12th i Msitza ag Dargund 524 E.S.

HIS HOLINESS CAIUS I, High Pontiff of the Church of the Canon, Archbishop of Visigia, Successor of the High Priesthood of the Church, Supreme Pontiff of the Church of True Faith, Keeper of the Canon, Missionary to Aeldin, High Servant to the Exalted's Testaments, Sovereign of the Apostolic City, Humble Servant of the Faithful and Vicar of GOD does decree…

Hearken. The recount of the Dumapalooza is declared after the scandal which disrupted the previous election, and the ballots of the Dumapalooza Electorate summoned to return to the Holy See for deliberation. The vote brought before you to elect is born from the shared commitments of the tied leaders of the previous vote. 

The Houses Carrion Sarkozic var Adria and Barbanov-Bihar come before the assembly to advocate for the Dumageddon Doctrine, with his Holiness Caius Primus presiding over the vote for the proposal.

https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/235966-the-dumageddon-doctrine/

• That the authority of the Dumapalooza be abolished forever; the legacy of Adria returning to the governance of its own folk to determine the composition of a Great Adrian Duma in their new town of Beznov.

• That the Houses Carrion regardless of national affiliation be invited to whichever standard of elections occur in the future, though they shall not be able to force it into abeyance.

• That the Seat of Ruska is recognized as the authority by the Houses Carrion Adriae to summon a Crowsmoot as in the traditions of old, and that they shall heed its Crow’s Call. This body shall be held to discuss questions of Carrion legacy, not to command the authenticity of Raevir titles.

• That though the identity of the Adrians is not doubted, the land of Aevos shall not know another ‘Duchy of Adria’, for the corners of Adria have already been demarcated and they are in the heart of the Midlands.

FORM : VOTING IN ABSENTIA;
ELECTOR NAME:
ELECTOR HOUSE:

VOTE CAST: Da / Niet

[!]THE MISSIVE IS ONLY AVAILABLE TO THE FOLLOWING INDIVIDUALS.

• His Holiness, Caius I @MadOne

HONOURED CROWS OF ADRIA;

• Sarkozic var Adria @Nooblius

• Vladov @Naj

• Tuvyic @Maclunkey

• Ivanovich @North

• Basrid var Adria @JoanOfArc

HONOURED CROWS;

• Sarkozic var Aaun @sondher

• Barbanov @indiana105

• Ruthern var Haense @ContestedSnow

• Ruthern var Balian @oryP

• Kovachev @Radzig

• Ludovar @HogoBojo

• Novellen @HIGH_FIRE

• Suzecht @MCVDK

• Morovar @kaylacita

• Novellen of the Petra @Zaerie

• Rostampur var Ba’as @MunaZaldrizoti

• Euler @Gaja

• Bluecrest @Baccaaa

• Wintercrest @PanicZealot

• Kortrevich* @erictafoya

• Bracchus* @Publius

*;Being two notable Patricians of Adrian Past, invited for their historic sagely wisdom.

12 i Joma ag Umund 521 E.S.

HIS HOLINESS CAIUS I, High Pontiff of the Church of the Canon, Archbishop of Visigia, Successor of the High Priesthood of the Church, Supreme Pontiff of the Church of True Faith, Keeper of the Canon, Missionary to Aeldin, High Servant to the Exalted's Testaments, Sovereign of the Apostolic City, Humble Servant of the Faithful and Vicar of GOD does decree…

GATHER, my flock, and heed the words of your pious servant CAIUS under the LORD. Listen well, my brothers, sons, nations, and kin - you, Crows of Hanseti-Ruska in the north, Adrian lords in the south, strelts, warriors, those born of Karovic blood and all Canondom; Hearken my words and be still, for they are of great importance.

You have fought and clashed, sword in hand with enmity onto each other from forth since the rising of the sun in the East, to the setting of the West. That this title, which many of you hold in great esteem and the promise of its prosperity in a righteous Dumacracy now rests under the stewardship I, your humble servant in the Lord. This land and its title has made you into more, from the poorest strelt to a Lord, to the multiplication of your ilk in land and law and for their inheritance through your blood. But when the Lord has placed this copper crown atop your brow, it made you avaricious and in wrath, that you have reached forth onto your scabbards for the blade, which even to this day is stained with blood. Forasmuch as you have acted in wroth in the name of a hearth, so too must you break bread and come together in the name of that hearth, thus the wars Man wages onto himself must end, and now he must look outward for the shadow of Iblees that still plagues your law today; for in your clash with fellow man over that land and crown, you now lose grip on what flame still kindles in your land to the clutch of devilry, insidiously infiltrating and slaying your little ones, husbands and wives right under your nose. 

So now the stewardship of this crown rests atop my lap, as your humble servant, guide and teacher, and so it is that I have called your ilk to break bread under the banner of the Lord, which I have unfurled above my mitre and laurel. For a peaceable and righteous transition of this Crown that has come to prick at your soul, for the come and gone wars, for the ends that you may not cry this or that election to be illegitimate, the mandate to oversee this election has now come to rest under the hand of the successor of the High Priesthood. 

So, I say to you. Gather here, at my Apostolic City, and cast thy vote, that you may have a chosen Lord to reign over you as Duke. Summon your ilk, wives, husbands and little ones to this meeting which I will oversee. I have sent heralds unto you whom I name below, that you may sit in the honored seat of your fathers and do as they have done so in the Tapestry of Man, that I may be the bridge to the feuds that plague you.

• His Holiness, Caius I @MadOne

HONOURED CROWS OF ADRIA;

• Sarkozic var Adria @Nooblius

• Vladov @Naj

• Tuvyic @Maclunkey

• Ivanovich-Montalt @Sean_VEVO@hemomancy

• Basrid var Adria @Bogatyr @JoanOfArc

HONOURED CROWS;

• Sarkozic var Aaun @sondher @Franczhiz

• Barbanov  @indiana105

• Ruthern var Haense @ContestedSnow

• Ruthern var Balian @oryP

• Kovachev @Radzig

• Ludovar @Doggedwasupxxx

• Novellen @HIGH_FIRE

• Suzecht @MCVDK

• Morovar @kaylacita

• Novellen of the Petra, SHOULD they come to accept their Carrion ancestry through swearing an oath atop the tomb of Exalted Sigismund. @Zaerie

• Rostampur var Ba’as, IF they are deemed to be in any large significance. @Dyl @MunaZaldrizoti

• Euler @Gaja

• Bluecrest @Baccaaa

• Wintercrest @PanicZealot

• Kortrevich* @erictafoya @crazedpudding

• Bracchus* @Publius

*;Being two notable Patricians of Adrian Past, invited for their historic sagely wisdom.

