Read it in memory of our Noble Prince.

Chroniken von Prinz Leon

Text by Halfdan Dale

I-die Krönung

"As the daybreak tinted the millennial ramparts of the castle in golden hues, the people of Reinmaren slowly gathered, prepared to celebrate an event as rare as it was august: the crowning of the prince.

Within the castle's heart, the throne room shimmered with dazzling splendor. Banners adorned the stone walls while flickering torches cast dancing shadows, bestowing upon the atmosphere a mystic aura.

The guests awaited with a solemn reverence. The prince, garbed in a robe of green and blue, the colors of the principality, stood tall, a living emblem of power.

Each took their place in the assembly.

The procession commenced with the prince's great-grandfather presenting him with a bow, addressing him as "My Lord." Brandt Cardinal Albarosa proceeded with six inquiries to ascertain the prince's worthiness, to which Leon responded with a solemn discourse. Following six more questions about his commitment to his lineage and lands, came the one asking if he would bow before the Prince, to which he unwaveringly replied, "I will Always."

Brandt Cardinal Albarosa, guiding his grandson, withheld the crown, signaling that the ceremony was not yet complete. Leon Barclay paid homage to the soldiers and the principality's future. A servant laid a silver tray with bread, symbolizing unity. Leon spoke of his path as that of all, guided by Minitz.

Brandt Cardinal Albarosa recited, "Monn ve blaw riek, und rot sun triek," offering his sword to Leon, who sealed an oath with his blood. Then, breaking the bread, he declared, "So we have broken the Bread." Brandt Cardinal Albarosa placed the crown upon his grandson's head, proclaiming, "So you are Prince."

A suspended moment filled the hall as candlelight seemed to dance, symbolizing the prince's sacred authority over his lands. The assembly roared, "WER RASTET, DER ROSTET" and "LONG LIVE LEON."

High Chief Alfred, Lord Bailiff Peter, the Chancellor, and the War Chief partook of the bread. Marcel, returning to the Prince's service after serving Theonus, expressed his desire to reunite with his family and home, Minitz. In his kindness, the prince reinstated Marcel, sealing their bond.

The Prince called upon Sir Peter, Sir Stanton, and Chancellor Roland, acknowledging their years of loyal service and honored them with new swords and hats, marking the conclusion of the initial session.

The Hawk reassured the solidity of his alliance with Minitz, assured by the Prince, thus preserving their unbreakable bond."

II-das Bankett oder die Party

There was a night of grandeur and significance in Minitz, where nobles and the mighty gathered in the splendor of the feast hall. The Prince, with a remarkable presence, sat alongside the revered Shogun of Sakuragakure and the Regent of Urguan. The atmosphere hummed with serious discussions and courteous exchanges among the dignitaries.

In this assembly, the Regent of Urguan, a jovial and witty man, wished to engage all the guests in a game—a particular kind: a drinking game. Intrigued, the attendees embraced the proposition, leaving behind formalities to engage in this playful endeavor.

The Prince, proud and resolute, persevered until the final phase of this game, showcasing remarkable resistance. The competition intensified as only the Prince and one of the Shogun’s sworn men remained, intertwined in a friendly yet challenging duel.

Goblets were filled and emptied, one by one, until the fifteenth drink of the game was reached. Suspense thickened as gazes met between these two men, symbols of their respective lands.

Then, almost in sync, at the fifteenth drink, both men of Minitz and Oyashiman lost the challenge simultaneously. Inebriation had conquered their valor, and they withdrew from this drinking game, almost fainting at the same moment.

Thus, losing at the drinking game on this evening was not merely a defeat but a celebration of equality—a moment where the boundaries between princes blurred in the joy of shared engagement.

III-Die große und edle Schlacht

On this auspicious day, the second battle of the noble Prince Leon has been inscribed into the chronicles, as triumph once again prevailed over the treacherous warbands of Veletz, Stassion, and Krugmar. Memories intertwine with the unfurling of Minitz's banners in Kanunsberg, while his cousin Alfred led his own valiant cohort. Alfred, a somber and robust man bearing the scars of myriad conflicts and disputes, remains an indelible presence. Exchanges in the tavern, where mead flowed abundantly, forged a steadfast camaraderie among the gallant warriors.

After the parting of the armies, Prince Leon joined the forces of King Jean at Whitespire, while his cousin Alfred rallied the troops of his suzerain. The honor of riding alongside the king and the knights of Saint Godwin was accompanied by a growing tension as the imminent siege loomed. Tactical deliberations with his Herrenmeister, Sir Stanton, and his chancellor Roland illuminated the intricacies of the impending battle, revealing the sagacity of these seasoned advisors.

At the onset of the siege of Fredericksburg, Prince Leon hastily joined the men operating the cannons, engulfed in the thunderous detonations. The breach of enemy ramparts, fierce clashes on the ladders, and the conquest of the keep marked moments of intense valor. Losses along the way, fallen comrades becoming martyrs, left enduring marks, underscoring the grandeur and gravity of the cause.

The resounding victory, after the triumphant charge, was celebrated with revelry, enhanced by praises bestowed by Prince Leon's venerable grandfather. As the rallied armies dispersed, hosts and allies made their way to Kanunsberg for a communal revelry. Amidst the jubilations, familial discussions surfaced, planning with eager anticipation the next strategic move in the heroic endeavor to liberate the realms of Canondom from the blight of Veletz.

IV-Der affront

In the chronicles of kingdom discord, a tale unfolds, chronicling the affront between Prince Léon of Rheinmaren and the King of Aaun. The Western Realms reverberate with echoes of discontent, where once a banner soaked in Rheinmaren blood proudly hung, symbolizing a triumphant victory over the Franks. Alas, the sacred emblem has been torn down, replaced callously by an Alstion standard.

Emissaries, Ser Peter Stroheim and Lord Adelmar Barclay, embarked on a journey to Whitespire seeking resolution. The King's response, asserting the road as his domain and sending Rheinmaren's banner to Lord Vandalore, ignited a flame of indignation. The banner, bearing the eagle, deemed Waldenian property, prompted Prince Léon to question the validity of such a claim. The Prince's people, the Rheinmaren, proud Waldenians, yet distinct in culture, felt the sting of disrespect.

Despite years of loyalty and spilled blood for the Alstion dynasty, the removal of their banner was met with disdain. Prince Léon's attempts to remind the King of his role as Warden of the Franklands were met with scorn, branding his envoys as "Rheinmaren rats."

A counsel to challenge the King to a duel arose, but Prince Léon, desiring resolution, seeks a simpler path. An apology, not a perfunctory utterance, but a sincere penance from the King's hand, freely given. The Prince extends an olive branch, attributing the monarch's actions to the clouded judgment of war, suggesting that a swift apology could bring closure.

In a parallel plea to the Lord Vandalore, Prince Léon seeks the return of Rheinmaren's banner. The banner, a symbol of Rheinmaren courage, is not merely Waldenian but uniquely Rheinmaren, and the Prince implores its swift return to hang above the gates of Rheinmaren.

Signed with titles and hope for resolution, the missive awaits a response in the halls of diplomacy.

V-Die Union

In the heart of majesty, a grand union unfolds in the esteemed halls of Kanunsberg, Minitz. Grand Prince Leon and Lady Adalfriede have pledged their troth in a sacred ceremony overseen by the venerable Brandt Cardinal Albarosa. This joyous occasion, witnessed by cherished kin within the hallowed sanctuary of the Holy Church of the Auspice, marks the culmination of their courtship, sparked by Lady Adalfriede's arrival in Minitz. As Lady Adalfriede prepares to undergo the Trials of the Stallion, thus joining the esteemed ranks of Reinmar's tribeswomen, all are beckoned to partake in a celebratory feast within the resplendent hall of Kanunsberg Castle.

Among the esteemed attendees grace the illustrious figures of the realm, including His Royal Majesty, King John Alexander of Aaun, alongside distinguished members of the nobility such as His Highness Johannes von Alstreim, His Lordship Siegmund von Reuss, and Her Ladyship Olympe-Regina Dieuxmont de Rosius. Noteworthy denizens of Minitz and Reinmar, including Her Serene Highness, Grand Princess-Mother Helena of Formindon, and His Princely Grace, Alfred Barclay, Duke of Reinmar, add their presence to the illustrious gathering. Furthermore, esteemed members of the Waldenic Diet and personal invitees, including Her Majesty, Tar-Caraneth Aryantë, Queen of Numendil, grace the ceremony with their noble presence.

