Nicolas Cage's Story

"NO NOT THE BEES! NO! NOT THE BEES! NOT THE BEES! AGHHHHHH MY EYES!!!! AGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!"

It was a particularly cold day in the city of Windcrest. Though not yet snowing, the Northern Aslundish city was beset with a flurry of winds that whipped the already-chilling temperatures into freezing extremes. To the average northerner, hardy and acclimated to such conditions, the chill was probably only moderately uncomfortable. Any tourists or visitors not used to the polar climate, however, would probably be shaking in their bones. As it was, it was nearly noon. The sun was just climbing the mountains to the far east, the first slivers of daylight breaking into the white tundra with modest splendor.

As the sun shone through the stone city, its denizens began amassing in the marketplace. Today was the Northern Aslund National Debates, the first round of debates in an intricate election process and the only debate that would pit the two Northern candidates against each other one-on-one. It was the perfect opportunity for the people of Northern Aslund to meet their elective-hopefuls and listen to their various ideas. Terrans from all over the north had gathered in Windcrest for the occasion.

The debates were being held in the Windcrest Market Square. A large tarp had been erected in the middle of the massive cobblestone courtyard, canvasing an army of benches and tables. At the foremost of the setup were two oakwood tables, each positioned towards the audience, each with two fur-lined chairs intended for the Parliament hopefuls and their respective secretaries. Many northerners had already taken their seats, talking among themselves, eating and drinking. A gruff (though cheerful) white noise permeated throughout the marketplace.

Not far from the setup, a TerraCast news crew was just finishing their preparations. Two anchormen and a team of cameramen worked quickly, eager to get their broadcast on the air before the debates began. After a few more minutes of work, one of the cameramen gave a thumbs up to the two anchors. They were live.

"Good evening, Terra," the foremost anchor smiled, bundled head-to-toe in winter clothing, "this is Tom Hanks with TerraCast, joined here by co-anchor, Nicholas Cage. How're you feeling, Nick?"

Nicholas, dressed in a sports jacket as if it were any casual summer day, nodded blandly. "Doing well."

"We are reporting live from the icy tundras of the north in the ancient city of Windcrest, covering the Northern Aslundish Debates! The commencement of these debates officially marks the beginning of 'campaign season' for the electoral hopefuls this season. With this being the first elections since the TNG wrestled control of the planet back from the Empire some odd five years ago, it also signifies the end of the TNG's rule of Martial Law and the long-sought return of democracy to Terran soil. It's an exciting time, isn't it Nick?"

"Yes. Exciting."

"Couldn't have put it better myself! And what a way to begin the election, than right here with two of our most interesting Parliament hopefuls? Our debate today is between two native Windcrest residents who, though they come from the same city, represent very different northern ideals. The first is Windcrest's favorite son, Sigurd Olafson. Son of the legendary Amund, the Olafson family holds the reigns of political power in Windcrest, and perfectly embodies the conservative northern way of life: hardy, spirited, tough and traditional. The feats of the Olafson family are legendary, and their contributions to the safety of the northern lands are secondary only to the Patronus. Though Sigurd himself has yet to distinguish himself through any act of considerable valor, he certainly looks the part of a northern hero! I mean, how big IS this guy?"

"Seven feet, three inches tall. Three hundred and forty-two point three six pounds in weight. Roughly twelve percent body fat."

"You reading that off of a card?" Hanks blinked.

"No."

"Ah. Well. His secretary is a miss... Saran-geerel... Tsah-khee-agih-..."

"Jalair Tsakhiagiin Sarangerel," Nick pronounced effortlessly, his bored monotone unfailing, "those are her clan, patronymic and given names, respectively. Southerners would probably refer to her as Sarangerel. It's Mongolian. Northern dialect."

"...you reading that off-"

"No."

"Okay then. That covers that. Sigurd's political stances will be made clear in the ensuing debates, though his heritage speaks for itself. He is the traditional pillar of the north, the candidate who most effectively personifies the centuries of rich history and culture that has been so integral to these harsh regions."

Tom cleared his throat and briefly checked his notes. "His opponent is Franklin Brice. A Windcrest native himself, Brice was raised in the icy north, though his political philosophy differs drastically from the strictly-traditional mindset of Olafson. Though he considers himself 'independent' (as does, curiously, Olafson), what little we've gleamed of his political standpoints have suggested a subtle favoritism towards Centrist ideals. In this, Brice speaks for a great portion of the north's population (particularly among the younger generations), who call for a shift away from the deep-rooted customs of their ancestors towards more progressive ideologies. His secretary is Nina Sekova, a Terran immigrant and Invictus soldier. The services and aid she's rendered the Terran people in the past on behalf of the Invictus have made her an immensely popular character with the crowds, particularly with Central Aslundish audiences." Tom squinted at his papers. "...says here she's been named 'Miss Balkan'. You ever hear of a place called 'Balkan', Nick?"

