February, 1882.
Nova-Zemblya, Valorossiyan State. Territory of the PVU.

“Halt, who goes there!” The voice barks through the swirling snow, and the Khan squints, narrowing his eyes and raising a hand to shield his eyes against the howling winds that snarl and whirl about his party.

“Friends of the Tsar!” The hulking Valorossiyan guide snaps back, his grip shifting on the Nagant rifle in his hands, his pale grey uniform spattered with snow, and the chin-strap of his peaked cap pulled down over his chin to stop the cap from being snatched off his head by the blustering winds.

There is a long pause, and then the voice from up front speaks up again.
“Come forward then, friends of the Tsar!” The voice barks, and the guide turns to the small group following him. The Khan looks up levelly, tightening his greatcoat and wrapping his scarf tighter, before glancing back to look at the rest of his party, a mixture of tightly wrapped, shivering Khans, and grey-clad Valorossiyan Tsarist troops, who appear to be showing no signs of discomfort.

“Let's go.” Hassan Zafwan snaps after a moment's thought. He's anxious to get inside and out of the cold. If the Divinity meant for the Khan people to live in cold climates, she'd have made the long-haired breeds more numerous, and more civilised.

Hassan Zafwan is a short-hair of Mau extraction, and proud of it. His people grew up in the plains of the Southern Khanate, and it is from the Mau breeds that the first Shahs came. Short-haired breeds have always been judged as more civilised than their long-haired cousins. However, as a short-hair, he's also less well adapted to the cold. He starts moving forward, the snow crunching underfoot as he advances, his eyes locking onto an indistinct blur just up ahead, barely visible in its slate grey uniform. As he walks, he's dimly aware that he's ascending a slope, but it's almost impossible to tell due to the thick curtains of whirling snow that curl and dance around him.

As he draws closer, Zafwan begins to pick out details. The Valorossiyan that has come out to greet them is dressed in a long slate grey greatcoat, and Zafwan looks enviously at the Val's thick black furry hat. As he draws nearer, Zafwan could have sworn he sees a grin on that unnaturally white face.

“You are friends of the Tsar?” The sentry looks suspicious as he looks down at them, his four eyes narrowed slightly “I would have thought his Excellency would have better taste than to make friends with a bunch ofi-”

“His Excellency's taste is not your concern, private!” A sharp voice snaps from behind the great-coated Val, and the Val suddenly freezes, still as a statue as his eyes go wide with fear. Zafwan tilts his head, unable to conceal a faint smile, but his smile is tinged with worry. Anyone who can freeze a Val in place with fear is someone to be wary of.

His ears pick up the footsteps first, and then he sees a figure coming toward them out of the snow, the outline is blurred at first by the swirling snow, but as the figure draws closer, Zafwan feels a sudden chill ripple through him that has nothing to do with the cold.

The approaching Valorossiyan is female, with her long black hair worn down into a series of elaborate braids. Her simple grey smock and trousers bear no decoration, or inscription of rank. None are needed, for her smock terminates at the elbows to reveal flowing lines of ink that ripple down her arms like lightning. Words in ancient tribal dialects, accompanied by strange symbols that mean nothing to Zafwan, but he knows enough about Valorossiyan culture to know the significance of the braids and the tattoos.

“Honoured Shaman.” Zafwan says, bowing his head as the Shaman approaches the group.

“Don't you 'honoured Shaman' me, outsider.” The Shaman growls, her eyes flickering as she walks up to him. “I'm here because the Tsar, and the Council of Elders, agreed that this was the best option. If this was up to me, you wouldn't be here.” She looks Zafwan in the face and Zafwan returns the primitive priestess's glare with his own haughty expression.

“Well it's good to see that some of you are capable of thinking rationally.” Zafwan replies, trying to keep a sneer out of his voice and he's rewarded by a brief flush of anger upon the Shaman's face before she turns on her heel and stalks back through the snow.
“Come with me outsiders, a demonstration has been prepared for your new toy.” She gesticulates sharply and Zafwan starts to walk behind her, having to trot to keep up with her long strides. The tall and slender Val makes no effort to shorten her pace for his benefit as she crests the rise, and then starts to descend a bank that is obviously rather steeper than the hill that they'd been climbing. .

As they descend, Zafwan starts to pick out details. A perimeter fence, barely chest high on the hulking inhabitants of the encampment, looms out of the snow, encrusted with wind-blasted icicles and bored looking sentries pace the perimeter, rifles in hand. They pass through the perimeter fence with barely a word, and head into the facility, though camp appears to be a more appropriate word.

Once inside the wire, if Zafwan squints a little, he can see dozens of the traditional Valorosiyan yurts arranged into circles around communal fire pits, and he feels his lip curl in disgust.
These are the peoples that we have been quivering in terror from all this time, these savages? He asks himself, they're little more than beasts themselves...