This proclamation of unity resonates throughout the land, echoing the enduring love between Grand Prince Leon and Lady Adalfriede amidst the backdrop of grandeur and noble camaraderie.

VI-Reinmar

In the days of yore, when the realms were rife with turmoil and the whispers of war touched every hearth, there came a moment of solemn unity within the grand halls of Haense court. 'Twas on this day that Prince Leon of Minitz, accompanied by the valorous Minitzer, made their way to the esteemed gathering, where nobles and knights alike stood shoulder to shoulder under the watchful eyes of the ancient tapestries.

King Aleksandr II, sovereign of the land, greeted each soul with a hearty "Prevja All," a salutation of unity and strength. His voice, carrying the weight of recent strife, echoed through the marbled corridors, heralding a speech of such fervor about the grim dance of war that it stilled the very air.

As his words wove through tales of valor and sacrifice, the assembly bowed their heads in reverence, and the hallowed silence was filled with the solemn recitation of prayers by Otto Ludovar, a venerable soul known for his piety. The prayers, a tapestry of hope and supplication, seemed to lift the spirits of all who dwelt within the chamber.

With the divine entreaties set aloft, King Aleksandr II arose once more. This time, his speech unfurled the sagas of Laymen and the illustrious conquests that had carved the path of their realm's destiny. His words, a beacon of inspiration, ignited a flame of pride in every heart.

Then, in a moment that would etch itself into the annals of history, the King turned to the Duke of Rheinmar, Lord Alfred, and with a voice that resonated with the authority of his lineage, he decreed the liberation of the ducal House of Barclay from their oath of fealty to the Dual-Kingdom of Hanesti-Ruska. In the same breath, he proclaimed the Duchy of Rheinmar, a declaration that sent ripples of exhilaration throughout the court.

The air trembled with the jubilant cries of "Der Rastet der rostet! Glory to the Duchy of Rheinmar!" as every soul present bore witness to this historic decree. Amidst the revelry, Alfred, with a gaze that spoke volumes of the trials and triumphs that led to this moment, turned to his brother Leon and declared, "Finally, Leon", today the Miniter entered in the Haense court as Minitzers and emerge as Rheinmaren."

Thus, the chronicles of Leon would forever commemorate this day when unity and valor forged a new chapter in the annals of their storied lineage, marking the moment when the Minitzer stood beside their kin, not as subjects, but as sovereigns of their destiny in the grand tapestry of the realm.

VII-die Rheinmaren Krönung

In the year of Our Lord, under the gaze of the Almighty, the dual coronation of Alfred I and Leon II was held within the sacred halls of the Great Cathedral. The faithful gathered in solemn reverence, as the brothers, bound by blood and faith, were anointed with the sacred oils of kingship.

Alfred, the elder, stood foremost, grasping the revered Cross of Lorraine—a symbol of their ancient faith, embodying both divine protection and the righteousness that had long guided their people. Beside him, Leon knelt with equal devotion, his heart steadfast in the shared duty to the realm and to God. Though Alfred held the central place, Leon's presence was no less significant, for the two were united in their divine purpose.

As the archbishop raised his hands in silent prayer, invoking Heaven’s blessings, the weight of kingship was laid upon both brothers. Their crowns, though separate, symbolized a bond that could not be broken. The Cross of Lorraine, ever present in their hearts, was a reminder of their sacred charge to protect their people and uphold the laws of both the Church and the realm.

The holy incense rose, carrying the prayers of the faithful to the heavens, while the people knelt, witnessing the divine appointment of their rulers. Alfred and Leon, crowned together, swore their oaths in silence before the Almighty, each dedicated to their roles—Alfred as first among equals, and Leon, his brother, steadfast in loyalty and duty.

Thus began the reign of Alfred I and Leon II, brothers in arms and in faith, their rule consecrated by the divine will and forever marked by the sacred Cross of Lorraine, a symbol of their shared mission under the watchful eye of the Almighty.

VIII-die Halle der Helden

In the days of the Ninth Waldenic Diet, Prince Leon of House Gelimarsson rose with a noble purpose—to restore the lost memories of Waldenia’s fallen heroes. The Hall of Heroes, first conceived in the Second Waldenic Diet, was a grand memorial to commemorate all brave soldiers who had perished in battle. Yet, in the wake of calamities, Mankind had fled, and the records of these heroes were lost to time.

Prince Leon, moved by the weight of history, called upon the noble families of Waldenia to submit the names and deeds of their fallen ancestors, ensuring no hero would be forgotten. His words stirred the council, and soon, messengers spread across the realm, gathering the legacies of warriors long passed.

With the names of the valiant restored, artisans began the reconstruction of The Hall of Heroes, stone by stone. Under Leon’s watchful eye, no soldier—be they knight or humble footman—was left unhonored. Through his vision, the Hall stood again, a testament to those who had given their lives for the realm, and the memory of their sacrifice would live on for all time.

IX-Erstes Reinmaren-Kriegsspiel

In the days of old, when the fields lay green and the sun shone fair upon the lands, a mighty contest of arms was held, known as the Wargames of Gelimarsson and Theoderikin. The finest warriors of the realm gathered in honor, not for war, but for sport—a grand melee where strength and skill were tested in noble combat. It was here that Prince Leon of Gelimarsson led his companions into the fray, his heart burning with the fire of youth and valor.

The Gelimarssons were a noble company, renowned for their unity and prowess. At the head of their ranks strode Father Gregor, a man of wisdom and faith, who blessed their blades with sacred rites. Beside him, Prince Leon bore the standard, his armor gleaming as he prepared to lead his comrades into battle. By his side stood Sir Varik, a knight of great renown, and Roland, whose sword had seen many a skirmish. Together, they formed the core of a formidable force, eager to clash with their rivals, the Theoderikins.

Arrayed against them stood the Theoderikin host, a proud and fearsome company. Nikolaus von Kanunsberg, a towering figure of steel and honor, led the charge, his shield emblazoned with the crest of his house. At his side fought Alfred and Frederica Barclay, siblings of fierce resolve and skill, their swords sharp and their wits sharper.

The banners of both sides flew high as the signal was given, and with a great cry, the two forces met in the center of the field. The sound of steel upon steel rang through the air, and dust rose from the ground as the warriors clashed. Prince Leon, his sword held high, led the Gelimarssons into the thick of battle. His strikes were swift and true, each blow guided by years of training and the strength of his spirit.

Leon fought with both cunning and courage, always mindful of his companions. It was said that no man fell while Leon stood near, for his blade was a shield as much as a weapon. In the heat of the melee, he matched his strength against Nikolaus von Kanunsberg, their swords clashing in a display of might. Though neither yielded, it was Leon’s steadfast heart that rallied his comrades, inspiring them to press on with renewed vigor.

Sir Varik and Roland fought fiercely at Leon's side, their loyalty to the prince unwavering. Meanwhile, Father Gregor stood back, offering prayers for their victory, his presence a steady reminder of the righteousness of their cause. The Theoderikins, though fierce, were pushed back by the sheer force of Gelimarsson’s will, and it was Leon who led the final charge that turned the tide of battle.

In the end, it was Prince Leon’s leadership and valor that earned the Gelimarssons their victory. Though the melee had been fierce, the bonds of honor and friendship between the two sides remained unbroken. As the sun began to set, the warriors laid down their arms, their spirits lifted by the contest, and all hailed Prince Leon as the champion of the day.

Thus was recorded the tale of the Wargames, where Prince Leon, in his youth and glory, proved his worth upon the field, his name forever written in the annals of the Gelimarssons. Under his command, no foe could stand, and his legacy as a leader was sealed in the hearts of all who had fought beside him.

X-Alfred

In the solemn stillness of the palace chapel, Adalfriede, Princess of Gelimarsson, entered to find her husband, Prince Leon, crownless and bowed in prayer. For a day and a night, he had knelt there, his heart heavy with grief as the clerics tended to the body of his brother, Alfred, preparing him for his final journey upon the funerary pyre. The flame of Owyn, ever burning, flickered softly, casting shadows that danced upon the stone walls, the only sound within the sacred chamber.

Adalfriede, with the grace of one who understood the weight of unspoken sorrow, approached her husband in silence. She laid a gentle hand upon Leon’s shoulder, offering him comfort without words, her presence a steady anchor in the storm of his mourning. Together, they stood, bound by grief yet strengthened by love, as the hours passed and the flame continued its quiet crackling.