"It's a region in southeastern Europe, Earth, Tom. Home to a myriad of ethnic Slavic and Latin cultures. Equatable to various regions in Southern Aslund and the Eastern Peninsula. Croatia. Albania. Greece."

Tom made a curious face. "Earth?"

"It's a planet. Extra-dimensional. Similar to Terra in many ways. Some might say too similar."

"Have I ever been to Ea-"

"No."

"Okay then. Well, our candidates should be arriving any moment. From here on out, it's entirely campaign-business. The manner in which they arrive, assess themselves during the debates and regard one another are all to be considered. They are under the watchful eyes of the Terran people now, and this debate is being broadcast, live, all over Terra. Once the two contestants are seated, the moderator and spokesperson of the debates will present himself or herself, and the games will begin. For now, we await their arrival, expecting them any moment now."

The security detail for the debates was compromised almost exclusively of the locals. It had been a matter of some heated debate, but the local Sjief had been unyielding on the fact. The people of Windcrest were a rugged and independent lot, and Olaf had been unwilling to stand for the NPA, or southern military - among other militant groups - stomping around the city. The region of Windcrest was affiliated with the TNG, but only just. The tensions present were well apparent from both sides of the field - but a peaceful sense of amiability had maintained over the years so long as they keep to their respective lands. Windcrest's penchant for taking in southern refugees who had fled northward from the wars that ravaged the Midlands provided a counterweight to the natives that were characteristically less cooperative with their own government; though, many of these people were equally as jaded with their government and the conflicts that had driven them into the cold reaches of Northern Aslund.

In the end the southerners had relented, and foreign security had not been permitted to avoid stirring unrest and conflict during the debate. The security details were made up of the local Patronus order, along with the Knights of Le'thorian who were out in force patrolling the city and its walls to ensure its safety. The city militia and the Rising Guard also were on standby or patrolling the skies. The roads leading to Windcrest were equally being patrolled lightly by the Rising Guard to ensure the safety of the travelers drifting into the city from neighboring regions of the north; though, this particular precaution had more to do with the volatile and dangerous nature of the local wildlife to travelers on the road than out of concern for terrorist attacks out there.

One might have thought all of this quite excessive, but where Terra was concerned there was rarely such a thing as too safe. Fortunately as far as debate locations go, this one was remote and unpleasant enough to not likely be a prime target for random acts of violence. Due to the months of polar twilight that the region was known for the sun failed to fully break the horizon even at noon-day and no sunlight would be shining through the streets. A faint glow of light akin to the pre-dawn hours of the south was all the light it afforded this frigid landscape during the height of the winter. It would be weeks yet before the sun would begin to creep up into the sky once more.

Fortunately the tarps and surrounding buildings afforded protection from the wind, as well as a semi-moderate increase in warmth from the accumulated body heat within the tented off area.

Amund Olafson, or more well known as 'Olaf' by the locals, had chosen to attend the debates. His table was well distinguishable from the rest given its size and heft. At seven foot, five inches, Olaf stood a few inches taller than his already towering son, and when he entered the market square his burly form simply waded through as people seemed all to willing to step out of his way.

He propped his axe up against the side of the table - a weapon of such heft as to cause the wood to creak against its weight. Easing himself down onto the bench, the oaken planks gave an even louder and somewhat disconcerting creak but they held up under his weight.

Though the location was rugged and likely unpleasant for those unaccustomed to the climate, the northerners had held little reserves in seeing that comfort in the form of food and drink were plentiful. If there were two things the people of Windcrest did in great abundance, it was eat and drink.

Olaf downed an entire tankard of mead that dribbled in long rivulets down his beard before he wiped his face with the back of a burly arm. The man was legendary for his capacity to imbibe alcohol though, and he had little need to mediate his intake.

A seat had been reserved at his table for a perhaps somewhat controversial guest. Those arriving in Windcrest may have taken note of the Aschen transport vessel situated outside the city - an alarming fact to many. Word had reached Olaf as to Nagala's desire to speak with him, and he had assured her they would discuss whatever matter had brought her to Windcrest at the completion of the debates. He knew not if she would attend, but if she did he had deemed it best she be seated near at hand. The natives of Windcrest had little in the way of personal conflict with the Aschen over the years - mostly because not even foreign invaders wanted much to do with the frigid wasteland - but there was certainly an element of wary distrust at the Aschen's reputation. The concern though came from the fact that there was a noteworthy concentration of displaced southerners who held a great deal of resentment and hostility towards the Aschen. Few would try to start anything with Nagala while Olaf was near at hand though.

