Posts from The Empire of Reimia (3) Auto-translated

I remembered the song "I'm so glad, because I'm finally going home."

correct

just say that to Parfinore

I was choosing a picture for the final character, and twice in a row it turned out that Revan had already used it for an Academy noob...

And who?

??

I even felt a little bit sorry that I didn't join the chat back then. So much unwarranted hate towards the best game mode in this setting...

And what game mode are we talking about?

Which helped to create the characters of the players.

My sleep schedule. I actually agree with that, it's not very good.

Ah, I had another idea for a game mode.

As far as I understand, players don't have a very good opinion of the current imperial government.

But what surprises you so much? Players have never liked totalitarianism.

Too bad Kosha didn’t play.

As far as I understand, players don't have a very good opinion of the current imperial government.

For you, this is all just a joke, but someone actually has to live there!

Actually, I don't see anything wrong with that...

—Yes, this will need to be redone by Thursday. —Moriner skimmed the cover of the material and set it aside at the edge of his desk. —The part about the Larian farmers needs to be completely rewritten. You can turn to Tker for references.
—H-how do you mean completely rewrite? —sad notes echoed in the young journalist's voice. —I'll n-never make the deadline, Mr. Leveristos!
—Don't worry, Cila, you'll manage. —checking the time on his wristwatch, Moriner rose from his chair and reached for his coat. Approaching his subordinate, he placed a hand on her shoulder. —I won't tell you about believing in yourself and other such nonsense. All that is rubbish dreamed up by visionaries. What matters is being able to soberly assess your own strengths. And I know that you are capable of figuring this out.
—D-do you really think so? —Cila bashfully lowered her gaze and began feverishly adjusting the frames of her glasses.
—Of course, I know it from my own experience. And I don't hire people who aren't like that. But enough about that. —heading toward the main entrance, Moriner deliberately raised his voice: —Everyone is free for today. That includes you, Tker! I don't pay for overtime.
Some rustling was heard from a separate office, and then a massive face with a short light haircut and hamster-like cheeks that were eternally crunching something appeared in the open doorway.
—Gottit, boss! —Tker grunted, mechanically crumpling a food package with his huge paws.
—Well, at least Sqwany vanished like a bullet the moment the clock struck. —Moriner chuckled.
Opening the heavy entrance door, he let in a stream of fresh autumn cool to slightly refresh the stale working air. A cold downpour was drizzling: small raindrops were drumming away on the soaked road surface. Sheltering under the awning of the new office of "Reime Truth" publishing house, Moriner leaned against the cold wall and lit a cigarette. This bad habit, which had become second nature during the years of war and from which he could never rid himself, helped relax his nerves and gather his thoughts after another workday.
A few minutes later, the last of his employees left the building. He nodded to Cila, who was wrapped up to her ears in her solid-colored robe, and to Tker, dressed in a simple old shirt, who plodded through the rain just like that, without an umbrella, paying not the slightest attention to puddles and mud. He was undoubtedly the most talented and hardworking of all his colleagues, but absorbed in work, he rarely cared for neatness or tidiness. And although Moriner himself did not impose any strict rules regarding dress code and appearance, Tker had to be reminded time and again of the elementary rules of social decency detailed in the imperial code. As for Cila, she simply lacked confidence—not something that couldn't be fixed. Sqwany... it was hard to find fault with him in anything; he handled his work without complaint but had no ambitions or motivation for anything more. Moriner had given him a book he once received from the Empress, but it was unknown if Sqwany had even bothered to devote any of his time to studying it.
There were others, of course. Some were on business trips across the continent; he had sent his best employees to the new office that had only recently opened in the relocated capital of the empire. People he could trust—a sort of newly rebuilt family, presented as he himself personally wished to see it. Instead of the collective with whom they had selflessly fought death for long months during the last war.
Extinguishing his cigarette and throwing it into a nearby bin, he returned to his office. His colleagues understood and respected the strict timeframes in which they had to work. Given the specifics of this service, various force majeure events were not uncommon, so on ordinary days he insisted that subordinates did not lose a minute of their personal time. At the same time, he did not spare himself: fatherly genes still made themselves known. Mapping out a plan of important tasks for tomorrow, he carefully arranged all documents and papers into corresponding piles, the order of which was clear only to him, checked the calendar, edited the schedule, sketched the newspaper structure and the layout of the material. It was already nearing midnight when the lights in the "Reime Truth" editorial building finally went out.
The downpour changed to a light rain, the dark clouds dispersed slightly, revealing the vast canopy of the night sky. The bright light of artificial fires prevented the stars from breaking through to the slumbering city that once served as the single capital of the entire empire. Sheltered under his favorite umbrella, Moriner strode along the familiar pavement. He remembered how almost ten years ago he first stepped here surrounded by a group of then-unfamiliar classmates and a history teacher—a future rebel and traitor. And it was then, if memory serves, that he first crossed paths with Rinze Reime... Yes, what an irony of fate!
Over the passing years, many people's opinions of the Empress underwent strong and often repeated changes. But Moriner himself, as he once wrote in his first historical work at the academy, firmly decided to adhere to the strategy of "evaluating people by the state of the power they govern." Norms of morale are relative and change from society to society, from nation to nation, but development, economic power, technology, education, science, law and order, culture—all these can easily be measured and compared using a thousand different methods. And if one considers their conclusions, Rinze Reime turned out "good." As for what happens next, history will remember.
Turning from the wide street into a modest alley, Moriner crossed several dark blocks until he stopped at an inconspicuous residential building. Climbing the old steps, cracked by time, he took a bunch of keys from his pocket, clicked the lock and found himself in a small, cozily furnished apartment. This place once belonged to his older sister, but she was unlucky enough to be stationed near the palace on state service during the infamous same bombing. After Marlea's death, some minor repairs had to be done. Initially, Moriner feared that being here would weigh unpleasantly on him and create a gloomy atmosphere, but the latter did not happen: perhaps because he never harbored any warm feelings toward members of his kin.