IN NOMINE ADRIAE

Markus Marie Sarkozic

Exilic Duke of the Adrians, Count of Aldersberg, Protector of Dumacracy

GODANI JEST WIELKI,

 His Serene Highness, Ivan Aleksandr, Grand Prince of Kusoraev

Her Serene Highness, Nataliya Leopoldina, Grand Princess of Kusoraev

The glass had shattered, the blade was swung. The youth could hear the metal scrap against the stone, before blood could be spilled; however, his vision faded. A dream had overcome him, this he knew. He was definitely asleep. Ahead of him, a path laid in stones, it twisted and turned up a blackened peak, the land mired with pestilence and muck. The trees soon came into view as though the world was being given form before his eyes.

The youth rose the stairs, one by one. With each passing step, the weight of destiny was felt upon his back. It threatened to crush him, to make of him nothing. And yet, the youth persisted, driven by a desire to see what laid at the top. Eventually however, he did make it. After struggling for what felt akin to ages in those stairs, he found the very top of the peak.

There, laid an old shrine, one adorned with a rusted cross of Lorraine, when one kneeled to pray before it, a great star would shrine through the edges in the night sky. The youth prayed, at the time, he simply wished for the wicked to fade. The star in the sky began to shine bright, ever brighter and it grew in size. Soon enough, it streaked across the sky, it lowered itself before him.

Bright colors dazzled his vision, wings unfurled themselves, revealing the Aengul of the lord, Raguel. Besides him, two other heavenly warriors soon appeared. The youth instinctively raised his hand towards him, as if fleetingly attempting to grab at something. The Aengul’s wing fluttered and a light descended towards his hands. Soon enough, a blade had formed within his grasp. It shone bright like the colors which had preceded the messenger’s arrival. No words were spoken, for none had been required. The guardian of the skies soon faded, the blade’s very essence causing the mired, cursed lands around him to heal just in its presence. Was this.. Courage..? He pondered to himself.

Vision at last returned, he rose from his bed, staring at the clouded skies outside, suffering and death had plagued the lands around him much like that mired accursed land from his dream.

“This must end..” He muttered. He had taken on the path of Owyn, of Redemption. Verily, he thought to himself. There was no greater act of good than to slay the greatest and most foul of Evils. Gashadokuro.

THE OFFICE OF MAER

ELECTION RESULTS OF 1964

TO THE ADRIAN DIASPORA,

Many by now know of the election which has occurred this way, this missive is here to allow people to be updated on the result of the election. The Race was a tight one and in the end, the honorable Gentleman Canonius landed a victory. As the victorious nominee of the election, he shall now be made Maer of Little Belvitz for the tenure of 1964 to 1970.

We would like to thank Stefan Euler for his participation in the race, and for coming a close second. We would furthermore like to thank all who have come to vote and or witness this historical event.

As Maer of Little Belvitz, it shall be Canonius’ duty to bring unity and prosperity to those who live within the Adrian quarters of the city of Numenost. He shall be expected to administer over Little Belvitz, coordinating the stewards and merchants to have a steady supply of both home and work for the Adrian Diaspora, and it shall be his duty to both speak to and for the people of the Diaspora.

IN NOMINE ADRIAE

The Right Honorable, Canonius

Maer of Little Belvitz

The Right Honorable, Markus Marie Sarkozic

Count of Aldersberg, Defender of Dumacracy

THE OFFICE OF MAER

MAYORAL ELECTION OF 1964

TO THE ADRIAN DIASPORA,

With our arrival in Númenost, the capital of the Exilic Kingdom of Númendil, we have once more established a home, even if temporary. During this time of Refuge, if we wish to preserve the legacy of Adria and reclaim its dignity upon the coming DUMAGEDDON, then we must work to renew its institutions.

Therefore that most ancient of ADRIATIC traditions is engaged, and a call for a mayoral election is made so that our provisional home Little Belvitz shall have a steward charged with promoting Adrian life and flourishing within the ghetto. 

The Election shall go as such;

The election shall be held within Little Belvitz on the 8th of Owyn’s Light, 1963 [Thursday 4 PM EST] with drinks provided by the BULL’s HORNS Bar and Grill. 

Any Midlander-Adrian of righteous disposition shall be permitted to attend as elector to both nominate and vote.

Candidates for Maer shall be made to give short speeches describing their vision of Adrian flourishing.
Speeches dubbed too long shall be interrupted by the Count of Aldersberg throwing the speaker into the Waters of the Oasis.

Candidates for Maer shall be made to wrestle so that the Midlander-Adrians can observe their physical constitution.

Upon election, the Maer shall go through the Rite of Office consisting of a variety of birds, darkspawn tests and oaths. Thereafter, he shall be the dutifully elected leader of Little Belvitz.

IN NOMINE ADRIAE

The Right Honorable, Markus Marie Sarkozic

Count of Aldersberg, Defender of Dumacracy

The Final Watch

In the somber grandeur of the royal court, Augustus stood rigid amongst his peers, his callused hands betraying the only sign of his inner turmoil. The Duke Markus, robed in the gravity of his office, recited the terms of Adria's surrender. Each word from the Duke echoed like a dirge in the hollow chamber of Augustus' heart. The old soldier's eyes, which had seen the unflinching truth of war, now beheld the end of an era.

With a spirit fractured by disbelief, Augustus returned to his home, the silence of his heavy steps in stark contrast with the chaos that reigned in his mind. He entered the quiet abode, the laughter and warmth of days past haunting the empty spaces.

Under the soft glow of the moonlight, he watched his grandson sleep - a young boy blissfully unaware of the shattered dreams of the nation he might one day inherit. Augustus took a quill and, with a hand steadied by resolve, composed his final missive, a letter drenched in love and sorrow.

Carefully, he placed the parchment beneath the pillow of the innocent child, a silent hope that one day he would understand. With the first rays of dawn casting a pale light upon the scene, Augustus donned his armor, each piece a chapter of his storied past.

Without fanfare, the old guardian of the fatherland embarked on his final journey. Northward he trekked, into the unforgiving embrace of the snowy wastes. The whispers of the wind carried away the tale of his valor, the cold his silent companion.

Augustus, the steadfast soldier of a now-subdued Fatherland, walked until the snow and sky merged into an endless white. There, where the world seemed untouched by the follies of men, he vanished, his legacy interwoven with the land he cherished.

Never again would tales of Augustus grace the ears of those he left behind, his final march a testament to an unyielding spirit that could not bear the surrender of his beloved homeland. In the northern wilderness, he sought the peace of soul, a means to calm the raging dragon within his heart. No rest would find the soldier however, not until he collapsed.

The Damning hands of Fate 

As the first light of dawn creeps through the curtains of a small room in Winburgh, the young boy is gently roused from sleep by the clinking of dishes and the warm, inviting aroma of breakfast. Mrs. Agnes, the woman who has been looking after him while his father is away at war, is already busy in the kitchen, preparing what promises to be a nourishing meal. He stretches and makes his bed, the fabric rough under his fingers, a reminder of the many hands that have touched it before.

"Good morning, young sir," Mrs. Agnes greets him with her usual tenderness. "Eat up; you need your strength. These are trying times for us all."