At last, Adalfriede, ever resolute, helped Leon to his feet. With a firm but tender hand, she guided him from the chapel, through the hushed castle grounds towards the stables. “Come,” she said, her voice steady, though sorrow touched every word. “We must prepare his horse for the pyre. He will ride among the ancestors, the wind upon his face, as is the custom, and as it should be.”

The Princess, though burdened by her own grief, held herself with dignity, her strength a mirror of her husband’s quiet resolve. As they walked beneath the slate-grey sky, the weight of the day pressing upon them, Adalfriede offered up a silent prayer to the heavens. Though her composure did not falter, her heart called out for peace—for her husband, for her fallen brother-in-law, and for the journey that lay ahead.

Thus did Prince Leon, guided by his steadfast wife, prepare to bid farewell to his brother Alfred. In this final act of love and honor, the prince and his princess walked the path of sorrow, bound not only by duty but by the memories of the man they had loved and lost.

XI-Die Stille Trauer des Prinzen Leon

The morning the letter arrived, Adalfriede awoke in complete darkness. Panic clawed at her heart until she realized there was no smoke, no fire—only the sound of Leon, her husband, breathing quietly beside her. He had drawn the heavy drapes around their bed, blocking out the light and sound, isolating himself in a cocoon of grief. His sorrow for Alfred, his beloved brother, was so deep that even the morning birdsong felt like an affront to his pain.

Adalfriede, feeling no such sorrow for her own brother's absence, rose from the bed. Her heart was numb, untouched by the loss that consumed her husband. As she dressed in her woolen robe and slipped into her boots, she pondered the weight of Leon’s sadness—how it seemed to suffocate everything around him. She retreated to her tower, seeking solace in her writings.

From her window, she watched the city of Kretzen begin to stir in the soft morning light. The world continued to move, even as grief hung over her household. On her desk lay an unsigned letter, sealed with plain wax. She opened it carefully, the message within both cryptic and urgent. It called for her to act, to protect Reinmar and serve the Holy Church, with the reminder that the eyes of GOD Almighty were upon them.

Though Leon remained locked in his sorrow, the burdens of rule were unrelenting. Adalfriede knew he would eventually have to rise, to shoulder the weight of his kingdom once more. His mourning was deep, but his duty to Reinmar and to his people would not wait. In the silent halls of their castle, the shadow of Alfred’s death loomed, but Prince Leon, even in his grief, remained bound to the responsibilities that came with his crown.

XII-Sohne und tochter von Reinmar

Gather, ye sons and daughters of Reinmar, and hear the words of Leon, Chieftain of Reinmar. Let it be known among the Gaspardlings of Ravenmire, the kin of the Heartland, and to the Lords of Raev in the cold north. Let the Adunic and Balianite lords in the South and East take heed, as well as the Hirdmen warriors and the mighty Tiberias of Middenland.

In those days of strife, Leon of Reinmar called out to Tiberias of Middenland, from the high hills of his homeland to the northern stronghold. Tiberias, who had once raised the spear and spoken with fire to his folk, had sworn an oath to bring down Charles, King of Aaun, vowing before all men that he would see the King delivered to the hands of the High Pontiff. For this cause, Tiberias rallied his people, drawing warriors, heathens, and allies, including the stout-hearted Dwarves of Urguan.

But Leon questioned Tiberias, asking what justice he truly sought. Had it not been Caius, Leon’s own grandfather, Blessed by the Church, who had once healed the wounds between Tiberias’s people and the Holy Church, restoring a bond that had been torn asunder? Through the efforts of Caius and his kin, peace had been restored, and the people had returned to the fold. Yet now, with his armies assembled and his thirst for vengeance unquenched, Leon challenged Tiberias: did his heart truly seek justice, or was it driven by a hunger for conquest and glory?

It was known to all that the King of Aaun had been judged by the High Pontiff. By divine decree, the lands of Aaun had fallen under the hand of the Mother Church. Tiberias had sworn loyalty to the Church and deferred his sword to the will of the Priesthood, trusting in their wisdom. And now, with justice meted out by the Holy, there was no further need for the edge of Tiberias’s blade.

Leon, as Chieftain of Reinmar, declared to all who would listen: if Tiberias’s cause was truly for justice, then he should lay down his spear. The warriors should rest, and the march should cease. But if Tiberias pressed forward, despite the judgment of the High Pontiff, then all would see that his heart was blackened by the lust for power and land, and that he dishonored the memory of his brother, James Marcel, whose death had been the rallying cry for his war.

Leon’s words rang clear: should Tiberias break his oath and march against the decrees of the Church, then Leon of Reinmar, alongside the Princes of the Canondom, would rise in defense of the Holy Church. Their swords would meet Tiberias’s, and they would stand firm as guardians of faith and honor.

This was the oath Leon swore before all that was sacred.

XIII-Diesen Heiligen Tag
 

This Saint’s Day past, Prince Leon sat in quiet reflection as his grandson, young Erwin, played the harp. The soft strains of the instrument, combined with the boy’s youthful voice, stirred within Leon memories of a gentler time. As the music echoed through the hall, Leon’s thoughts wandered back to his own younger days, a time marked by both struggle and triumph.

Despite the hardship of his ascension and the weight of leadership, Leon remembered those early years with a fondness that surprised even him. In his youth, he took up the mantle of Chieftain and Warchief, leading his principality with pride towards righteousness, justice, and victory. The Roach—the ancestral emblem of his people—had been his sole focus, and his ambitions were bound to his campaigns and the defense of his realm. In those days, he sought glory, driven by the fire of his own pride and the burden of proving himself worthy to his forebears.

Though the passing years had dimmed the vigor of his youth, Leon found solace in the legacy he had built. His children, Brandt and Frederica, had grown to surpass him in wisdom and strength, and Leon could not help but feel pride in the way they led the Reinmaren people. The days of battle and glory had faded, but the strength of his line endured. In that, Leon’s heart found peace.

As he looked upon his grandson Erwin, Leon saw the future of his tribe reflected in the boy’s keen eyes. Brave as a lion, and sharp-witted as an eagle, Erwin showed all the signs of a leader destined for greatness. Leon knew in his bones that Erwin would one day bring further honor to the house of Reinmar, and the thought filled him with hope.

Yet, even amidst such hope, Leon could not escape the weight of sorrow. His mind often turned to his late brother Alfred, ever rational and temperate, the perfect complement to Leon’s impetuous nature. Together, they had borne the weight of their shared crown. Leon also thought of his grandfather, Caius, who had raised him in the absence of his mother and in the long shadow cast by his father’s death. Caius had been Leon’s guide, his mentor, and the one who taught him the burdens and glories of rulership.

In his quieter moments, Leon would often ask young Erwin to play the song "Grandfather," a simple melody that brought him comfort. The music offered him a moment’s respite from his cares, allowing him to dwell for a while in memories of his loved ones.

And in all these thoughts, Leon found himself ever grateful for his wife. Through all the battles, the losses, and the years of governance, she had stood beside him as a steadfast supporter. Now, as she bore the titles of Lawspeaker, Vandalore, and Princess, Leon marveled at the strength she had shown. In her, he saw the reflection of a noble soul, and he knew that when their time came to pass into the spirit realm, they would need a stone of their own to mark their eternal bond.

XIV-Robert
 

As Prince Leon wandered through the vast halls of the palace, his thoughts turned inward, heavy with reflection. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows on the stone walls, and the rhythmic clack of his boots against the cold floor echoed through the corridors. His mind was troubled, his heart heavy with grief.

"He served my father, my grandfather, and my namesake before them," Leon thought, recalling the figure of Robert, his trusted mentor and guide. "His old age was expected, yet I still grieve."

The prince’s brow furrowed as he pondered the weight of time and legacy. "Am I destined to become the next Robert, a relic of the past? A hero whose deeds are sung long after he is gone?" The question lingered in his mind, but with it came a sense of determination. "I can only hope I can be as he was."

Leon’s memories turned to the alchemy lessons Robert had imparted to him long ago, moments shared in the quiet chambers of Reinmar. In those days, Robert had taken on the role of both mentor and father figure, especially after Leon’s own father had passed. The lessons in alchemy were not just the mixing of potions and elixirs, but teachings of wisdom and foresight—skills that Leon had carried with him throughout his reign.

"I should not linger in the past," Leon reminded himself. Robert, ever forward-thinking, had always spoken of the future, of the importance of legacy and the lasting mark one leaves on the world. "Robert always looked to the future, and so must I."

