkish boat out of Ankara, and decides to retire back to port to nurse their non-existent wounds.

It’s been a tough trip. Many miles have been put on my trusty suitcases, and I lost my Baedeker somewhere on the road between London and Edinburgh.

I look forward to more developments on our international scene. You can be sure I will relate them all, in my objective way to you, the Avid Reader.

-30-

[kuuleimomi]

Originally posted by hypotenuse
æîïû

Dear Tzarina Alexandra!

I write to you on behalf of all the deceased ïîëîâûõ ðàáîâ. Understanding the âàæíîñòü of all ñòðàòåãè÷åñêèõ moves, I óáåäèòåëüíî suggest returning to Tzarina's ðóññêèé ÿçûê.

Ïðåìíîãî áëàãîäàðíû, âàøè õîëîïû.