He nods and eats obediently, the porridge sweet with honey and thick with cream, a small luxury in these sparse times. But even as he finishes his meal, restlessness takes hold of him, a yearning for something, anything, that might break the monotony of these long days.

He excuses himself and wanders through the empty rooms of the house until he finds himself standing before the attic door. It's a place he doesn't often visit, but today, an inexplicable urge pushes him forward. The door creaks open, revealing a space draped in shadows and memories.

There, in the far corner, lies an object, long and shrouded in cloth. He's seen it before, but today, it seems different—more imposing. He draws nearer but stops short, a sense of unease gripping him. He stares at it, feeling almost as if it's staring back, a predator in the stillness of the attic. His imagination runs wild with thoughts of what it could be, each more frightening than the last. He backs away, leaving the mystery wrapped and untouched, a choice that sits heavy in his stomach as he heads outside.

The fresh air does little to dispel the unease from the attic, but the sight of his friends, eager for their daily adventures, lifts his spirits. They play their usual game, pretending to be the soldiers of Adria, defending their lands against the haensemen. The thrill of the chase and the mock heroics temporarily fill the void left by the war.

As the day wanes and their game ends, they journey back through Winburgh's streets. That's when he hears him—the old orator, a constant presence these days, his words echoing off the stone walls of the buildings.

"The elves, the half-bloods, the dwarves," the orator bellows, "they're the reason our country bleeds! They sit in their high towers, plotting, while canonists spill blood upon fields of roses!” The crowd gathered, offered a mixed reaction and he continued speaking… “Who stands to gain from such endless canonist blood shed? It is them!” The orator shouted in a staged anger.

The boy knows he should walk away, but he's rooted to the spot, caught in the web of the orator's words. Each speech is a stone added to the foundation of something dark within him. The orator's voice becomes a familiar refrain, a haunting melody that he can't shake off, no matter how hard he tries.

It is not one single speech, but many, over months, over years, that begin to shape the way he sees the world. The faces of the supposed enemies start to paint the backdrop of his thoughts, and he struggles to remember a time when he didn't carry the weight of this newfound disdain.

The war is drawing to a close, yet within him, a different kind of battle has just begun. The ideas seeded by the orator's impassioned speeches find fertile ground in his young mind, growing roots that he fears might someday be too deep to extract.

As he walks away from the crowd, the old man's words still hanging in the air, the boy can't help but feel like the bloodshed has grown unending. He sits upon the sides of the palisade, perched and able to see down the Hill. His legs dangle while he ponders what is to come. Despite everything, the youth is convinced his father shall soon return and life shall return to normal.

The Blinded Soldier

An Eye for an Arm

It was often that the young soldier took walks in the woods. He had done it since his youth, often finding it a quiet place of serene beauty. Adriel, a mentor of his, had often said that the trees could speak and he felt this to be true. He was no druid to commune with them but the concept felt right with him. Upon this day, he spoke to many, asking their forgiveness for the battlefield that their home would become. Thus, it was quite the cut through his ponderance when a voice spoke from behind him.

"Are you a predator, or prey?"

The voice spoke in a shrill crow-like tone, and upon turning the man saw its source: A plated figure shrouded in a darkened cloak. He gave no answer to the question, for he was startled enough to place a hand upon his blade instead. Movement came from the plated figure as well. It had sensed weakness, and launched a barrage of attacks. Sharp talons stood in place of its hands, and purple flames enveloped its arms. It was clear to be no human but rather a demon. The young man evaded to the best of his ability, managing to draw his blade but incurring a burn upon himself. He stepped back, stumbling for distance and guarding himself. The demon lunged again, and this time he was ready. He swung towards its arm, cutting it open. It persisted, enduring the strike to grab at the young man’s eye with its talons and pulling it from its socket. From this, the young man swung up and severed its arm fully. Each took the time to fall back, the fear of further injury enough to incur anxiety within them both. An eye for an arm had been their exchange.

No eyes for a life to flash before

There had hardly been time for anything more than an eyepatch to be applied before the young man was in battle again. It was warfare, this time. He had taken a different steed than his usual one, one more fit for war but unfamiliar to him. The stallion charged forward alongside every other in the rally, yet it seemed to be in more control than the rider. The clash of cavalry forces came about with the sound of a hundred lances striking, and the young rider was rider no more as he was struck from the horse. Pain was overcome by adrenaline as he got to his feet and drew his blade, beginning to cut through enemy soldiers that had met a similar fate.

One fell before him, then another, and another…

Then from across the battlefield came a flying arrow, or perhaps a bolt from a crossbow. It struck into the soldier’s helmet, breaking past the visor and sinking into his one remaining eye. Blood came flowing from under his helmet, the red tint the last thing he could comprehend for a fraction of a second. There came no memories of life, only the assured presence of death moments away. Directionless strikes came upon his body, and soon he fell unconscious upon the floor.

And so he fell blind

The young man awoke lying within a bed. He could not tell whether it was night or day. All that he knew is that he was exhausted and an impulse that Emmelina had been the one tending to him. He had not even the slightest moment of rest within the past few nights, between his own research and preparations of war. Yet now, in a moment of respite he could not bring himself to sleep. The darkness was certainly there, it enveloped him… and for this he loathed it. His temper could not get the best of him, yet his desperation would. He prayed, as all good canonists are taught to do. At first, he asked for the benefits. So that he could protect. So that he could guide. So that he could learn better from the scrolls. Yet as he delved deeper into his own thoughts the deprivation of these things drove him to bargaining. Calias Mareno would give anything to gain his sight again, perhaps even too much.

A poster found itself penned upon the sides of the board within the insides of the Winburgh keep. It read as follows.

ADRIA CALLS

In these grievous times, when the night seems to swallow our land whole and the relentless drumming of an encroaching enemy threatens the very essence of Adria, we find ourselves at the precipice of destiny. The land that cradled our forefathers, that heard our first laughter and felt our first steps, beckons us with a somber call to arms. It is not merely a call to battle but a sacred summons to uphold the legacy of our people, to guard the sanctity of our homes against the tide of an unforgiving war.

Look upon the fields where our children played, the streams where our reflections danced, and see now the shadows that encroach upon our serenity. Our enemies believe they can extinguish the light of Adria, cast us into the abyss where hope is but a distant memory. Yet, they know not the resilience that beats in the hearts of our people, the unyielding spirit that has weathered storms and stood steadfast against the howling winds of despair.

Stand now, sons and daughters of the fatherland, for the soil that has nourished your dreams, for the roofs that have sheltered your kin. Though the clamor of war may rattle the stars and shake the foundations of the earth, our resolve must be as the mountains that overlook our cities – immovable and enduring. Each drop of blood shed in defense of our fatherland is a testament to our enduring love, a melody that will be sung for ages to come.