With a resolute nod, Leon set his gaze forward, the burden of sorrow still present, but not overwhelming. His duty was clear, as was his purpose. The sound of a harp drifted down the hall, drawing him toward his grandson, young Erwin, whose music filled the palace with a soothing melody.

Leon smiled faintly as he walked toward the sound, intent on focusing not on the past, but on the legacy he would leave behind, just as Robert had. The future of Reinmar depended on it, and Leon, prince and chieftain, would not fail his people.

XV-The Holy War
 

Let all heed the words of Prince Leon of Reinmar, the Chieftain of his people, who rises to speak with the authority of his forefathers. Gaspardlings of Ravenmire and Grense, relatives in the Heartland, Lords of the Raev in the north, Adunic and Balianite lords in the South and East, Hirdmen warriors, monks of the cloister, and priests of the Church, listen well. The High Priest, steward of the realm, and all faithful, let your hearts be still, for Prince Leon’s words carry the weight of both history and destiny.

Lo! It is Leon, who, upon hearing the decree of the High Pontiff, guardian of the Canonist faith, does not hesitate to act. The High Pontiff has declared war upon the wizard outlander of Hohkmat, and it is Leon of Reinmar, sworn protector of mountains and rivers, who answers the holy call with both fierce resolve and a heart burdened by duty.

Yet, even as he sharpens his blade and readies his warband, Prince Leon's mind is haunted by the memory of his grandfather, High Pontiff Caius I. It was Caius who once extended peace to these magi, who saw within them a path to redemption. Leon, bound by blood to that legacy, now wrestles with the decision to march against those his forebears once sought to heal. For years, under Leon’s watch, the tribe of Reinmar had honored the treaties forged by Caius, living in cautious peace with the magi. Now, that peace is threatened by the Pontiff’s call to arms.

Despite this inner conflict, Leon does not falter. His duty to the Pontiff and to the Canonist Church demands that he set aside personal misgivings, for the bonds of loyalty to both faith and crown bind him tighter than the legacies of old. Leon knows well that the very blood of Horen flows in his veins, and with that blood comes the sacred responsibility to heed the Pontiff's decree.

Leon, with the weight of history upon his shoulders, turns his gaze to the Gaspardlings, longtime adversaries of his kin. His father, and his father’s father before him, had clashed with these foes, spilling blood on the fields of strife. Now, in a twist of fate, Leon must march alongside these former enemies, standing as brothers in arms beneath the banners of the Canonist cause. Though the past is heavy with the weight of old battles, Leon, ever the just leader, vows to measure the Gaspardlings by their valor on the battlefield, not by the grudges of the past.

With this in mind, Leon of Reinmar calls for a Kriegsmacht – a summoning of the warriors of Reinmar. His voice echoes through the halls of his stronghold, summoning all loyal tribesmen to raise their spears, to don their war masks, and to forge their scythes into weapons of war. The time for hesitation is gone. The banners of Reinmar shall once again unfurl, and the call to arms will be heard from every mountain and valley under Leon’s domain.

To the magi of Hohkmat, Leon sends a warning: Though his grandfather once shielded them with peace, Leon now stands with the Pontiff. The treaties of the past remain in his heart, but his loyalty to the Canonist Church compels him to rise against them. He bears no quarrel beyond what the holy decree demands, but as the protector of Reinmar and a servant of the Church, Leon must march. The magi's fate is now in the hands of the Lord, and only He shall judge.

To his allies in the north, the kin of Haense under his cousin Marius, and the steadfast folk of distant lands, Leon sends his call. In this time of great strife, let them march as one, united under the banners of faith, justice, and honor. Together, they shall face whatever trials await, standing resolute and unbroken.

So it is written, and so it shall be. Leon of Reinmar stands at the forefront of this holy war, his heart aflame with the fire of his ancestors, ready to defend his people, his faith, and his legacy.

(google doc link : https://docs.google.com/document/d/1w4WTN04_Yy4gnvBE3Sec11YO9rBqe01_tCk1AiKEXcE/edit?usp=sharing)

A record of the tribe of Galdemar, retold by Aerik Leon von Wesenburg
Published 8th of Harren’s Folly, 2050 

It was during my journey to the islands of Kalldur I chanced upon in my bloodline’s hoardings a tale most intriguing; that of my eldest of ancestors, Galdemar and his closest of retainers, ancient allies of the Theoderikin and Gelimarssons of the bygone era. Do partake in the fruits of my labor, for it is a tale much worth lending an ear to.

It was during the times of great figures such as the chieftains Theoderic and Gelimar, whom in their feuding over the bounty of a raid on Raevir lands found union amongst the period of many Waldenian tribes being forced under the blade or the cross, that a chieftain known by many as Galdemar arose. Galdemar and his ilk were raised by the way of the sea, taught the practices of shipbuilding and of sailing. Many during this age praised Galdemar’s ancestors for their knowledge of the sea, for which they were often recruited by neighboring Waldenian tribes for assistance during raids along the riverlands and coastal fortresses that seemed impenetrable to the many warbands of the land. It was through this expertise they gained a sizable aggregation of riches in coinage, weaponry, and supply. However, it was to come with such riches, that many would grow envious of their bounty, including the closest of kin.

It was upon the night on which Galdemar’s father, Chieftain Sigimer, was ailing greatly and before his passing wished to name the next leader of the Galts. It was upon this decision that due to Galdemar’s superiority in strength and in charm, he was able to secure his seat as the next chieftain. This decision would ultimately be his undoing however, as his brother Ricimer, the more intellectual of the two brothers, would grow jealous of his younger sibling. He seethed at the notion of the eldest not succeeding his father, and thus he began to scheme against his own kinsman…

Ricimer immediately began to work alongside a great and powerful neighboring Waldenian tribe, promising offerings of his tribe’s great riches to prop himself up into the title of Chieftain that his brother had currently held. He then returned home with only his closest retainers aware of this most shameful scheme. It was many months after that Galdemar held a feast to celebrate his recent victories alongside his brother and the rest of the tribe that Ricimer’s retainers treacherously opened the gates of the Galtic city to the enemy.

Galdemar’s retainers and loyal warriors were quickly overrun by the larger force, as they were ill-prepared and with Ricimer’s betrayal had lacked the defenses to keep the enemy at bay. Shortly after this defeat, Galdemar, his kinsmen, and those who remained loyal to him were exiled, banished from ever returning to their ancestral lands; a great mark of shame upon the tribe. Ricimer usurped his younger brother’s position as chieftain and gifted a large sum of the Galts’ treasures to those who helped him, he, however, was unaware of his own retainers’ ambitions and soon he would be put to the sword as what remained of Ricimer’s lands would descend into infighting and would soon be absorbed by their neighbors.

Galdemar, now set upon the seas in search of a new homeland, was resting in a cape when he would soon receive the news of his elder brother’s passing. Galdemar, in a burst of emotion, wept, for despite his brother’s betrayal, he remained ever memorable of his battles alongside Ricimer, the nights they spent away in the tavern reminiscing of their victories. He secluded himself to his tent where they rested in the cape, and it seemed all were lost for the Galts. They had lost their homeland, their throne, and all that remained were those that left with Galdemar.

After many endless nights of Galdemar secluding himself in the midst of his sorrows and the warband growing ever weary with the endless great storms taking their toll upon the fleet’s condition, the grandest of miracles approached Galdemar one night; a constellation of stars seemed to shine brighter than most, with the shape resembling that of a river. Galdemar quickly took this as a sign, and after a few days and nights of repairs, set a course for the open sea once more. 

The coast of the lands they sailed seemed endlessly hopeless, with the river deltas they came across either leading to fortified settlements that spelled only death for them, or being too narrow to properly traverse. However eventually they would happen across a grand river with calm enough waters to sail upwards against the current. The surrounding lands stunningly lacked any settlements, and Galdemar took this to be the river he had seen many nights before in the sky’s constellations. His ships made way to the river, and began to traverse the length of the waters.

As they continued upstream, they would soon come to find that with this river would also come hardships they would have to face, skirmishes with tribes along the river, rough waters that at times seemed almost too rocky to continue upwards, and the greatest of their hardships came when they crossed upon a keep containing large chains that blockaded their fleet from continuing its course. Galdemar and his closest of advisors gathered upon the discovery of this great obstacle, with some suggesting to negotiate with the keep’s defenders and others recommending a full-scale assault upon the keep’s walls with improvised rams and ladders from the nearby trees.

