Chapter 5: A Confession in Silence

The abbey sat atop a wind-swept cliff, its stone façade etched with centuries of sea salt and silence. A quiet refuge, even now, when suspicion clung to the island like fog. Brother Andreu dal Cjef tended its garden, his hands among thyme and rosemary, as if untouched by the storm gathering around him.

Investigator Marcus Lucéu approached with quiet steps. Caspàr stayed at the gate—on Lucéu's request. This conversation needed to be undisturbed, direct, and unclouded by performance.

Brother Andreu looked up, eyes serene. "Good evening, Investigator."

Lucéu nodded. "I'd like to speak with you. Not as an officer of the Cort Pü Inalt. As a man seeking truth."

Andreu wiped his hands and gestured to a stone bench beneath a lemon tree. They sat in silence for a moment, the wind whistling gently through the branches.

Lucéu began without preamble.

"I believe you wrote the anonymous letter to Dr. Presteir. The threat."

Andreu did not flinch. "You believe correctly."

The calm admission hung in the air like a suspended bell note.

"Why didn't you deny it?" Lucéu asked.

"Because threats are not crimes. Not in Talossa, not in most courts of language. I warned her not to desecrate the sacred. I warned her because I feared what would come if she continued. But I did not kill her."

"You used the phrase 'velvet footnotes.' The same as in your reply to El Tamlaltzün. The same as in the threat."

"I am a creature of habit," Andreu said with a wan smile. "My metaphors wear familiar shoes."

Lucéu regarded him for a long moment. "Why did you write to her anonymously, if you believed your warning to be righteous?"

Andreu looked away. "Because she would have mocked it. Because truth is rarely received in the voice it needs. Sometimes it must arrive in disguise."

Lucéu nodded. "Fair. But the coin—do you own one?"

Andreu shook his head. "No. I always found the coins to be... ornamental. I do not traffic in symbols. Only words."

Lucéu studied his face for cracks. Found none.

"But you did see her that night."

This time, Andreu hesitated.

"Yes," he said eventually. "I saw her on the path by the olive grove. We spoke."

Lucéu's heart beat a little faster. "What about?"

"I begged her—again—to reconsider her speech. She was polite. She listened. But her eyes had already moved on. She had made peace with being a martyr, Marcus."

The use of his name startled Lucéu.

"I didn't tell the truth before," Andreu continued. "Because I feared it would cast me as the villain. But you already knew, didn't you?"

"I suspected," Lucéu replied.

Andreu stood and brushed dust from his cassock. "But I am not the villain. Nor am I the hero. Elinor died because she threatened the wrong person's legacy. Someone who had more to lose than just ideas."

Lucéu rose, brow furrowed. "Who?"

Andreu looked past him, toward the sea. "I don't know. But if you want answers, you'll need to ask the wrong question. Who stood to gain if Elinor wasn't there to speak? Not just ideologically. Politically."

Lucéu's mind began to churn. Ventrutx. Arosçeu. Even Miroslav?

He stepped back. "Thank you for your honesty, Brother."

"One last thing," Andreu said. "Elinor once told me that the only true language is courage. I believe that now more than ever."

⸻

Later — The Town Archives

Night had fallen. Lucéu returned to the cultural center, drawn by something he hadn't yet understood—an itch in the back of his mind that hadn't stopped since reading Elinor's letter.

He flipped through the festival program again. Her keynote was to be the final address. But the slot had been reassigned—after her death—to none other than... Madóra Ventrutx.

He checked the scheduling logs. The change had been requested that morning, hours before Elinor was found dead.

Lucéu's breath caught.

She hadn't died at 10 p.m., as originally believed. She may have died earlier—while the festival still bustled, while no one would notice her absence.

Which meant someone knew she'd be gone.

He grabbed his coat and turned to Caspàr, asleep on the couch in the corner.

"Wake up," Lucéu said. "We're going to pay the Seneschal's cousin a second visit."