We do not shy away from the melancholic truth that many of us may embrace the eternal slumber in defense of our beloved Adria. Our tears will mingle with the blood-soaked earth, a poignant reminder of the cost of freedom, the price of our unshakeable resolve. Yet, let us not don the cloak of sorrow, for there is an unparalleled honor in sacrificing for the sanctity of home and fatherland. To fall in Adria's defense is to rise in the annals of glory, your names etched in the bedrock of history for all eternity.

The path before us is wrought with perils untold, and the air is heavy with the somber notes of a requiem for the fallen. But within this dirge lies a powerful undercurrent of defiance, a chorus that rises above the tumult of war, singing of dignity, of valor, of the indomitable will of the Midlandic people. To bear arms in this righteous struggle is to carry the torch of our ancestors, to illuminate the darkness with the fire of our conviction.

Now, as the clarion call resonates across our embattled lands, we must answer with a voice that thunders through valleys and over peaks – we will stand until the end. We will fight with the ferocity of the winter gale, with the passion of a thousand burning suns. We will not falter, we will not wane. Our legacy will not be one of defeat and ruin but of courage and unyielding strength.

An Apology for Markus Sarkozic & The Midland State

By Bartosz, Scholar of the Empire of Man & Pax Renatii, and Vessian Art

Foreword

For the sake of a better reading, I shall put the following forth in direct clarity: I am no diplomat, merely an archivist of ages long past. I cannot speak impartially; my words are biased to the survival of my cousin and his venture. I do not condone the atrocities of the Midlands, nor the spirit of which Veletz was constituted. I write this as a cousin, and a friend to a good man, and out of hope for a better future for all. I do not write this as a voice for the Duke; my words are not his thoughts. Finally, I must emphasize my firm belief in my writing.

The Curse of Context 

The thinking head is a cruel temptation for the acting hand to stray from the righteous heart. If a ruler wishes to see the lasting perceptions of one’s decisions in popular memory, he may visualize his decision as following a circuit, those inventions of the famed warrior and philosopher prince Calculus de Sola, of many possibilities all passed through the universal gate of hindsight. Any decision in a given moment may oscillate towards an eventual and constant positive or negative outcome. This outcome solidifies after new states rise and fall, living memory perishes  and  spontaneous new crises overshadow any cascading consequence of the result. 

The irony of this inevitable limit is that it is visible the very moment it is made. It is largely determined by the moral standing of the act as perceived by the uninvolved or uninitiated,  and is largely obfuscated by any reasoning for it. Any claim of vindication for past injustice or future benefit may later accompany nuanced argument for the act, but the inevitable legacy it shall leave will be a binary reflection on the actor’s  base, instinctual character. 

There are countless tales of prudent malice or fruitful sin. Treachery or Avarice often does lead to great gain and treasure. The forfeiture of Ves to the Dragon Knights, while to the tactical benefit of Haense--sidestepping the untimely challenge to rebel against the Empire, galvanizing its vassals under a common cause and consolidating them under a single banner--has been remembered as a moral failure of the Hansetian people, a point of national shame for both Renatian and Hansetian. The context behind the Pearl of the Empire’s burning has been lost to time within the public consciousness. Nearly 500 years ago, the Decterum’s betrayal and assassination of Franz I in  the Orenian Civil war, while never prudent, was certainly rationalized at the time. However, that singular malicious act doomed the Decterum to a permanent and shameful footnote in the annals of our histories, perhaps undeservedly so to its ordermen. 

The moral of these misadventures is simple: our actions are not remembered for the thousand forces which set our hand loose nor the thousand impacted, but by what force the hand itself commits.

The Virtue and Tragedy of the Adrian Duke

I assert with uncompromising resolve that Markus Sarkozic is a good man. Those who have met him on spontaneous occasions have spoken to his charity; those in formal diplomacy his graciousness, and those on any one of his ventures if  mind his earnest will to contribute to the betterment of all men.

There will be actors in the coming years who criticize the Duke for his allegiance to the League of Veletz and for his contribution to the war. This is misguided. In truth, the Duke was pressed between two moral imperatives in his position: fortitude against justice. The nature of the League of Veletz long stood against what I know his Grace to hold dear: a universal charity to all men, and a zealous honoring of the past, tradition and its inhabitants. Nevertheless, it was the sovereign state over which the title his father had warred half the world for, the state for which he was bound by honor to serve. This choice, to honor duty and ancestor over  conscience and neighbor, will be both defining and undoing one for his Grace, and a choice for which my own counsel aided him to ruin. 

It should be clear to those who have known the Duke of Adria for any point in time that the words he has penned to paper are his true sentiments on the conflict. They are not, as one lout put it, “Crocodile Tears”, whatever a crocodile may be. All apology was intended not for the purpose of self preservation, but to restore dignity to the people of the Midlands through a sense of decency whittled away by the fever of martial lust. The disbanding of the League was not a cheap masquerade, but a protest of such atrocities in the first place. I suspect the Duke hoped that if there is to be an end to the Midland experiment, that it might be done so with a name that reminisces to its highest point, one that settled in gracious peace with the world through his own pen.

The Instantaneous Hypocrisy of the Covenant

The Covenant waged a justified war, but it will be seen in the years to come as two separate ventures: The Covenant War, provoked by the League of Veletz, ended by Markus Sarkozic, and The Hypocrites' War, less waged and moreso enjoyed by the domineering factions of the Covenant. 

I call them hypocrites, not out of spite, or vindictive loathing, but because while they may claim moral superiority, the war for which they now finish not as defenders, but as conquerors and vindicators. The Hansetians have vocalized a desire to wipe the Midlanders from the face of the continent, calling them an “accursed people”. No strategic objective exists in this endeavor; it is a self-indulgent and malicious end itself. The sole request of his Grace, willing to cede every concession under his power, was the continued sovereignty and dignity of a people with nowhere else to go, that past sins of fathers might be redeemed by the actions of sons. This was unpalatable to the coalition’s wrathful appetite.  

Markus Sarkozic was pressed between two virtues and vices alike in his folly to restore a dignified midland state whose name his ancestors once ruled in a dignified manner. The Covenant was pressed with a binary choice between charity and bloodlust. They chose the pound of flesh over a chance of peace from the only redeemer of the Midlands. 

In the coming years, such an act will be justified by the atrocities of the League. As decades pass, the act will only be remembered by its consequences. A century from now, it shall be remembered for its malice. 

In Veletz green, beneath the sun's warm glow,
A farmer's hand did till the earth below.
He sowed his seeds and reaped the golden yield,
His heart at peace, his fate not yet revealed.
 

The drum of war did beat, a somber sound,
And men of earth became the battleground.
From plow to sword, the farmer's hand was sworn,
To fields of death, his spirit, battle-worn.
 

He stood in line, a shield amidst the storm,
A simple man in uniform transformed.
His dreams of harvest moons now cast aside,
For honor called — a call he could not hide.
 