Ultimately, the chieftain, being a man of great strength, decided on an assault upon the keeps defenses. However, while not being as capable in intellect as his late brother, he was cunning and could make excellent plans as well, as he was still a sharp commander in his time before his father’s passing. He devised an excellent plan, in which they would not have to leave their ships nor would they have to risk a great number of casualties securing control of the river’s defenses. He had his warband secure logs from the nearby forest, and constructed temporary roofs upon their warships, allowing them to work away at the chains without being at risk of a deadly volley from the keep’s defenders. When the day of the assault came, Galdemar’s ships advanced, approaching the grand keep and its seemingly unbeatable fortifications.

⚞THUD!⚟

In quick succession, one after another, arrow after arrow made impact with the sturdy roofs of the chieftain’s fleet, some making their mark and striking the occasional warriors who had been cursed by the gods of old to such an unfortunate fate. Losses would begin to ramp up as they approached the chain’s defenses and the fortifications of the keep continued loosening their bows upon the roofed warships. Fortunately for the courageous Galtic warriors, the time came that they finally reached the naval chains, and the bravest of the men began to work away at the hard iron. It took its toll upon the valiant warband, but eventually the chain was broken and the grand fleet passed onwards to new horizons. A grand victory was well needed after such a toilsome journey up the river, and the warband’s morale grew tenfold that of before; Galdemar was hailed as a chieftain worthy of praise, and they continued onwards to find that which the chieftain was promised in his miracle. A new home was soon to find them, whether they were aware of this was to be discovered in the coming moons as they traversed through the flatlands along the river.

After a brief stop to bury their dead, the fleet continued on its path, and the wooden roofs were rid of.

Many were pleased to be done with the hardships of before, and there were much times the sailors took rests and set temporary camps upon the riverside it was a joyous moment, though when it came night, the many tribesmen set in camp were set upon by a large force, the men were awoken to grab their arms, and the women and children gathered in the ships to find that little shelter from the assailants there was. All seemed lost, as the attackers began to circle the camp’s shoddy defenses and the Chieftain readied himself to die in glorious combat. He stood upon the palisade walls, and it was in this moment that he caught his first glimpse of the besiegers of his camp: a warband clad in blue, and emerging from its ranks were a rider of stocky build and clad in a chieftain’s armor much similar as that which Galdemar wore upon his person. He spoke loudly, that which could compare to a ferocious but courageous beast.

The armored chieftain stated clearly, for them to speak their reasoning for their trespass before they were subject to the mass of horsemen to be set upon their walls and hastily tear down their camp. Galdemar however was not a fool, and realized that this man was a chieftain of valour and would hear him within reason should he not be a deceitful raider seeking to save the hide upon his skull from being taken as a trophy. He held back the sweat which were falling down his visage and plainly but firmly brought forth his reasoning, and to sweeten the ever-fragile negotiations, he offered his sails to assist the blue-clad army that were surrounding them.

It was upon Galdemar’s disclosing of his plight that the man offered a nod, and waved for his men to settle their javelins. Galdemar and his retainers stepped forth from his defenses and following this the chieftain upon his horse dismounted and followed that which Galdemar had done. Thus began the meeting of two grand chieftains of old…

Galdemar : “I shall speak only truth to you, as my ancestors have done for many in the past, I am Galdemar, chieftain of the Galts. I lost my land and many good men to a brother who sought himself the rightful chieftain. Now he has paid the most ultimate blood price. I and my warband are all that remains of the renowned tribe. I ask of your name, chieftain, and request of you to see past our trespassing, for it was revealed to me I would find a homeland for my kinsmen, one free of the troubles our kind has been subject to for far too long in the current season.”

Theoderic : “Do not find yourself pleading for forgiveness, for you are my equal, Chieftain. I have borne witness that you have a sizable fleet, and many men capable of navigating them through these waters. I could make great use of your warband, and I would prefer more allies in these times than ever, for it is in these lands that many are forced to give up their traditions, turn away from the old gods, whether it be willingly or forced, many suffer. My horsemen are only as good as the land they walk on, this is an unfortunate circumstance, for if they walked on water I’d be capable to raid a great city, and use its plunder to rid of the canonist menace, and make use of my allies so that we are not swept under the great seas of change. Tell me honestly, and without stutter, chieftain. Will you offer your ships to assist me? You may find yourself home under my service, you will serve the Reinmaren, and in turn they will reward you greatly, for an ally of my kin is not forgotten, so long as they are brave men, and men of integrity.”

Theoderic motioned toward his horsemen, a gap forming in which a contingent of the warband emerged. Another group of retainers and a man clad in armor fit only for a chieftain stepped forward. They donned green however, unlike the men of Theoderic. He turned back to face Galdemar and introduced him to the men who had just stepped forward toward the two groups, who remained still like statues, yet stared into their souls as hawks would.

Theoderic : “This man and his warband are all I have to rely on at the moment, Gelimar and I once feuded many times, for we could not agree on the matters of a great plunder while assisting a great chieftain by the name of Jorik. It was with this pretense we warred for many years, until we came to the realization our fields yielded less crop, our warriors grew feeble, and our hearths grew ever colder each winter. I wed my son to Gelimar’s daughter, and we found peace, with the ever looming threat of the canonists and with the Waldenian tribes being more fractured than ever, we have taken to the way of the horse, relying on plunder to get by. The canonists have taken note of this, and fortify their cities upon the river, making it ever more difficult to pillage and loot for survival. Your fleet could be our miracle we have been searching for, your fleets would allow us to reach lands we thought unreachable in the past, and it would ensure the survival of Waldenia for centuries to come. We approach you in a similar situation as yours, for our home is long lost, and we must find new ways to survive in this accursed age.”

Galdemar’s retainers whispered amongst themselves as though they were in a king’s court, with only the wave of Galdemar’s hand toward them reprieving the group with silence… It was then that the chieftain of the Galts made his decision.

Galdemar : “Your condition rings ever true to me, chieftains. I understand your people are of the same stock as mine, strong, honest, and ever willing to stand strongly next to an ally. Your warband will be joined with mine, and our ships will carry us forwards so that the tradition of our people does not die out and be lost by the blades nor diplomats of canondom. Let us be hasty to build more ships for your band, so that we may escape the chasing of those who have already converted or stand on the other side of the flowing waters wishing to strike us down into obscurity, the mead halls will continue to speak our legend for generations to come.”

It was then that the three extracted their blades, and met in the center with their retainers to form an alliance of the three. The Gelimaren, Theoderikin, and Galts now stood as one, as the Reinmaren. Galdemar’s warband set out immediately toward the forests nearby to build a more sizable fleet for the three warbands to sail with, for much would come to face them in the years ahead. Once all was done, they loaded onto the ships, and set course once more for lands that promised them endless lands to keep their people fed and their coffers forever full.

And thus Galdemar’s Saga merged with that of the Reinmaren, forever an ally of the times long before…

His Lordship, Aerik von Wesenburg

Burgrave of Wesenburg

𐌷𐌰𐌹𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌽𐌳 𐌳𐌰𐌹 𐌱𐌰𐌽𐍅𐍂𐌹𐌽𐌲𐍃

ISSUED BY THE ADELMAR, THE LAWSPEAKER

𐌱𐌰𐌽𐍄𐌴𐌹𐌲𐌰𐌽 - ON THE OFFICE OF JUDGMENT, THE BAILIFF

Know this, o, Bailiff,: yours is not a craft taught by parchment, nor is it a task for those who seek praise or power. It is a burden, plain and heavy, and no cloak nor rod shall ever make it lighter. In the South, they write laws in ink. In the East, they measure justice in years behind bars. But here, in Reinmar, we carry it on our backs in the names we remember and the scars we forgive. The law in Reinmar does not reside in edict, nor is it found nailed to the beams of a courthouse. It walks in men. It breathes between speaker and enforcer, between shame and repair.

You must first understand this, Banwring, or you will never understand your own hands: In Reinmar, justice is not a cage. It is not weighed in years nor doled out in equal coins. It is a living thing — one half spirit, one half flesh.

The Raewita, our Lawspeaker, bears the voice of the Kanun. He speaks not from his own wisdom, but from the memory of our dead. When he judges, he does so beneath the Kanun, before kin, tribe and Gott. But his words are not final in form - He gives it spirit. He gathers the Kanun’s breath - old sayings, sacred tales, the ashes of past rulings - and from that fire he gives a word. A sentence.

But he does not say: “Three months for thievery.”