He continues walking, all the while focussing on the job. The United Federation have made a weapon available to them, and as far as he's concerned, that weapon is better off in the hands of the Khanate than in the hands of savages like these. Aznan might disapprove but then Zafwan's always considered the general something of a soft touch. Burning villages is all well and good but it doesn't really solve the problem.

With the devices they're going to get today however, they're going to be able to burn far more than a few villages. Zafwan rubs his hands together, and not only due to the cold. The memory of the humiliation that the Shah had foisted upon him still burns in his blood.

They trot through the camp, past groups of juvenile Valorossiyans, stripped to the waist and wrestling, whilst instructors circle like sharks hunting for blood, their swagger sticks ready to strike any who dare pull their punches or give anything less than their best. Shouts and the sharp thwack of flesh on flesh ring out from the group as the unmarked males wrestle in the blizzard.
Such savagery... don't they teach their spawn anything useful? Zafwan asks himself, before realizing the absurdity of the question. They're Vals, of course they won't devote their time to more civilized pursuits.

He continues walking onward, and the Shaman slows down, drawing next to him.
“The demonstration area is just up ahead,” She says softly “I think you will like this weapon. It was one of our more effective ones.”

“Was?” Zafwan asks, and the Val shrugs.

“There used to be some towns that the enemy would use as resupply and regroup points. These missiles wiped those towns out in a single night.” The Valorossiyan's voice is grim, and Zafwan tilts his head.

“You don't sound too proud of that.” He says, and the Val shrugs.

“It was a stupid decision to make them, it was a stupid decision to use them ourselves and it's certainly a stupid decision to sell them to you.” She says flatly and Zafwan tilts his head.

“You have misgivings?”

“Of course. You will doubtless take these weapons home and take them apart. You will discover how they work, and you will mass produce them. You will then unleash them on Equestria, who will, in turn, unleash their own terror weapons on your people.”

“Hmph, I don't think they have the stones for that.” Zafwan replies confidently, and the Shaman shrugs.

“As I say, it's the Elders' decision to sell you this weapon, not mine. But I suggest you go to the Dasht-E-Margo sometime and stand in the red sand, and then ask yourself what the Equestrians wouldn't do.” The Shaman says softly, her mouth curled down into a thin frown. Zafwan tilts his head, looking confused for a second, but then he's saved by the sound of approaching footsteps crunching through the snow and he turns to see a group of indistinct figures approaching through the whirling snow.

Many of them are dressed in double-breasted greatcoats and peaked caps, though at the front of the group is a Valorossiyan dressed in a heavy smock and equally heavy duty trousers. Long raven-black locks streaked with silver hang down to his shoulders, and his four vivid blue eyes are hard as flints as tattoos curl around his eye sockets, and curl down to his thin-lipped mouth. His lip curls slightly and his eyes regard Zafwan with a cold hard lack of liking, which Zafwan does his best to reciprocate. A few moments later, Zafwan's eyes drift to the Val to the chief elder's right. He's dressed in a double-breasted tunic and jodhpurs with a white sash across his chest. He looks much younger than the tribal, and his crimson hair is slicked back. Medals are spangled across his chest, including a gleaming golden sun-burst at his throat.

This is their Tsar? He's little more than a child. Zafwan thinks to himself in disgust. It's the first time he's met Tsar Ivan III, though from what he's heard, the Tsar was capricious and headstrong, though the overwhelming impression that Zafwan is getting from the boy is nervousness.

“You are the delegation from the Khanate that the Federation told us would be sent?” The Tsar steps forward, with a little prompting from a female in a flowing pale grey dress, with similarly flinty grey eyes and bright white hair tied back into an ornate plait.

“We are,” Zafwan replies in flawless Valorossiyan. “I am Hassan Zafwan, the people with me are my staff.” He motions at the group of Khans behind him, and the Valorossiyan boy nods.

“I am Tsar Ivan Adrelana III,” The boy injects confidence into his voice, drawing himself up slightly, however given that he's only slightly taller than Zafwan, it doesn't accomplish much. “I believe you are here to discuss a weapons purchase with us...” He takes another step forward, and Zafwan steps forward, back straight. He will not bow to primitives like the Khans, though as he hears a soft rattle of discontent from the cluster of Vals in front of him, Zafwan realizes that might not be a wise move.

“You are unschooled in the courtesies?” The Val boy asks, and Zafwan locks eyes with him.

“I am cold, I am tired and I have been travelling here for quite some time, boy. I have been threatened by your lackeys, and appropriate courtesies have not been shown to me and my party in turn.” Zafwan snaps, and the hiss of irritation ripples through the group and Zafwan tries to hide a smile. It's always fun to keep primitives on their toes.