Chapter 4: The Coin and the Chronicle

The coin lay in the evidence envelope, its polished surface catching the light like a wink from history. Marcus Lucéu held it delicately in his gloved fingers, turning it over again and again.

Cinqueu del Regipäts. Five livres, minted in the summer of 1995, under the reign of King Robert I. The obverse bore the royal crest—crown, sword, and scroll—while the reverse showed a phoenix rising from a book, the motto: "Per la Limba, Per la Naziun."

"For the language, for the nation," Lucéu murmured. "A symbol of rebirth."

Caspàr leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Rare. Ceremonial. Mostly in the hands of collectors or officials. That one's been cleaned—recently. Whoever left it meant for it to be noticed."

Lucéu nodded, eyes scanning the coin under the magnifier. "But there's more. Look at the edge."

Along the milled rim, something caught the light—a faint scratch, almost deliberate. Caspàr squinted. "Is that... a letter?"

Lucéu adjusted the lens. "Two. E.P."

"Elinor Presteir's initials?"

"She marked it." He looked up. "Either to claim it... or to warn us."

He set the coin down and opened his notebook. "We need to find out who else owned one of these. I want a list—collectors, CÚG members, ministers, anyone with access to ceremonial tokens. And we need her personal effects. Letters, notebooks, drafts. If she kept that threat note, it'll be there."

⸻

Hours Later — The Hotel Room

Dr. Presteir's suite at the Hôtel d'Antreuça was neat, almost too neat. Everything had been placed carefully, as if staged. Her bag rested on a chair. A festival program lay open on the desk. No sign of struggle. No spilled coffee. No papers torn in haste.

But Lucéu had trained his eye not for violence—but for absences.

"No laptop," he muttered. "She was preparing a keynote. Where are her drafts?"

Caspàr opened the wardrobe. "Suitcase is half-empty. No phone either. She wasn't mugged—her jewelry's all here."

Lucéu lifted the desk blotter and found a folded sheet of pale blue paper underneath. Carefully, he opened it.

Elinor,
We warned you once. Stop speaking. Stop writing. Stop changing what you don't understand. If you insist on playing with fire, don't be surprised when the phoenix burns you.
—A Friend of the Language

Lucéu stared at the words. "Threatening. But theatrical. The phrasing is... literary."

"Could be a scholar," Caspàr said.

"Or someone pretending to be one."

Lucéu read it again. Then again. He felt the pattern in the words: the precision, the rhythm. Almost like a verse. He turned to Caspàr.

"Do we have access to the archives of El Tamlaltzün?"

"The cultural newsletter?"

"She used to publish short essays there. If I'm right, we're dealing with someone who reads her work closely—someone who thinks they know better. This isn't a killer acting on impulse. It's someone trying to 'correct' a mistake."

⸻

Evening — The Archives

In a narrow room beneath the Cézembre Cultural Center, they found what they were looking for: bound issues of El Tamlaltzün, going back a decade. Lucéu flipped quickly through the past year.

"Here," he said, tapping a column. "A Proposed Reduction of Retroflex Conjugations."

He skimmed it aloud. "She argues for the removal of archaic forms derived from non-native phonology. Draws fire from traditionalists. See these replies—Arosçeu, Andreu dal Cjef, even Ventrutx. Heated words."

Caspàr pulled out another issue. "Here's something... interesting. She wrote under a pseudonym too—'Sibilla d'Urð.'"

Lucéu turned sharply. "What?"

"Look—letters section, last autumn. Sibilla d'Urð critiques 'the fetish of grammatical nostalgia.' The style matches her own. She was hiding in plain sight."

Lucéu smiled faintly. "Even in death, she's teaching us something."

But then he stopped. His eyes narrowed as he flipped to the next page. There it was again—a letter, unsigned, replying to Sibilla d'Urð:

You may dress rebellion in velvet footnotes, but it remains rebellion. One cannot separate Talossa from its tongue. It was born from invention. Invented traditions are still traditions. Mock them, and you mock the kingdom itself.

Lucéu underlined the phrase: "velvet footnotes."