He says: “Let the man restore what he has taken. Let the people see it done.”

He says:“As the Kanun says, ‘The man who steals his neighbour’s bread owes shame, but the one who steals his neighbour’s daughter’s bread owes blood.’ Let shame be marked, and restitution paid.”

This is a judgment. But it is not finished. Because now you, Banwring, you must give it shape.

If the Lawspeaker declares: “Let him repay two goats,”

You must decide. Which goats? From which pen? Sickly or strong? Now, or after the next birth? Publicly, or quietly through his elder?

And it is here, in that choice - where the Lawspeaker cannot tread - that the Kanun lives or dies. For what if the thief is no rogue, but a starving man whose sister lies pale with fever? What if the goats he stole were milkers, not for greed, but for survival? If you demand two healthy breeders from him, you break the family for a single wrong. If you demand two weak yearlings, the wronged party scoffs and feels robbed again. You cannot appeal the Lawspeaker’s judgment - but you can soften its edge. Or sharpen it.

That is the meaning and discretion of your office. This is what we have always known in Reinmar, though few speak it aloud:

The Lawspeaker interprets the Kanun.
The Bailiff interprets the Lawspeaker.

When his judgment is too high, you temper it through your execution. When his judgment is too low, you enforce it heavily. And if both of you are just, then the punishment will land rightly: hard enough to teach, but not cruel enough to corrode the soul. This is why we say:

“The Raewita judges the man. The Banwring judges the world he walks in.”

There are times, too, when your action becomes the true judgment. When a man spits before the chieftain’s banner or cheats the scales in the market. These are lesser wrongs, too low to summon the firepit and the Raewita’s word. You, Bailiff, pass sentence there - not to rival the Lawspeaker, but to guard his silence. But where the Lawspeaker has spoken, your hand must never contradict him. You do not overturn. You translate.

You do not delay. You deliver. You do not defy. You discern.

This is no light duty. It requires not just knowledge of goats, grain, or the weight of coin but knowledge of men. Of hunger, pride, kinship, and shame. To judge rightly, you must know the tribe as a shepherd knows his flock. That is why the Banwring must walk the fields, not sit behind doors. That is why your judgment must be seen by all, and not whispered. The people must trust that your sentence fits the body it strikes. If you grow too soft, the people will scoff at justice. If you grow too cruel, they will fear it, but hide from it.

But if you strike rightly, they will feel its presence without needing to speak its name. So remember:

The Lawspeaker gives the law its soul.
You give it its teeth.
But also its mercy.

And between the two of you, the Kanun does not merely survive — it guides.

𐌳𐌿𐌻𐌺𐍂𐌰𐍆𐍄 - OF THE DUAL BALANCE

Hearken this then, O Banwring:
 

You are not beneath the Raewita, nor are you above him. You are not brothers, yet you are not strangers. You are two limbs of one body: the Kanun - and its' heart beats only when both of you walk in harmony and restraint. The Raewita is the Voice. You are the Hand. He speaks in ritual and remembrance. He invokes old sayings and tribe-bound precedent and schwur. His word is a flame drawn from the hearth of the past. But flame cannot walk. Fire does not drive a stake.

That is your burden. You take his judgment and bind it to the earth. You measure it not only by what is right, but by what is possible, endurable, and true to the moment. His judgment is rooted in memory. Yours must be rooted in flesh. There are times when he speaks clearly and you act plainly. But more often, his sentence is like a road through mist. You must walk it and not lose your way. You and the Lawspeaker stand not in command of one another, but in tension.

This tension is not a flaw. It is the very foundation of Reinmaren justice. When the Raewita grows too rigid, bound by old words and forgotten quarrels, you keep the law human.

When the Banwring grows too swift, ruled by anger or the hunger for order, he calls you to answer.

Neither may overrule the other outright. But each may rebuke. Each may delay. Each may temper. This is how the Kanun is kept alive — not as decree, but as dialogue. There is no court to appeal to. There is no council of judges. There is only you and him, in sacred balance.

If the Raewita declares: “Let shame be known for three market days.”

You may decide: “Let it be by name nailed to his door, but not flogging.”

If the Raewita speaks nothing, absent, or delayed - you may act alone, so long as your action is lawful. But should you overstep, strike unjustly, shame the wrong man, punish from pride, he may name your act as void. And the people will remember. Likewise, if he grows forgetful of rite or too friendly with the mighty, you may let his sentence soften beneath your hand. Not in defiance, but in silent correction.

This is what the elders meant when they said:

“The Raewita binds in firelight.
The Banwring binds in frost.”

You are not rivals. You are restraints upon each other. You are the answer to each other’s flaws. And if ever one of you falls too far, it is the tribe who shall speak. For while the Kanun is memory, it is also watchfulness and all who wear the cap and cloak walk beneath its gaze. So remember this;

The Raewita, if left unchecked, becomes a philosopher - wise, slow, but useless to a village that bleeds.

The Banwring, without the Raewita, becomes a tyrant - swift, feared, but no different than a rogue with a club.

And so, Reinmar gives them no ladder, no hierarchy, only tension. The Kanun rests between them. Never in one man’s grip.

𐍆𐌰𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌲𐌿𐌻𐌿𐍃 - ON THE ENFORCEMENT OF THE LOW

Sir Teft, the First Bailiff of Minitz.

You must understand this, Banwring: there are wrongs too small for the Raewita to rise from his hearth. The Kanun is not a gnat-catcher. It does not swat at every child’s prank or crooked scale. But a thing left unmarked becomes rot. And rot, left to fester, brings down even stone halls. This is where your boots fall. You walk not in Mootlhalls or under chieftain’s horns but among barrels, breadcarts, doorposts, and drains. You hear not testimony, but tavern-gossip. You read not scrolls, but faces. And from these, you must judge.

A man sells weak ale.
A baker sells hollow loaves.
A drunkard curses at the shrine.
A stableboy spits near the Chieftain’s banner.

None of these cry out for a Raewita to rouse from his nightcap for judgment. But each, if unchallenged, chips away at the stone of order. The people must not learn that law is only for the mighty. They must not think the Kanun sleeps while the petty lie, cheat, and taint. So you, Banwring, are its waking breath in low places. And yet, this is where your burden begins. You carry the right to judge these acts without ceremony. But not without conscience.

You may shame — but not ruin.
You may strike — but not for pride.
You may name — but not mock.

Punishment is not a theatre. It is a memory you place into the tribe. A drunk who fouls the path may be made to sweep the square till dawn, with an apron of thorns. That will teach him, and others besides. But to drag him through mud before his grieving kin? That would not be judgment. That would be vengeance, and it has no place in your hand. You must know the difference between punishment and cruelty. One cleans. The other scars. The first brings silence. The second, whispers. So ask yourself:

Will this act remind the folk that order lives?

Or will it teach them that the law belongs to the angry?

You will not be thanked for your deeds. Justice in small things wins no ballads. But it builds the road the Raewita walks upon. It keeps the Moothall clean. It lets the chieftain sleep without hearing knives sharpened under wine-jars. The Kanun does not speak clearly here. But if you are wise, and your eye keen, you will hear its whisper in every low wrong.

“When the gutter floods, the roof is not to blame - but it still falls.”

Strike low, Banwring, but strike clean. The small shames you punish are the fence that keeps the greater shames at bay. So long as they fear your step more than they trust the silence, the Kanun still walks.

𐌲𐌰𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌻𐌳𐌴𐌹𐍂𐌸 - ON THE TOOLS OF SHAME AND JUSTICE

You are not a knight, Banwring. You wear no shining crest upon your brow, nor do the skalds sing your praises in the spring feasts. Yet your name, more than theirs, is feared in the mouths of liars. What marks your office is not cloak or chain, but sign. Three signs, plain and sacred, passed to you when you swore schwur:

Your mace, to strike but not to shatter.
A stone dyed red, to press shame upon the guilty.
A cloth, torn, to remind you of the weak who cannot strike back.

These are not ornaments. They are memory. They are warning.

The mace you carry is not for war. You do not beat the tribe into order. You touch with it, you tap, you show. A blow is a last word, not the first.

The stone, ochred, heavy, cooled in ash, is not a weapon. It is a voice for the voiceless. You drive it into doors not to boast, but to speak: “Here, a wrong was done. Let none forget.”

And the cloth, tattered and humble, is the leash upon your wrath. When your blood burns and your pride rises, you look to it. It says, “He who judges must always remember those who cannot fight back.”

