Baron Javor Dokovic, a well-dressed and well-built man in his thirties with carefully-tended good looks betraying a certain vanity, black hair and a close-cropped black beard, lolled in his chair in the Duke’s hall in Douma. It was the largest chair at a table set up in front of the hall’s great hearth and the Baron had come to find it quite a comfortable place since he had installed himself in the hall two days earlier. To his right, at the far end of the hall, stood the empty Ducal throne on a low dias. It was an ornate, Roman-style affair carved with the forms of animals and gazing at it had started Dokovic thinking, as would any man of similar ambition. However, the stress of his present situation was hard to ignore. The Baron looked down at the table in front of him and toyed with a plate of fruit and sipped from a cup of watered wine while he reflected on the last few days and those just ahead. He was, in fact, in a pickle. He had been sent by his superior, Count Br
News, plans and plots regarding my 18th century Imagi-Nations campaign set in the fictitious nations of Syldavia and Borduria, my variations on a theme of Hergé