"That," he said, "was also used in the threat note."

"Same author?"

"Very likely."

⸻

Late Night — Back at the Office

Lucéu sat at the long table, surrounded by evidence bags, photos, printouts, and notebooks. He sipped black coffee, staring at the profiles of the five main suspects.

They all had motives. They all had opportunity. But only one wrote like this. Only one spoke with the same cadence.

He flipped back to his notes from the interviews, searching for a phrase.

There it was.

"She was shedding its soul."

And again:

"One cannot separate Talossa from its tongue."

Lucéu drew a circle around both quotes. His pulse quickened.

He pulled out another envelope: an older letter from Dr. Presteir to the CÚG, regarding pushback from a specific member.

Brother Andreu is steadfast. And sincere. But I believe he sees me not as a colleague, but as a heretic. He fears not only change—but what change implies. He once told me that killing a tradition is the same as killing a person.

Lucéu exhaled slowly.

It was time to speak to Brother Andreu again.

Chapter 3: The Circle of Suspects

The conference hall at the Hôtel d'Antreuça was quiet now, a shadow of the vibrant gathering it had been just days ago. Banners of Talossa's royal blue and white still hung, but they drooped like wilting flowers. The festival committee had officially postponed all further events. A quiet sorrow had settled over the island, made heavier by suspicion.

Investigator Marcus Lucéu stood at the head of a long table, facing five individuals seated before him like pupils in a disciplinary tribunal. Each had been close to Dr. Elinor Presteir in one way or another—professionally, politically, or personally. Each had a motive, however faint or concealed.

Lucéu placed a hand on his leather case. "Thank you for coming. I realize the circumstances are... unwelcome. But Dr. Presteir's death cannot be brushed aside as misfortune. She believed she was in danger. Her letter, addressed to this investigation, makes that clear."

The group exchanged quick, nervous glances.

Lucéu gestured to Caspàr. "Mr. dal Nuot will take notes. I'll ask you each a few questions. This is not an interrogation. Not yet."

He turned to the first: Professor Sibran Arosçeu, a gaunt man in his sixties with silver-rimmed spectacles and a voice like dry leaves.

"Professor Arosçeu," Lucéu began, "you were a fellow member of the Comità per l'Útzil del Glheþ. Your views on the language reforms differed from Dr. Presteir's, did they not?"

"They opposed hers," Arosçeu corrected. "She wanted to flatten the grammar. Remove historical particles. Eliminate our lovely double consonants. She said she was preserving the language—but it was destruction in disguise. We argued, yes. I made no secret of my disapproval. But I would never—" he faltered, adjusting his glasses—"never kill over it."

Lucéu studied him. "Did you meet with her the night she died?"

"No."

"You weren't seen near the grove?"

"I was in my room, working on a counter-paper to her presentation. You may ask the hotel staff. They brought me coffee around ten."

Lucéu nodded, but made no comment.

Next, he turned to a tall woman with sharp features and eyes like a hawk. Madóra Ventrutx, the Seneschal's cousin and a high-ranking official in the Ministry of Culture. Her relationship with the deceased had been tense.

"Ms. Ventrutx," Lucéu began, "you've publicly criticized Dr. Presteir for what you called 'a politicization of philology.' What did you mean?"

She sat straighter. "Elinor made enemies not because of what she changed in the language, but how. She used reform as a lever—whipping up populist support among younger Talossans who wanted the language to be easier. It was more than scholarly. It was a grab for influence."

"Influence?" Lucéu asked.

"She was organizing her own bloc in the Ziu. Preparing to launch a new political party, I believe. Language was just the bait."

"Did you speak to her that evening?"

"No. I had already left the grounds. I was having dinner with Senator Téirno in Port Cézembre."

Lucéu made a note.

Next came Miroslav Piccard, the young student assistant who had discovered the body. Pale, nervous, and barely twenty-three, Miroslav looked like he hadn't slept since the night of the murder.

"Miroslav," Lucéu said gently, "tell me what happened that night."