Slicing fresh vegetables bought the day before, the journalist fashioned something resembling a light evening dinner, after which he disappeared into the bedroom, returning with an old worn hardcover album and a bottle of white wine. Uncorking the drink and filling a lone glass to the brim, he blew a thick layer of years-old dust off the book and began flipping through the stuck, withered pages.
It all started with short, rubbed notes from Illit, data on the number of some equipment, graphic sketches of the front line. Soon, first low-quality photographs were added—as a war correspondent, Moriner almost gave up his life a second time trying to obtain this amazing device. That unfortunate wound immediately came to mind: the journalist cast a reluctant glance at his scar-ridden shoulder. And here is their first general photo, where was it... ah right, before the siege of Frostrime. The further he flipped through the album pages, the friendlier the colleagues of their special detachment looked in the photos, but the fewer people there were on them. Despite the dark atmosphere surrounding them in those years, they themselves, following their human nature, tried to get maximum joy from everything not related to war. Only in this way, perhaps, was it possible to keep one's sanity in that northern meat grinder.
Sipping from the glass, Moriner felt a life-giving warmth spreading through his body. Throwing his head back, the journalist closed his eyes and sighed heavily. When all this madness finally ended, only a handful of worn, exhausted soldiers remained of their group. And if their bodies managed to survive and avoid total destruction, he did not doubt for a second that their souls certainly could not escape ruin. After returning home, fate divided their life paths, and since then he had not seen any of his former colleagues. Perhaps some were still in Reime, but after the hardships experienced together, joint meetings would only raise unwanted and sad memories. He himself by that time knew exactly what he wanted to do in the future. From the Empress, Moriner asked only for permission to continue serving for the good of the homeland within his profession. He gained experience in travels, acquired a reputation and the respect of superiors, after which he returned to Reime. The money bequeathed by his father was now divided equally with his brother Regor: despite the latter's protests, relying on a large family and many hungry mouths, he acted strictly within the law and left no concessions for his last relative. The old servant Mityonna died back during the war, so combining the obtained funds with personal savings, Moriner opened his own newspaper publishing house.
At first, "Reime Truth" had it very hard: lack of employees, incompetence of staff, unpopularity of the press itself after the Empress's repressions. Moriner performed the lion's share of the work himself, often working at a loss. But despite everything, this activity brought him exceptional pleasure, and he did not intend to abandon what he had started halfway. Over the years, his newspaper managed to take its place in the market, not least thanks to a positive attitude from the government itself: "Truth" employees praised the feats and brilliant geopolitical game of Rinze Reime, conducted reports on the happy population of the empire, provided various statistics, and reported on the failures of the few decaying opponents. Moriner himself now personally led the monthly column "Winds of History." It included curious historical clippings from the lives of significant political figures of the continent. Since for obvious reasons this work was of an exclusively delicate nature, the owner of the publication handled it personally so as not to cross the thin line of what was permitted in the modern Reime Empire. In addition, on free lonely evenings he worked on partially autobiographical chronicles, where without politics he told about the everyday lives of ordinary soldiers during the war years. Due to a tight schedule, however, progress with this project moved extremely slowly, but the journalist had nowhere to rush: regardless, at the current time he did not intend to risk its publication.
Draining the last glass, Moriner tore himself away from the memories enveloping him and, humming motifs from "Tulip's" last concert under his breath, headed toward the bathroom vanity. There, a daily skin care procedure awaited him: a long stay in the epicenter of an ephemeral bomb explosion and some chemical warehouse had not passed without a trace for the journalist; he had to undergo months of treatment and afterward constantly spend part of his income on purchasing medicinal and cosmetic products. He replaced his thick own mop of hair with a shorter haircut, covering his hands and feet from environmental effects with gloves and long garments. However, over recent years Moriner developed a suitable style of dress for himself and tried to adhere to it invariably since then.
Casting a tired glance at the clock, the journalist realized that only three hours remained until the new workday. "Well then, I'll sleep some other time," he decided. Tidying up the table, washing the dishes and carefully placing the old album in a drawer under the bed, Moriner threw on his coat and went outside, shivering from the morning cool. The first rays of the rising sun gently touched the roofs of Reime high-rises. It promised to be a clear, sunny day. Moriner coughed hollowly, thinking that it would not be bad to return to evening jogs and physical exercises to somehow maintain shape. But for his health, alas, he lacked both time and willpower. Lighting up a tobacco product, the journalist thoughtfully walked toward work.
And yet, something was missing. What was missing? Was it related to the past? No, even if rare memories and nightmarish dreams sometimes truly troubled his consciousness. He had long since overcome any regrets within himself and reconciled with everything left behind. Maybe about the future? Also incorrect; the years of war saw to it that he stopped making any long-term life plans. That meant only the present remained. Nothing, someday he will find it. Sooner or later.
Lost in his thoughts, Moriner did not notice how he bumped into a blonde girl hastily crossing the intersection in the opposite direction. Helping her up, he could not help but notice the luxurious family signet ring decorating her thin snow-white hand. Just by looking at the jewelry, it was as if he felt a bolt of lightning: as if something painfully familiar, even dear, pierced his soul for a moment. He had definitely seen it somewhere before.
—I apologize... —the journalist began, but the mysterious stranger had already vanished without a trace.

***