In twilight's grasp, the battle fiercely wailed,
Against his home, dark forces had assailed.
He fought with courage, though his heart did mourn
For tranquil days and fields of waving corn.
 

A blade did find him 'neath the mournful sky,
His blood did feed the land for which he'd die.
A farmer no more, but a soldier true,
His final breath a mist in morning's dew.
 

In Veletz fields, where once he stood so proud,
His body lies, enshrouded by a shroud.
Yet from his death, a solemn truth does spring —
In hallowed ground, his valor everlasting.
 

For though he fell, and tears like rivers flow,
In defense of home, his honor does bestow
A legacy that time can never fray —
The farmer-soldier who in earth now lay.

A state, where peace wishes to reside. The Duchy of Adria may have appeared from the ashes, but has requested solemnly to its people for peace. The land is filled with turmoil, people taken from their homes yet still fighting for land and country. There is more to it than just land, but there are people, there are livelihoods, and there could be peace. Yet, this path is not one trekked, perhaps one unknown.

TO HAENSE, 
I find your instruments of war interesting. What is it that you seek? Is it those people who are excommunicated? Is it glory in God’s name? Or is it total submission under a supposed unified state? I query you, as I find myself confused as to what peace you desire. It is surely not the one where the lives of the people are put before any other, for then we would have peace. It is not for God, because many seeking peace have already sought penance to be relinquished from their excommunication. 

My husband, an elf who was never before known to be Canonist, was deemed excommunicated. Hurin and I, Seraena, seek only the path and light of God, yet all I see with war is the opposite. Shadows cast over your judgment, and I only hope that penance is served for all those who sought destruction over peace. I hope that penance be handed to those who put land over people, and greed over God. 

Peace is within your hands - it was given to you, the promises of Midlanders willing to put down sword because we have lost so many. Our brethren look from the Seven Skies and yet, when they look down on our turmoiled and malevolent lands, they do not see the crown of peace that was offered to be accepted and sat upon the head. The crown has been given, the olive branch tossed, but it was not taken, and for what purpose? 

Allow me to wonder where peace might live. Peace is not subjecting innocent peoples to horrific tasks, or a life barely liveable. Peace is not relinquishing identity, and peace is certainly not war. 

So, it is evident to mine eye that peace is not with you. If you require peace, if you so request it, if you are so desperate and you preach and speak about peace as if it were your own son, then harbor it as such. If peace is the answer, then it is not peace that is with you. Do not opt to speak of peace in place of avarice, because God shall surely see through this lens. Let the innocents die, they say, as this is war. Let there be peace, they say, but this is still war.

                         It was approaching dawn when the Knight was alerted of trouble at the heights. Regardless of whatever baseless peace talks were occurring among the diplomats of Adria and the Coalition there was more important matters to take care of. Amidst the arming of the common folk and the training of those who had never held a spear in their lives did he mount and ride to the realm of his uncle.

                         Thus rode the Captain, clad in the DAEMONSTEEL armor untimely ripped from the corpse of an attacker of FREDERICKSBURG. He leapt from his BRASCAN MARE as it neared what little had been constructed in the ways of defense of the Easworth Heights. Blood already soaked the ground before him, but not of an enemy aligned with the COALITION PACT. The self-styled BURGUNDY KNIGHT of Winburgh stepped forwards to the scene, a blooded mouth which spat tooth unto the floor. A deserter. 

                                                                                                                                                                                                   His hands fell to his sword belt as he approached the man, held back by two loyal militiamen placed under the MONTALT-IVANOVICH command. He waved his hand and within an instant the man was released. Silence filled the air, only split by the wailing of horse in the distance and the wind which blew hard upon the heights. Abruptly the deserter spake:

"This war is over Captain! We've lost!" He cried, and doom became of the men around.

The air blew hard and the clouds shifted black.

He knew this man, a BRASCAN refugee who arrived under the care of the BULL OF MIDDEN right after himself. A friend he shared drink with night after night. He had even helped him write a line in one of his many poems.

"What do we fight for!?" He pleaded. "Your cousins in Stassion?! They've pulled out! Abandoned us!"

The lone eye of the Knight watched the pleading man, though still his lips did not part.

"My people? Who's keep has been razed for nearly a decade?! Or your father, RADMIR, who stands in exile with the rest of the MERCENARIES!?!"

The knight raised a singular gauntleted hand. Silence.

Radmir lowered himself to one knee, and raised the man slowly. Turning to the surrounding militia he watched their faces which sat in terror and fright of the oncoming armies, for they were alone in the world.

"My bones ache, friends, and my knees buckle under the weight of my armor which I have worn everyday for years." Radmir placed his foot unto a stump and removed his helm, it fell beside him thudding into the muddy ground fresh with rain. Wind blew his blood-red cape, soaked in water, dirt, and dried sanguine. "My hands numb from penned missives. My eye aches every night for I dream of how it was taken from me by those who call themselves warriors of GOD."

"They will call you MARAUDERS. Yet, I have not seen you slay INNOCENTS... SAVAGES yet I have seen you urge CAUTION. MURDERERS yet I have seen you exercise MOST MERCY. IMPERIALISTS but it is not your banners which fly over FOREIGN NATIONS. They will not forget you, nor will they allow you to be FREE. Your entire lives you will be cast as EVIL and be whipped like SLAVES. But my friends, with all their slandering they forget who we truly are... MIDLANDERS take no quarter when none is given, MIDLANDERS fight to the MAN. MIDLANDERS do not FORGIVE, lest we FORGET. Those who started this war, truly, are long gone and have abandoned you to your fate for your honor became too much of you. As the APPOCOLPYSE nears, and DAEMONS approach our land marching in the thousands to the beat of INFERNAL drums, we stand. We are prepared to fight until our wrists limp, until the HOT RED BLOOD of our bodies lay SUCKED from their VEINS to feed the hunger of AGING PRINCES whose only claim to glory is that with ten times the number they slaughtered a weak foe- LET THEM COME. And when they march up this hill with their slings and arrows, let them shower our shields and splinter our spears- LET THEM COME. And should they slay me with their blades MINE BONES powered by GOD and COUNTRY will rise and fight their hordes for MY SOUL BLEEDS BURGUNDY- LET THEM COME!"

A Hope for Dawn
 

To the King Aleksandr and the fellow members of the Grand Covenant,

I do not mean to deceive you. The change from Veletz to Adria is not in an attempt to pull a ‘swaperoo’ on the coalition, but to fundamentally begin a transformation in the substance of the midland realm. I understand that the dynamics of this would be not merely lost, but seemingly nonexistent to those outside the midlands. But the change was not in service to outlanders, but midlanders.

I will take full accountability for the actions of the Captain-Generals. Not because I was complicit in them, for this I shall deny at least to a major extent. Many sources from across Aevos can attest to the role I played within the Captain-General’s council, which was of ‘Countersignaller’ and opposition. At every move I advocated reconciliation and mercy, if only the accused admitted a desire for peace. But nonetheless, I did choose to fight alongside him in the defense of his regime, and now stand at a position that inherits his authority. It is only proper that I inherit his debts, and withstanding wrongs not yet made right.