"I was supposed to meet her at the tower around nine," he said, voice trembling. "She asked me to bring her notes for the presentation. When I got there, she wasn't answering her phone. I found her lying in the grass, the coin in her hand. At first, I thought it was some ritual. A speech gimmick. Then I saw her face."

"You were close to her?"

"We worked together all summer. I respected her. She was kind. Brilliant. She was going to recommend me to the University of Abbavilla."

"Did she mention any threats?"

He hesitated. "Once. About two weeks ago. She said someone had tried to intimidate her. An anonymous message. A warning not to attend the festival."

"Do you still have it?"

"She kept it. Said she didn't want to 'make drama' out of nothing."

Lucéu's eyes narrowed. "We'll need to find that note."

The fourth person in the room sat in a sharp black suit and wore an amused smile: Raoul Siervicül, an independent journalist and outspoken critic of both the monarchy and the Ziu. He had written several scathing essays about Dr. Presteir—though always in the name of satire.

"Mr. Siervicül," Lucéu began, "you once called Dr. Presteir 'the Duchess of Diphthongs' and accused her of intellectual tyranny."

Raoul shrugged. "I write. I provoke. It's my role."

"You were seen near the grove that night."

"Was I? It's a free island."

"Did you speak with her?"

"I may have. She didn't appreciate my column about her 'linguistic imperialism.' But we argued often. Verbally, I mean."

"You were known to carry a replica of the cinquëu del regipäts as a kind of token."

He grinned. "You've done your homework. I do carry one. But mine is in my wallet, right here." He produced it with a flourish. "Not missing, you'll note."

Lucéu didn't smile.

Lastly, a quiet man with a receding hairline and a gentle demeanor: Brother Andreu dal Cjef, a member of the Talossan Society for Language Preservation, a group that leaned conservative but rarely entered political frays.

"Brother Andreu," Lucéu said, "you were once one of Dr. Presteir's strongest supporters. Then something changed."

Brother Andreu nodded slowly. "I believed in her. We all did. Until she betrayed our trust."

"In what way?"

"She wanted to rename the O'Mallory Declensions as 'simplified cases.' Remove their historical roots. She told me Talossan needed to 'shed the weight of invented tradition.' I told her she was shedding its soul."

"Did you meet her that night?"

"No. I stayed at the abbey. I was preparing for the morning prayer."

Lucéu leaned back.

"Thank you, all," he said. "You may go, but remain available for further questioning. No one is formally accused. Not yet."

As they left one by one, Lucéu remained seated, drumming his fingers against the table. Motives swirled like autumn leaves: ambition, ideology, jealousy, revenge. But only one was enough to kill.

"Someone," he muttered, "spoke to her that night. Someone who knew her well. And someone who brought a coin with meaning."

Caspàr looked up from his notes. "Where do we start next?"

Lucéu closed his ledger with a snap. "With the coin. And the letter she never meant for just anyone to find."

Absolutely! Here's Chapter 2 of "The Cézembre Conundrum":

⸻

Chapter 2: The Arrival of Investigator Marcus Lucéu

The ferry from Vuode cut a silver path across the Bay of Cézembre, slicing through the morning mist like a knife through marzipan. Onboard, Marcus Lucéu stood at the bow, collar upturned against the salt wind, his expression as unreadable as the Ziu's most obscure legislative footnotes.

He was not a man given to flamboyance. In his early forties, Lucéu wore a modest grey suit, slightly rumpled from travel, and carried a leather briefcase that had once belonged to his grandfather—a former magistrate of Talossa. He believed in process, in logic, and above all, in details. His detractors accused him of lacking imagination. His supporters called him incorruptible.

He'd been summoned by a brief but urgent communique from the Cort Pü Inalt:

Mysterious death of Dr. Elinor Presteir. High-profile. Political implications likely. Proceed with discretion. Authority delegated in full. Report directly to the Cort. Do not involve provincial constables unless necessary.
—S: Seneschal Niclas Ventrutx

As the ferry docked, a young Cézembrean official—Caspàr dal Nuot—stood waiting with a badge clipped to his lapel and worry etched into his face.