“A pity.” The Valorossiyan boy says softly. “Well the situation is as I see it. You're here offering gold for our weapon. This is an equitable trade.”

Zafwan notices a flicker of anger on the face of the tattooed male, and a smug smile on the face of the female, but then he allows his own expression to change into a serene smile. “Indeed that is the case. Five cases of gold for your miracle weapon, that your shaman has so highly recommended.”

The Tsar nods slowly.
“Five cases is acceptable.” He says, and Zafwan's grin widens.

“Most excellent.” He flicks his fingers, and at once the Khans behind him step forward, laying the casks of gold down beside him. The Vals glance at each other, and then the Tsar smiles faintly.

“You will want to see the device, before it is packed into carrying crates I trust?” The boy asks, his four eyes bright as though this is all some great big joke. Zafwan nods, trying to still his suddenly quickening heart. The weapon might be nothing more than a backup as far as Aznan is concerned, but Zafwan has other ideas.

“Of course.” Zafwan replies, and the Tsar turns on his heel and starts to walk through the steadily clearing snowfall. As the snowfall decreases, more tents becomes visible in the distance, and a chill suddenly ripples through Zafwan as he tries to get a rough count. He'd always assumed the Vals kept themselves in small family groups, that their camps were small, crude affairs. Yet the dozens of tents and training circles set the lie to that.

Zafwan tugs his greatcoat tighter and then he stalks after the diminutive Valorossiyan, muttering to himself as they pass through the camp, tromping along well-worn paths, past Vals in quilted smocks and wrapped up against the savage chill of winter. He can feel their unnatural gaze upon him, and the soft hiss of vibrating spines speaks eloquently of their feelings on his presence, and he feels his ears unconsciously fold back beneath his thick cap. His nose twitches at the odour of something hot and greasy. Whatever it is smells almost like old boots being fried, and as he hears a sharp barking cough from one of his men behind him, Zafwan realizes he's not the only person to be so affected.

Eventually, they reach the other edge of the camp, where a long dark green cylinder is lying on its side, waiting for them. A pair of stubby wings are lying in the snow next to the rocket, and a smaller tube with a conical warhead is sitting next to the rocket. Zafwan notices that the Vals standing guard over the weapon are all giving the rocket a wide berth.

“This is it?” Zafwan asks, and the Tsar nods.

“This is your miracle weapon, that will lay the Equestrians low.” The Tsar says calmly “We haven’t had cause to use them in years, and so they’re just sitting in our arsenals doing nothing.”

“Why have they been sitting around in your arsenals?” Zafwan asks, and the Tsar shrugs.

“They’re most effective when deployed from airships, since we don’t have any of those, we have to settle for launching them from the ground… which in turn means specialised transport procedures and various other measures, by which time, the enemy have broken camp and moved out, so our munitions land on so much empty snow. These weapons are expensive to produce, technically complex, and they’re incredibly dangerous to transport, so we’re rather loathe to waste them, as I’m sure you can appreciate.”

“Indeed I can.” Zafwan replies sympathetically. “So, you’re including the rocket, plus all the supporting literature?”

“I am. I was considering selling you a job lot of rockets, but it would probably be easier, not to mention safer, just to tell you how to build them yourselves. A technologically advanced nation like yours should have no difficulty in replicating the weapon.” The Tsar replies, and Zafwan nods, noticing the unseen point- You were going to replicate the weapon anyway, and I’d rather you did so under circumstances that allow me to disclaim all knowledge.

Zafwan smiles faintly.
“I’m assuming there’s no time for a demonstration?” He asks, and the Tsar shakes his head.

“Definitely not. They take a while to set up safely, and given one of my people’s largest settlements is only a hundred metres away… we could organize a product demonstration, but that would take hours, and due to the nature of your visit, we haven’t had time to set up anywhere for you to stay whilst you wait, if you’re prepared to wait out here then I’m sure we could-”

“No, that’s quite alright… if there are any malfunctions, we’ll know who to deal with.” Zafwan says and the Tsar chuckles.
“I thought you’d see it that way,” He snaps his fingers and one of his officers comes forward, bearing a wooden case and a silver tray. He pops the latches on the wooden case, and produces a bottle of vodka and several shot glasses.

“So, here’s to setting the world on fire.” Tsar Ivan says, raising his glass

“May it cleanse the world of the Daemon taint.” Zafwan replies, his lie as heartfelt as he can manage.

“One question, if I may?” Ivan asks, and Zafwan tilts his head.
“Your boss, Aznan, he is behind this?”

“Of course.”

Next Chapter: Annexe B: Methods of governance: The Khanate. Estimated time remaining: 25 Minutes