That a summit is called gives me trust that there are intentions to see a path forward for peace, wellbeing, and reconciliation. This war was a lamentable tragedy, but in the pursuit to see its end, to see justice be doled responsibly, and to see a restoration of a nonviolent Canonist order, this recent letter ‘Should Dawn Come’ has been the strongest proof of good intentions. I observe a lack of defined terms, and while I would inquire about such absence of that which I believe is paramount to not only bring peace but wage war; I am prepared to offer terms of my own. 

In exchange for peace, I, Markus Sarkozic:

I) Would surrender all lands save those of Windburgh and its surrounding properties, Aldersberg and its surrounding properties, the village of Oxenstead and its surrounding properties and the Euler Steppe,

II) Would establish a tribunal staffed by members of the Mother Church, named at the behest of His Holiness, to help steward this country and reintegrate it into the fold of the Church,

III) Would aid in finding and arresting all hitherto named excommunicants that have not sought justice with the Mother Church,

IV) Would dissolve the Duchy of Adria and lay it to rest in abeyance,

V) Would invite a Holy Inquisition to investigate all of my remaining properties for any signs of Ibleesian, necromantic, Azdrazi, or any other dark influences with full military backing,

VI) Would surrender my eldest son, Tobiasz Maxim, as ward to whichever court so desires them to instruct them on high morality,

VII) Would arrange the payment of reparations in the form of minae and whatever additional resources may be harvested on the land available, 

VIII) Would swear against taking arms in aggression against Canonists without the express permission of the Mother Church,

IX) Would reconstruct the government of my new properties under the supervision of the Mother Church and a neutral commission of the Covenant.

These terms are not meant to impose on the coalition, but simply a means to begin an honest dialogue. I have nothing to hide, and nothing to gain but the graces of GODANISTAN and peace in the midlands.

His Grace, Markus Marie Sarkozic

Duke of Adria, Count of Aldersberg

THE LEAGUE OF VELETZ ABOLISHED

The path paved by sheer might has not led to flourishing and unity, but rather to a wounded Midlands and divided Canondom. The midlandfolk are a righteous lot who seek to raise the ideals of chivalry and hard-work, but instead are burdened with constant avoidable conflict that does not promote their interests.

NO MORE. The sword has failed to provide for the midland realm. It is time for the pen.

THEREOFRE with authority as the lord of the founding duchy and with popular support from the Court of Winburgh, the Duke of Adria declares following;

I. The League of Veletz shall be dissolved forever from the midlands; let no man call himself Captain-General, or master of his titles.

II. The Duke of Adria shall usurp control over the midlands and install a provisional government for the purpose of reconciling and reconstructing the midlands.

III. The Covenant shall be made no longer an enemy of the midlands, and are called to attend a peace summit where wrongdoings shall be made right.

IV. All evildoers, fairies, phantoms and lepers shall be banished to the leper-city.

V. All ambitious and righteous men are invited to partake in the renewal of the midlands.

PEACE IN OUR TIME

His Grace, Markus Marie Sarkozic

Duke of Adria, Count of Aldersberg, Censor of the Midlands

THE AGENDA OF MARKUS SARKOZIC

8th day of Sigismund’s End of 1960

[Listen]

“Observe the Adrian Effect; that the duma and its institutions bring prosperity to its every tract of land.”

Random Adrian Alderman 4th Duma of the Sarkozic Restoration

CREATION OF THE SIEGE TRIBUNAL

The Duke of Adria hereby proclaims the creation of a SIEGE TRIBUNAL, a council of the best men of the Midlands to oversee its transition. The SIEGE TRIBUNAL shall commit itself to the formation of new civic institutions, budgetary soundness, defensive capability, upholding the dignity of the Midlands & its people, the de-escalation of conflict against, diplomatic reconciliation with and reparation to  the Covenant to establish lasting peace.

This tribunal shall endure for the course of the crisis and a supplementary two more years, or until the holding of a Duma to determine the nation’s fate, barring any external concession from negotiations.   

PERSONNEL OF THE TRIBUNAL

Tribune of State Affairs [JoanOfArc]

Tribune of the Duma [ radzig ]

Aide to the Duke [ hemomancy ]

Tribune of Civic Defense  & Readiness [Tide1]

Tribune of Budgetary Reconciliation & Urban Development [Rainalyn]

Tribune of Rationing and Measures [moosehunter123]

Siegemaster General [6xdestroyer]

Tribune of Public Morale  [Aces__1]

Censor of the Midlands [levy_spearman]

DIPLOMATIC CORPS OF THE TRIBUNAL 

Diplomat Sir Radmir Montalt [bingusVEVO]

Diplomat Adelheid Klara [CherryBud]

Diplomat Vasyl Otto Sarkozic [Laeonathan_]

PONTIFICAL LEGATE - [ APPOINTMENT ]

Brandt Cardinal Albarosa [MadOne2k]

Frantzisko Cardinal Buron [Nescaffier]

Rhosyn Cardinal Casica [Andrew_Tech]

Another Delegate of Pontifical choosing.

PROCLAMATION OF DIPLOMATIC POSITION

The following is to be adopted as the official positioning of the Duchy of Adria and its SIEGE TRIBUNAL. 

ON REPARATION & RECONCILIATION

It is the position of the SIEGE TRIBUNAL and his Grace, the Duke of Adria that further conflict for the justification of past wrongs may go on no longer whilst the Midlands bleeds its youth into saturated soil, and that a measure taken in the spirit of concession or reconciliation to cease the bloodletting within Canondom may be a measure well taken.

Under their own will, the Duke of Adria, Markus Sarkozic and the SIEGE TRIBUNAL condemn and accept accountability for the following  injustices:

The Duchy furthermore acknowledges the letting of blood for the purpose of justifying this unjustifiable conduct as misadventure wrongly based in pride. It also asserts that it is the right of nations who seek peace to defend themselves likewise against fruitless ventures of wrath in the spirit of domination all the same. Just acts of war done during war shall not be apologized for, though reparations offered. Unjust acts of war shall be properly paid for in full.

ON THE ESTABLISHMENT OF NEW ORDER

The Duchy holds, however, as custodian of the Midlands, that it is in the best interest of Canondom for its continued sovereign  tenancy in this position, that the postwar order may be a lasting one. The SIEGE TRIBUNAL holds, as reasonable men would, that this order must be in cooperation and oversight with the Church to prevent villainy from taking root once more in Adrian soil. 

ON THE DIGNITY OF THE MIDLANDS

The Duchy affirms, as well, that while concession is possible, these concessions may not infringe upon the dignity of the Midlands or its people and must remain measured in nature. The SIEGE TRIBUNAL furthermore warns those in the grasp of wrathful vigor that extreme acts often find extreme response, and when a great shock or displacement occurs on the high seas, the whirlpool drags all in proximity into the depths. The complete destruction of the Midlands shall only serve the interests of Ruin, that embittered men shall forever seek vengeance when there may be reconciliation among the just and unity against the unjust. It is understood such trust shall take time to develop.