"Sir Lucéu?" he asked, extending a hand. "Welcome to Cézembre. I'm your local liaison."

Lucéu shook it without enthusiasm. "Good. Let's get to work."

They moved briskly through the narrow streets of Port Cézembre, past shuttered festival stalls and black crepe ribbons fluttering in the breeze—signs of mourning. Despite the public grief, there was also tension in the air, like a harp string pulled just a bit too tight.

"Who found the body?" Lucéu asked as they walked.

"A student named Miroslav Piccard. He was assisting Dr. Presteir with her linguistic presentation. Found her near the old semaphore tower—dead for maybe an hour. Coin in her hand, no obvious sign of struggle."

"No witnesses?"

"Not directly. But a few said they heard an argument earlier that evening, near the grove. Could've been lovers. Or politics. Or both."

Lucéu raised an eyebrow. "You sound skeptical."

Caspàr gave a sheepish smile. "With Talossans, the line between politics and romance is... porous."

They arrived at the scene: a ring of olive trees surrounding the remains of an 18th-century signal tower. The grass had been trampled by investigators, but the outline of the body was still faintly visible in the dew.

Lucéu crouched, eyeing the spot where the coin had been placed.

"A cinquëu del regipäts, no?" he asked, glancing at Caspàr.

"Indeed. Issued in 1995 during King Robert I's golden jubilee. Rare. Symbolic. Certainly deliberate."

Lucéu stood, brushing the dirt from his trousers. "So, our killer has a flair for the ceremonial. Tell me more about Dr. Presteir."

"Linguist. Member of the CÚG. Pushed for controversial reforms—simplification of verb endings, replacement of some historical spellings. She had her supporters... and her enemies."

Lucéu nodded. "We'll need a list of both."

They returned to the small administration building that had been turned into a temporary operations center. Inside, a corkboard had been set up with photos and notes, and several officials pored over reports and transcripts.

Lucéu took a seat and opened his briefcase. He pulled out a fountain pen, his ledger, and an envelope addressed in neat, cursive Talossan.

Inside was a letter. From the victim.

To whomever receives this,
If anything should happen to me during the festival, it will not be an accident. There are those who wish to silence the voice of change. I have made enemies, yes—but none, I thought, who would kill. I may have been wrong.
Do not let my death be in vain.
—Elinor Presteir

Lucéu looked up at Caspàr.

"She knew," he said quietly. "She knew she was in danger."

⸻

Would you like to meet the suspects in the next chapter? Or maybe explore Dr. Presteir's controversial reforms?

Using the information available on https://wittenberg.talossa.com/index.php, on wiki.talossa.com and on talossa.com, write a crime story in the style of agatha christie, which contains at least 10000 words

Creating a full-length crime story in the style of Agatha Christie, set within the unique world of Talossa, is an exciting endeavor. Given the complexity and depth required for such a narrative, I'll provide a detailed outline and the beginning of the story to set the stage. This will allow you to expand upon it or guide me on specific directions you'd like the story to take.

⸻

Title: "The Cézembre Conundrum"

Outline:
   1.   Introduction:
   •   The story begins with the annual Talossan cultural festival on the island of Cézembre, a province of the Kingdom of Talossa .
   •   Dignitaries, citizens, and guests gather to celebrate Talossan heritage, language, and traditions. � �
   2.   The Crime:
   •   During the festivities, a renowned linguist and member of the Comità per l'Útzil del Glheþ (CÚG), responsible for overseeing the Talossan language , is found dead under mysterious circumstances.
   •   The death appears accidental at first but soon reveals signs of foul play. �
   3.   Investigation:
   •   The Cort Pü Inalt, Talossa's highest judicial body , appoints an investigator to uncover the truth.
   •   Suspects include political rivals, fellow linguists, and festival attendees. �
   4.   Unraveling Secrets:
   •   Clues point to disputes over recent changes in the Talossan language and political tensions within the Ziu (Parliament) .
   •   The investigator uncovers hidden relationships, secret meetings, and motives rooted in both personal and national interests. �
   5.   The Revelation:
   •   In classic Christie fashion, the investigator gathers all suspects and reveals the murderer, whose motive intertwines with Talossa's rich cultural and political tapestry. �

⸻

Chapter 1: A Celebration Turned Somber

The sun cast a golden hue over Tamorán Beach as the Talossan flag fluttered proudly in the breeze. Citizens from across the globe had journeyed to Cézembre to partake in the annual festival celebrating their unique heritage. �

Among the attendees was Dr. Elinor Presteir, a distinguished linguist and esteemed member of the CÚG. Her recent proposals to modernize certain aspects of el glheþ Talossan had stirred both admiration and controversy. �

As night fell, lanterns illuminated the island, and the air buzzed with music, laughter, and the aroma of traditional Talossan cuisine. Dr. Presteir was scheduled to deliver a keynote speech on the evolution of the Talossan language.

However, when the time came, she was nowhere to be found. A search ensued, leading to a secluded grove where her lifeless body was discovered, a rare Talossan coin placed delicately in her hand. �

The joyous festival atmosphere dissipated, replaced by shock and mourning. The Cort Pü Inalt, recognizing the gravity of the situation, dispatched Investigator Marcus Lucéu to unravel the mystery that now shrouded the island. �

⸻

If you'd like to continue this story, explore specific characters, or delve deeper into Talossan culture within the narrative, feel free to let me know!

Quote from: Glüc on April 17, 2025, 11:34:07 AMTonight we'll find out if the Zambonis take home the first ever Talossan Naziunal Hachi aßociú trophy. Despite severe jetlag it increasingly looks like they might! Allez Cézembre!

_{(We don't talk about the other Cézembre team)}

Allez Cézembre! The other Cézembre team is (far) behind you !


Sent from my iPhone using Tapatalk

40 questions may be deterent indeed, we can ajust or ask them to fill as many as they want, the goal is also to know them a bit better so that we can interact with them based on theur answers. We'll have a view on their sense of humour and their quirkyness (which is - with their ability to help us manage the country - what we are looking for, no ?).

I was more thinking about a longer questionaire, as I said to assess skills, passion, desires,..
Our favorite AI proposed a first draft as below, which gives an exemple of what could replace both an essay and a tick-the-box form. Tell me what you think.

Welcome to the Kingdom of Talossa
Prospective Immigrant Questionnaire

Before we begin, take a deep breath. This isn't a test—it's an invitation. We want to know you, not grill you. So please, answer honestly, creatively, and with as much personality as you dare.

⸻

Section I: Who Are You, Really?
   1.   What is your full name, or the name you would like to be known by in Talossa?
   2.   Where on Earth do you currently reside (rough coordinates are fine)?
   3.   How did you discover Talossa?
   4.   What drew you to Talossa—curiosity, community, chaos, or something else?
   5.   If Talossa had a Ministry of Magic, which department would you want to run?
   6.   Describe your ideal Talossan day in one paragraph (feel free to include mythical creatures).
   7.   Do you identify more with the sea, the mountains, or the stars? Why?

⸻

Section II: Skills, Spells, and Special Talents
   8.   What languages do you speak, write, or wave flags in?
   9.   Do you have experience in any of the following: governance, coding, art, diplomacy, cooking, bureaucracy, or herding cats?
   10.   On a scale of 1–10, how organized are you? (10 being "filed my dreams alphabetically")
   11.   Can you play a musical instrument? If so, which, and how well?
   12.   Have you ever built a website, fixed a radio, or made a game from scratch?
   13.   Describe one skill you could teach to a Talossan high council.
   14.   What's the weirdest skill or trivia fact you know?