These are your weapons. Not blade nor bow. And in them, a harder art. You must learn when shame speaks louder than wounds. When a name nailed to a threshold breaks a man deeper than a switch to the back. When silence, imposed in public, burns worse than coin lost. For this, you must know your folk. Know which man can bear ridicule, and which will kill over it. Know whose pride is fragile, and whose shame may drive him to repay wrong with worse. You must read their posture, their eyes, the weight of their shoulders when you name the wrong aloud.

Punishment is not spectacle. It is memory inscribed in flesh, name, and hearth. When you press the red stone to a man’s gate, do not smile. When you seize spoiled mead from a merchant’s cart, do not gloat. When you force a proud woman to apologize to a widow before the market-folk, do not turn it into a play. You are not here to teach through cruelty, but through presence. When the people see you, let them remember: "That is the hand of the Kanun. It moves slow, but it moves". And hearken that the Kanun remembers well. Every stone you place, every rod you raise, every shame you name. These things echo longer than the deeds that caused them.

“The thief forgets the flogging. The tribe remembers who gave it.”

So carry your tools with gravity. Keep them clean. Let them be seen, but never brandished like trophies. For you are not just the hand of justice. You are its witness. And the witness must never forget the weight of what he sees.

𐌺𐌰𐌽𐌿𐌽𐌴𐌳𐍅𐌰𐌸𐍃 - ON THE LIMIT OF YOUR STRENGTH

There is no chain around your wrist, Banwring, but make no mistake, your hand is bound. You walk with weight, and the people yield before you. A man who bears shame beneath your judgment will lower his gaze for seasons. Mothers hush their children when your boots strike the path. It is a fearful thing, to be the hand of justice. And yet you must remember: your might is not your own. The Kanun grants you the right to strike, to shame, to seize. But only so long as your hand serves not your pride, but the law. You are not free. You may not invent punishments to suit your mood. The Kanun is old - older than you, older than the lords of Reinmar. It does not need cleverness. It needs memory.

You may not strike a man for insult to your person. If he dishonors the Moot, the banner, the shrine - then the rod may rise. But if he mocks your beard, your gait, your father’s name, then hearken; grit your teeth and walk on. For the rod is not yours. It belongs to the tribe. You may not act in secret. There is no midnight justice in Reinmar. You do not drag men from hearth and bed. You do not whisper shame into ears. If a wrong is named, it must be seen. And if you are right, let it be shown in daylight. If you punish from shadow, the tribe will remember only your cruelty, not the law that shaped it.

You may not delay when swiftness is called for. The spoiled meat must be seized before it spreads sickness. The man who spits on the shrine must be shamed before his words can sour others. But you must also not rush when patience is owed. A man who sins in grief deserves a moment to be heard. A debt owed between brothers must be judged with their kin beside them.

You walk a narrow path. Too slow, and wrongness roots. Too fast, and you trample the wheat with the weed. So hold this to heart: your strength lies not in the rod, nor in the stone, nor even in the name 'Banwring'. It lies in the eyes of the folk. If they believe your hand is true, they will follow your judgments even when they cut deep. If they believe you act for yourself, not the Kanun, they will mock you behind doors, resist you in corners, and call you breaker when your back is turned. And if the Lawspeaker sees you overstep, he will speak against you in Moot. If the Chieftain hears of cruelty without cause, he will strip you bare. But worse still, O, Banwring, is when the people themselves turn cold to your voice. For then your power has fled, and your name will not be feared, only spat upon.

Remember this Reinmaren saying:

“A rod that strikes for pride breaks on the skull.
But a rod that strikes for justice never forgets the hand that held it.”

So judge yourself before you judge another. Ask if your blood is calm. Ask if your cause is shared by the Kanun. Ask if your hand brings peace, or only pain. And when you strike, do so without joy. When you shame, do so without scorn. When you walk, let it be seen by all.

For the Kanun has no use for tyrants. And no mercy for fools.

𐌸𐌹𐌽𐌳𐍃𐌿𐌷𐍂𐌴𐌸𐌴𐌹𐌽 - CLOSING WORDS

Know this, Banwring: the path you now walk is long, and no feast awaits you at its end. There shall be no choir to sing your justice, no crown to weigh your brow. There shall be no sons who boast of your kindness, nor daughters who toast your deeds. You shall be known by fewer names. You shall be remembered in fewer songs. But you shall be feared where you must be, and trusted where you must act.

The Lawspeaker speaks to the past. You walk among the living. The Kanun is not a dead book. It is a living burden, and you are the one who carries it through mud, through scorn, through the edge of cold mornings when judgment must fall before the sun does. You will be cursed. You will be spat at by kin whose brother you flogged. You will be slandered by chieftains whose nephews you named guilty. You will be alone more days than not.

But if the folk sleep safely in their halls, it is because you passed through the village. If the baker weighs his bread honestly, it is because you once nailed his fraud to the tavern door. If the youth speak with caution near the shrine, it is because you stood there once, and made an example of one who mocked it. This is your honor. Not applause. Not friendship. Not ease. But order.

You are not the spirit of justice - you are its vessel. You are not the judge of men’s hearts, but you must deal with what leaks from them. and in your silence, in your walk, in your steadiness, the people will learn what the Kanun feels like, not just what it says.

So go now. Take the mace, the stone, and the cloth.

Let the mace remind you to strike, but not too hard.
Let the stone remind you to shame, but not without purpose.
Let the cloth remind you to protect, even those who have done wrong.

Let none say the Kanun is forgotten, so long as your hand still moves. Let none say law is dead, so long as the Banwring still walks. Let none forget that in Reinmar; It is not kings nor laws that bind us but men who remember, and men who act. And you, Banwring,

You are both.

WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

Der Stamm der Stroheim

The Stroheim Tribe

Written by Stanton von Stroheim

in the year of our Lord 2021

House Baratheon soundtrack[GOT] - OURS IS THE FURY

The Langenkirch Archives

History

The origin of Tribe Stroheim begins with its founder, Robert Cervidae, who first found his place amongst the Reinmaren of Minitz. As a man who originally sought personal glory and renown, he soon found kinship amongst the Reinmaren and began living within their Tribal society.

Born of noble stock in Aeldin, the young Robert, disliking the limitations of his status, fled from his home, finding refuge in Almaris. During his time wandering the continent he'd meet his future tribe brother Damon, who offered to take Robert to his home of Minitz. Taking him up on his offer, Robert followed along and found his place amongst the Reinmaren of Minitz, spending his days living, fighting and serving with his newfound companions. While living among the Reinmaren he was taken under the wing of the Black Swordsman, Kato Oijin, a few months after his entry into Minitz. 

Over the course of many years Robert would be given the blessing of Templarism. In that period, he founded his own tribe alongside his colleagues Damon and Teft Barclay. Robert would choose the name “Stroheim” for his tribe, meaning “Straw-Home” as a way to embrace the humbler lifestyle he now lived, when compared to his noble past. Robert's life as a Templar heavily influenced the overall culture of the tribe with following generations of Stroheims striving to become fully fledged warriors with unparalleled fury and courage, many going out of their way to seek worthy beasts and monsters to claim as trophies, whether or not they carried the blessing of Malchediael.

 

Tradition

The Tribe of Stroheim embodies the stubborn and competitive nature of the stag upon their banner, with members of the tribe regularly competing and sparring with one another. This environment has clashed with the wrathful nature of Stroheim, with many members being quick to anger or prone to outbursts. This attitude has sometimes led to friendly spars turning into rageful bouts, with death not being an unheard result.

Although their relentless fury and preference for violence may make them appear as unruly outcasts, the Tribe of Stroheim is just as boastful as it is wrathful. Consequently, their Tribe consistently mingles and engages with their fellow Reinmaren, often through sharing drinks, stories, or showing off trophies.

As the Stroheim brew is the preferred drink within the family, so too do they prefer specific weapons. Most commonly, the warriors of Stroheim wield larger weapons, casting aside anything lesser than a longsword. Two-handed war hammers, great swords and polearms are the most preferred, yet variety can occur. 

There is one rule within the family concerning weapons, which is the explicit hatred of ranged weaponry. Bows, crossbows or javelins are seen as taboo, with the exception of potions per the influence of the Lectors.

The Influence of the Lectors now-Oyashiman extends further, with many Stroheims walking down the path of Templarism. Their aversion to ranged combat and brazen mindset makes them prime candidates to become warriors of Malchediel, the blessing itself is reserved for proven members of the tribe, often being elders and experienced Warriors, with many previously reaching the title of Ritter to further legitimize their worthiness for receiving the blessing.