Distrust and suspicion or no, the woman had been permitted into the city, and as a guest it would be a matter of great embarrassment should anything happen to her under Olaf's watch - especially in the wake of the charitable donations being distributed to the local orphanages by Nagala's men.

Also among those who had turned out today was Adriaan Kavaki, a Volarian that it would seem was far from home. Politics were never his strong suit, and he came from a society that still practiced monarchy, so matters of parliament and regional representation were foreign matters that simply didn't hold his attention. It wasn't that he was averse to democracy, it was just of little personal relevance to him. His Volarian citizenship would bar him from voting anyways, but he had turned out as a show of support from the Patronus.

Shelby Lockhart, acting Captain of the Knight's of Le'thorian in Arrow's absence, was in attendance as well, but she was among the Knight's of Le'thorian seeing to the city patrols. Maintaining the safety and security of the city, the parliament candidates, and their southern guests was at the forefront of her responsibilities for the moment.

Tahlia bishop, another member of the Patronus, was seated among the spectators, but like Shelby she was largely there for security purposes.

A short distance from the main debate area, a slender and eerie young woman was sat. Clad in thick furs as shelter against the bitter chill, the pale girl sat alone but for a single knight of Le'thorian keeping vigil over her. Aiedai Nasazura was a familiar face to the people of Windcrest, one of the better known - and more distinctive - of the Patronus from the nearby Mountainside Temple. It was difficult to forget the way her skin seemed to give off its own ethereal glow, and her decidedly alien mannerisms on the rare occasions that she chose to speak to someone at any length.

As she sat, her mind was not focused on her own location, but rather spread like a blanket over the entire area. She brushed with the lightest touch over the minds of those assembled, gleaning snatches of thought and emotion from them with every passing moment. The psychic was on the lookout for anything that might suggest malicious intent, and every so often she would focus her net in on one or two individuals based on a spike of emotion or a stray thought, listening into their surface thoughts briefly before retreating away.

Not all in the crowd were susceptible to such eavesdropping, protected by technology or magic, but every little safety net helped.

Amidst the crowd itself, other members of the Patronus were positioned - not necessarily as security, but in the full knowledge that their role might find itself transitioning from spectator to protector at any given moment. Near the front, Cináed was stood, dressed in a t-shirt and jeans as though he were on a beach in Southern Aslund rather than the icy peaks of Windcrest. The cold didn't seem to be bothering him in the slightest.

With him was stood the taller and more practically clad Anaiya Thorn. One of Windcrest's doctors, the woman was a native to the region and as such had grown up under the Olafsons. She shared what was likely the opinion of many of the locals in being dubious about these debates and elections, but unlike some, she was not entirely close-minded to the possibility of change.

"Some of the children from the orphanage were talking about you." she said, glancing across at the blonde teen to her side.

Cináed looked up at her, blinking. "Oh?" he replied questioningly, raising an eyebrow.

"Aye, I was there the other day tending to a boy with the flu." she said, "He and a few of the others were talking about 'the boy that could make fire'. A girl was regaling a few of them with a story of you fighting off a horde of slime monsters." Anaiya smirked in amusement.

Cináed laughed, running a hand through his hair. "Oh, yeah, I've been telling them the few stories I have. In my defence, they asked! I wasn't just bragging!"

Anaiya paused. "You mean you actually did fight off a horde of slime monsters?"

"Oh, I had help, but yeah. Definitely slime monsters. They were nasty."

"And there was me thinking the kids were making it up. I suppose I should have expected as much from someone who's joined up with the Patronus." the older woman nodded her head thoughtfully.

On the edge of the crowd, the black-and-gold armour-clad figure of Anria was stood, her halberd grasped firmly as she spoke with a bundle of cloaks that might somewhere in the middle have contained the pointy-eared form of Talren.

"It's cold." the roguish man stated irritably.

Anria chuckled with amusement. "Pah! Hardly cold enough for you to be wrapped up in blankies like a babe, elf!"

"C. O. L. D. It is cold. Very cold. You're just ..."

"Possessed of more hardiness than an anorexic pixie carrying heavy shopping?" the warrior suggested.

"... stop mocking me. I like my cloak cocoon. And when the winter is over I'll emerge from it like a beautiful butterfly, and then you'll be the one who looks stupid."

"Aye, I'm sure."

"I will!"

At Shelby's direction one of the Le'thorian Knights quietly approached the two anchorman where word was subtly passed along to them that it may be best to go ahead and get started with Sigurd, before the restless crowd turned into a situation. Best to keep them occupied until the missing politician was located.