PERSONA NON GRATA 

The Duke of Adria declares the banishment of Vyllaenen of the Ferry for being a known evildoer.

The Duke of Adria declares the impending banishment of all who do not provide immediate proof of their started reconciliation with the Holy Church among the excommunicated of Veletz.

Saskia, Hendrik, and Johanes have documented their path to redemption. If proven to be false, such a path falls through, or otherwise problems arise they shall be banished.
 

Valentin, Yvine, Hurin and Godric have not declared yet their interests of redemption. They shall be declared banished from the Midlands within two Saint’s Eves if they do not have a writ from a member of the Curia sent to the Duke of Adria attesting to their path of redemption.
 

Gaspard van Aert, although having spoken intent to speak to the High Pontiff, has since entered self-exile. He shall maintain this exile until wrongs made right with both Church and Coalition, and his soul shall remain prayed for by the entirety of the Midlands.

To the Duke of Adria, Markus Sarkozic

Once, long ago, I walked into a church just in time to overhear you speak ill of my kin. At the time, this was an understandable sentiment, as my kin who had migrated to Adria had committed horrible acts in furtherance of your war of rebellion. You were quick to denounce them, and in doing so, bought your state a way back into the Canonist fold.

Today, you find yourself fighting alongside men committing the same acts for which you condemned my kin all those years ago. Bandits, robbers, church burners. Men who kill innocents, kidnap pregnant women and harass their own allies to get concessions. You do not disavow them like you did my family back then. I wonder if all those years back, I listened to the words of a man truly meaning his repentance and now made a hypocrite by circumstances? Or was this the work of a shrewd negotiator and diplomat, who’s only care for words is the advantage they might bring?

We now find ourselves in a similar position, with Veletz, or Adria, facing a Canondom united in its desire to see your state wiped away for its transgressions. You are once again called to try and mediate a way out of this predicament. But what is the point of a peace agreement with one who does not stick to their agreements? What has changed since then? How can one trust the promises of a nation who have betrayed every agreement they’ve ever made? 

Thus I turn to you and ask you this; are you truly repentant? If so, are you willing to disband the state which has brought with it so much strife? Are you willing to cast the power that was used to bring harm to the rest of Canondom away? Can you truly consider yourself worthy to rule, after you participated in the crimes of Veletz? Do you and your fellow midlanders consider that you still have any right to the lands that have fueled villainy? 

I believe I speak for many that should you want peace at this eleventh hour, you must be willing to truly right the wrongs perpetrated by you and yours. It will not suffice to scapegoat Ser Gaspard, or on those who have perished in the conflict, or on others, who may be fleeing the consequences of their actions. All of the Veletzian nobility is in equal part guilty of supporting and partaking in the atrocities that occurred in the past years and decades. If you want peace, there must be justice for the crimes committed. 

Justice is not negotiated. Justice is served, and one can only submit to it. You wish to reconcile with the other Canonist nations surrounding you? Submit to them, fully, and let them pass judgment.

Signed, 
Cassius von Draco
 

      Looking back down at the river he grimaces, a loud old voice in the back of his head says to jump off. To finally end the pain of his life with a simple jump he would get to see some of his old friends and finally meet the family he never got to see; but another voice tells the knight to keep going. The knight still looking down at the river would swing both legs over the railing one by one as he sits on the bridge.
 

    After countless moments of looking into the river the cigar falls out of his mouth, the cigar after several seconds would finally hit the water. Now looking away from the river and at the moon once more a single tear would leave his right eye as he says to everyone he let down in the past “Im sthowwy, Im stho booodoy sthowwy”. After sitting there for a moment longer he slowly goes to stand up and walks off the bridge back to Veletz.

RECONCILIATION OF ADRIA

It was from victory of the Holy League in the Schism Wars that Adria was born; a union between the triumphant Saint Emma Vladov of Woldzmir and the diplomat Paul Sarkozic of Eastcliff. Their holdings together made the first March of Adria, a culture baptized in loyalty to the Church and in war against its enemies. It has been a great tragedy that the midland realm borne of Adria has been one in great strife against the Church. 

The healing of such wounds therefore is the primary interest of the ruler of the Midlands, and thus the first decree of the new Midland realm is such;

I. The midland realm shall be a defender of the Mother Church, and commit its arms to its defense and integrity.

The midland realm shall therefore be committed to the cause of reconciliation for all reptentent excommunicated, and the opposition to all unrepentant wrongdoers.

II. All who are Excommunicated and Anathema shall be mandated to find reconciliation with the mediation of the Duke of Adria, or face banishment.

Gaspard van Aert, Hendrik van Aert, Valentin van Aert, Godric ap Easworth, Saskia van Aert, Johanes van Aert, Yvine Pavlichenko, and Hurin Nullivari-Ibarellan are to meet whatever penance required of them, if any, to any extent required.

Rest in peace; Gustaf Otto van Aert and Sir Ethan Irons. Let all pray for the repose of their souls.

III. The Ferrymen are included in this mandate, and shall be removed from the Midlands if they do not reconcile to the Mother Church and repent.

IV. The attackers of the Petran Nunnery shall be turned in to the Cardinal Rhosyn to seek penance at her absolute direction.

V. The Church shall be given insight into the provisional government overseeing the reconciliation and reconstruction of the Midlands.

After reconstruction, the Church shall receive a councilor on whatever authoritative assembly emerges.

VI. Canon Law shall be enshrined within the Midlands and be enforced by the Duke of Adria and his agents in the name of the Mother Church and Godanistan.

VII. The Property Rights of the Mother Church shall be restored within the Midlands; gaining ownership of all churches and shrines.

VIII. Any and all attacks, robberies, harassments et cetera on members of the church or church property are to cease immediately under threat of high punishment.

With these actions and only with these actions; the midlands move into a stage of RECONCILIATION with the Mother Church, which furthermore advocates for a reasonable peace to fall upon the midland realm.

IN NOMINE DEI,

His Grace, Markus Marie Sarkozic

Duke of Adria, Count of Aldersberg, Censor of the Midlands

HIS HOLINESS, SIXTUS VI

High Pontiff of the Church of the Canon

[𝄞]

[!] A letter was sent to Markus, flying from a far-off forest encampment. . . @Nooblius

[DO NOT METAGAME CONTENTS UNLESS SHOWN IRP]

Hail, you may not know who I am, but I know who you are and I feel it is time to make amends on behalf of both our houses. I am Wymond Lynde, Former Baron of Rulund and at one time, a loyal denizen of Adria. During the rebellion many-a-year ago, I was still young and unknowing of the troubles or tribulations that my family would endure at my own hand, I surrendered my titles and intentionally left them to rot, seeking an escape from the baronial responsibility that was entrusted to my house. For years, decades perhaps, I have fumed without end over this decision, and for all that time, I blamed your father, I blamed Adria in-and-of-itself. 