⸻

Section III: Hobbies, Habits, and Sunday Rituals
   15.   What do you do for fun when the power goes out?
   16.   Which of these is closest to your idea of paradise: a library, a tavern, a forge, or a forest?
   17.   Do you journal, write stories, or engage in other wordsmithing?
   18.   How do you feel about snail mail? (Be honest, our postal service has feelings.)
   19.   What's your relationship with flags, insignias, and national anthems?
   20.   Would you rather invent a new calendar or a new alphabet?
   21.   What board or tabletop games do you enjoy?
   22.   Describe your favorite imaginary country from childhood (or adulthood—we don't judge).

⸻

Section IV: Philosophy, Civics, and A Dash of Mischief
   23.   What does citizenship mean to you?
   24.   How involved do you want to be in the day-to-day governance of Talossa? (options: Watcher | Occasional Voter | Eager Participant | Future King/Queen/Royal Platypus)
   25.   Do you lean more toward anarchy, monarchy, or something in-between that you just made up?
   26.   What laws would you propose for a small, creative nation like ours?
   27.   Would you be open to running for office, even if that office is Minister of Sock Puppetry?
   28.   In your view, what makes a nation real?
   29.   Would you be willing to write a short piece for the Talossan Gazette every now and then?

⸻

Section V: Desires and Dreams
   30.   What do you hope to gain from becoming a Talossan?
   31.   What do you hope to give?
   32.   If you could launch one national project, what would it be?
   33.   What would you name your own province within Talossa?
   34.   If Talossa had a national spaceship, what should we call it?

⸻

Section VI: The Personal Touch
   35.   Coffee, tea, or mead?
   36.   Describe yourself in three adjectives—one must be made-up.
   37.   What is something you've always wanted to do, but haven't yet?
   38.   What book, film, or game most captures your sense of the ideal society?
   39.   Do you have any pets (real or imaginary)?
   40.   Finally, what's your personal motto—or if you don't have one, make one up right now.

⸻

End of Questionnaire
Thank you for your honesty, your wit, and your curiosity. You may now close the scroll, submit your thoughts, or tie your answers to a pigeon. We'll be watching the skies

With no other candidate, i declare myself, þerxh Sant-Enogat, reelected Sénéchal de Cézembre.
I look forward to working with all the members of l'Etats for the benefit of our Sovereign Province and its citizens.
Liberté, Dignité, Hilarité!

Quote from: Sir Lüc on April 09, 2025, 05:09:09 AMFriendly reminder that, pursuant to Standing Rule 1.1, the Senate is not in session until the Chancery has published final results for the seats of Atatürk, Cézembre and Vuode; therefore, a vote for Mençei cannot take place until then, as neither a new term has begun, nor the position is vacant.

Election for Mençei can now be organised then ?

https://youtu.be/uxTdTaNIUxo?si=_E_CbazcoPQUqBT3

Today is April 14th, a few hours left for you to declare your interest in becoming the Sénéchal de Cézembre

Seats allocation for the Progressive Alliance
@Baron Alexandreu Davinescu 21 seats
@xpb 21 seats
@Tric'hard Lenxheir 21 seats

Quote from: Baron Alexandreu Davinescu on April 12, 2025, 08:27:42 PMThe solution is to stop trying to screen essays for whether a person is acceptable, and instead just focus on whether or not they're engaging and making any connections.

You're right, definitely. The question is not to assess what Talossa has already brought to prospective immigrants, but rather to assess what they would be able to bring with them.
A questionnaire could be required instead of the essay, to enquire what are their passions, their skills, their wishes.. This would surely allow more interactions from us all.
We should make it smart enough to provide fun and information on us, and generate interest for further interactions. We however need to avoid building a manichean due-diligence questionnaire "would you be a good Talossan".

Be ready. We Await Silent Talossans Emancipation. Look for the sign. Soon.

I nominate myself as Candidate for the renewal of my position of Sénéchal de Cézembre. I will come back to you quickly with my program for our beautiful Province over the seas.

A reminder to all other Cézembrean citizens who could be interested in Leading the nicest Province of our Kingdom : you have until April 14th 23:59 CéST to raise your hand (in an appropriate manner of course).