I am now nearly sixty and have seen that hate is not the way forward. . . Considering your recent missives about the reconciliation of the midlands and the abolishment of Veletz, I would like to request for you to consider returning the titles of Rulund back to my family. I ask for no land, no prestige, just a path forward in case me or my descendants ever seek to revive my fathers lost vision. If a meeting is required, it shall take verily take place. I would also understand the possibility of denial, for I know my request is strange.

Signed, Wymond Lynde of Rulund

A DRUSCAN DEATH TALE

Lupus ferox sicut sol

✺

The Lord of Drusco was trained and had prepared for the battle, but the burden of leadership had proven overwhelming. In his darkest moments, he sought solace through the wine that filled his cup. The Savoyard drowned himself in the familiar taste hoping that he would rid himself of his fear and trepidation. For a maudlin time, his thoughts wandered back to a summer spent beneath the trees and the joyful banter that once echoed throughout his empty halls. However, those days had faded away and now his gaze fixed onto the battlements and the enemy that approached from the south.

Amidst the cacophony of clashing swords, firing of arrows, and booming sounds of siege weaponry. Edmond stood alone, his armor, once a beautiful set, had bore the marks of previous battles, and his sword stained with the blood of numerous foes. 

In the heat of the defence of his home, he found himself locked in an intense gaze with the King of the Dwarves. Time had seemed to stretch, the chaotic symphony of battle faded into the background as their weapons drew closer. The two had found an unspoken understanding that only one would emerge victorious from this dance of blades.

The air was thick with the acrid scent of smoke, and the ground beneath their feet was uneven with the remnants of fallen comrades. The duel unfolded amidst the swirl of battle, Sigrun Stonehammer's carbarum blade clashed against the Savoyard’s blade and heavy blows from the Dwarven King had caused the lord’s blade to shatter in his hand. Edmond found himself defenseless and attempted to retreat, stumbling over the corpse of his dead guards, the ground beneath him slick with blood and mud. In an instinctive moment, he seized a nearby shield that adorned the sun of Ashford and huddled beneath it. Each strike splintered the shield piece by piece, the relentless assault tarnishing the emblem of Ashford. After enduring countless blows, the shield was left in tatters, split in two under the unrelenting force of the Dwarven King. With the shield shattered, the Savoyard gazed up at Sigrun, his final moments witnessed as the axe cleaved through the air, severing the Margrave's head in two.

As Drusco's defences crumbled, the once beautiful castle fell into enemy hands. The legacy of Lord Edmond, tarnished by his descent into alcohol-fuelled despair, met its tragic ends on the battlefield. The Siege of Drusco became a somber chapter in the annals of Aevos, a cautionary tale of the perils of both Veletz and the Covenant conflict.

A LETTER TO RICHOLD OF ROUEN,

Sir Ethan (Irons) of Winburgh

Sir Ethan, bloodied and battered from confronting what felt like the entire population of Petra, sought refuge in a familiar and comforting place. The aromas, sounds, and swaying crops enveloped him, creating a sense of normalcy. The seasoned knight acknowledged his predicament, finding a certain dignity in it.

"Who tends to these fields?" he inquired, his gaze fixed on the lush landscape. Alberic, visibly weakened from the recent clash, approached. "A family and their farmers, I presume," he replied, devoid of any trace of resentment. Alberic pressed on, addressing the knight's seemingly indifferent outlook on life.

"I can only assume you came here with no intention of surviving. What makes you hold life in such low regard?" Alberic's words hung in the air. Sir Ethan lay there, defeated. What could he say?

"I do what is necessary to protect my people, just as you do now," he exhaled, his breath growing heavier. "Now, **** off." he uttered calmly. "Let me die in peace." The surviving soldiers gathered, witnessing the noble knight's life ebbing away. Memories danced through his mind—the people he encountered, the battles waged from Adria to this moment, with his fallen Greycloak and Burgundy comrades alike urging him onward.

HAIL TO THE CITIZENS OF THE HEARTLANDS

  We are fortunate enough, in these times of conflict and strife, for an abundance of wildlife to occupy the surrounding forest of Rychwald. Nestled beneath the emerald canopy, the forest presents a thriving haven of life; a prime hunting ground teeming with an abundance of game. The house of Kovachev formally invites the Marchlands of Stassion @Optimus420 and the Duchy of Adria @Nooblius to partake in a hunt. 

The weapons used for hunting are mostly similar to those used for war: a bow, crossbow, lance or spear, knife and sword. Bows are the most commonly used weapon. Cudgels are to be packed as use for clubbing small game - in particular for women who are wishing to join the hunt. Boar spears are also acceptable. Other salient items pertain to carefully set up traps for smaller animals to make hunting time more efficient.

INVICTUS SOL IN AETERNUM

Her Ladyship, Lucia Herleva Kovachev, Baroness of Rychwald

His Lordship, Fyodor Kovachev, Baron of Rychwald

Sir Andrik Uldarik of the Rychwald, Grand Prizak of the Order of the Rychwald

Sir Rupert Brezwyck of the Rychwald, Prizak of the Order of the Rychwald

Years went by Anne grew into a loving lady, she worked hard around Hohengarten as she was the heir to her family and she wanted to make sure her brothers were taken care of, but finding someone was a task, she went to two different social seasons and no one would even seem to notice her, well one but he turned out to be a real jerk and she didn’t really bother to count it. Anyway, she devoted herself to her family and even giving lessons to the children about music if they so wished it. Finally feeling tired of feeling like it wasn’t enough she told her mother about how she felt like a failure and wanted to give Richard heir, her mother agreed and so she allowed her brother to do what he could for the family, and she never regretted that decision either, he put the family to new heights, As Anne watched her brother proudly she decided it was time for her just to go out and find a child to adopt, so she went to every city to look.

Little did she know she run into a man who turned into the love of her life, he was everything she was looking for, after getting married the two have a son, she felt overjoyed to hold a newborn in her arms, naming him Fedir, somewhere along the way she also sorta adopted another boy named Aleksandr his father abandoned him so Anne and her husband did what they could to help the child. She felt so happy and even was a Baroness in Stran for a long while until they decided to leave and head to Veletz. Though now war broke out it was harder to see her husband and he was out there protecting the city, but Anne was proud she had the job to keep their son safe, he was growing up and full of curiosity. After a few years passed Anne finds herself pregnant again, she and her husband welcomed a little girl, She named her Helene after her sister who mysteriously went missing and assumed dead. 

Ah yes, a good life for this wonderful woman, though when Helene turned five Anne went missing, which was odd she never leave her family, something happened to her, no one knew what. Her body was left somewhere near Veletz and it was strapped to the back of a donkey, if to be found is another question.

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