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An artist’s rendition of gathered Stroheim Warriors.

Funeral Rites

In line with Owynist tradition, the Tribe of Stroheim practices cremation upon the bodies of their deceased. This is deemed as necessary to prevent defilement from necromancers and other malicious beings.
Like most Reinmaren tribes, Stroheims believe that what they acquire in life may be carried with them in the after-life, so that they may continue to gloat and compare their trophies to their deceased kinsman, thus personal effects and trophies are burned alongside the deceased. 

Once the flesh has been set aflame, the ashes are collected to either be contained within an urn or scattered upon the familial runestone. By placing the ashes across the runestone it is believed traces of the deceased’s soul will remain to protect and watch over the runestone, their presence offering clarity and guidance to Stroheims who come to pay their respects.

Trial of Antlers

Though the Tribe of Stroheim boasts a great many orators and skilled alchemists, at the core of the house will it remain one renowned in martial pursuits above all else. It is the goal of a Stroheim then to prove themselves in the eyes of kin, and nothing will do this more than through the slaying of a great beast, before the Stroheim comes of age, no older than eighteen.
 

The Stroheim shall conduct the trial with a trusted member of the Stroheim family, the Princely family, a member of the Herrenhaus, or the Huntmaster of Reinmar. As such, the Stroheim shall venture with their witness into the forest, and seek a great beast within the forests of Ferdenwald, where creatures possess greater aggression and size. Deer, stags or moose are preferable and formidable foes to those young Stroheims. Yet, the most unlucky, or lucky, can find themselves in a bout against a greater beast, such as a westerbear. 

Death is a real threat during this trial, a great risk to prove oneself as a warrior worthy of the Stroheim name. To follow in the footsteps of those Stroheim of old, who battled beasts as great as dragons and their 

Spawn.

Following a successful hunt it is tradition for the newly proven Stroheim to drink and feast with his fellow Tribesmen until they've reached a state of near unconsciousness. During this heavily inhibited state the Tribesmen will begin to brawl with one another until one remains standing, embodying the competitive nature of their Tribe.
 

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An artist’s rendition of a bear-attack within the Ferdenwald.

UNSER IST DER ZORN

HIS EXCELLENCY, Stanton Stroheim, Ritter-Kastellan of the Order of Saint Tylos,
Patriarch of House Stroheim

ISSUED BY ADELMAR THE SKALD

In the year of our Lord, 

A COLLECTION DIALOGUES OF ADELMAR THE SKALD CONCERNING THE REINMAREN WAY OF LIFE.

In this book, I set down the thoughts that have stirred within me over many seasons. These words are not the Kanun, nor do they claim its weight. Rather, they are a gathering of reckonings: reflections on the ways of our people, the virtues we hold dear, and the truths that carry the Reinmaren spirit forward, generation upon generation.

I write not to engrave laws into stone but to light a lantern for the mind and soul. This work is meant for those who seek understanding, be they elders who wish to pass their wisdom or youths who hunger for the paths of our forebears. I speak to the tribesmen and women, the chieftains and the lowly, for all are bound together under the fabric of tribe and tradition.

This first chapter gathers together the core of who we are: the virtues that shape our lives and the duties we owe to one another and to the divine. It reckons the worth of man and the measure of his deeds, it speaks of justice and redemption, of loyalty and honor, and of what it means to stand as Reinmaren.

Though these words are bound in paper and ink, they are meant to live beyond this book—spoken in the Moot, carried in the hearts of tribesmen, and proven in the fields, hearths, and battlefields of our realm. For the Reinmaren, the written word is not an idol but a guide. And so, take these reflections as a tool, as a mirror, and as a reminder of the strength that resides in kinship, tradition, and faith.

ON THE WORTH OF MAN

Adelmar von Kanunsberg, servant of word and wisdom, writes thus:

Upon a night of gathering, when the hearth-fire glowed and shadows danced against the timbered walls, I posed to my brethren a question that had troubled my mind: What, then, is the worth of a man? And from this inquiry arose the dialogue here transcribed.

Adelmar: My brothers, speak and answer plainly, for I desire not the clamor of boasts nor the murmurs of uncertainty. What say you—is the worth of a man to be found in his deeds alone?

Hrothulf the Smith: Aye, Adelmar. A man is as the steel he forges. His worth is measured in the might of his arm and the legacy of his works. Without deeds, what remains but empty words?

Adelmar: (pausing) Yet, Hrothulf, tell me this: If a man’s deeds are born of folly, or if his might is wielded in rage, does not his legacy crumble? Deeds are but the outer bark; what of the heartwood beneath?

Hrothulf: Then shall we say his worth lies in wisdom?

Adelmar: Perhaps. But wisdom without action is a stone unmoved in a torrent—it gathers neither purpose nor honor.

Alric the Elder: (raising his hand) I speak thus: A man’s worth is rooted in his loyalty. To his kin, his lord, and to Gott. Loyalty is the bond that holds us, the rope that does not fray in the wind of strife.

Adelmar: And if that rope binds a man to a tyrant, Alric? Or if his loyalty blinds him to truth? Is a thrall who serves faithfully of greater worth than a freeman who questions?

Alric: (hesitating) Then you would have us doubt the very bonds that hold our tribe?

Adelmar: Nay, I would have you test them, as the smith tests iron before it becomes a blade. Loyalty must be tempered with honor, lest it serve only ruin.

Gerwulf the Young: (standing) You speak as though a man’s worth lies in others’ judgment. I say his worth is his own, found in his courage and will.

Adelmar: Courage and will, Gerwulf, are fine words for a warrior’s mouth. But tell me, is a lone wolf who stands defiant greater than the pack that hunts as one? What worth has the man who forsakes his kin for his pride?

Gerwulf: Then what would you say, Adelmar? If deeds, loyalty, and courage all fail, where lies a man’s worth?

Adelmar: (standing tall) The worth of a man, brothers, is not a single thing but a harmony of virtues. Strength tempered with wisdom, loyalty bound to honor, and courage rooted in the soil of kinship—these together weave the worth of a man. A man alone is as a branch fallen from the tree, dry and brittle. Together, we are the great oak, unyielding to the storm.

ON THE MEASURE OF VIRTUE

Adelmar von Kanunsberg, skald of the Reinmaren and keeper of ancestral wisdom, sets forth this inquiry, wrought in words and reason. May it endure in the memory of our people, as stone endures the wind.

One eve, when the sun’s fire yielded to the shadow of night, and the hearth within the great hall of Kanunsberg roared against the chill, I sat among my brethren. Warriors, craftsmen, and elders gathered, the air heavy with ale and thought. It was then that I posed to them a question worthy of their minds and hearts:

What, then, is the greatest virtue of man?

Adelmar: My brothers, speak as free men, for the wisdom of one sharpens the blade of another. Tell me, what virtue stands highest among us?

Hrothulf: (gripping his alehorn) Strength, Adelmar. Strength is the root of all virtue. Without it, no man can build, defend, or endure. It is the shield that guards the weak and the sword that smites the foe.

Adelmar: (nodding) Strength is the sinew of a man, Hrothulf, yet I ask this: If strength is wielded without justice, does it not become the cudgel of the oppressor? A wolf with bared teeth may guard the flock, but it may also devour it.

Hrothulf: Then strength must serve wisdom, to guide its hand.

Adelmar: A fine thought, but wisdom alone can also falter. For what is a wise man who acts not? Is he not as the raincloud that brings no storm?

Alric the Elder: (raising his voice, slow and firm) Then loyalty must be the highest virtue. Without loyalty, there is no trust, no tribe, no unity. It binds a man to his kin, to his lord, and to the Kanun.

Adelmar: (leaning forward) A powerful bond, Alric, yet let us consider: If a man’s loyalty ties him to a false master, or his fealty blinds him to treachery, is he not a thrall? Does loyalty that forsakes honor truly serve the tribe?

Alric: (with hesitation) Then loyalty must be guided by truth.

Adelmar: Truth, yes. But truth, like the blade, must be wielded wisely. For a truth spoken in cruelty may sunder bonds, and a truth untempered by mercy may turn kin into foes.

Gerwulf the Young: (rising boldly) Courage, then, must stand above all. For it is courage that drives men to act, to speak, to rise against injustice. Without courage, strength lies idle, wisdom is silent, and loyalty is hollow.

Adelmar: (smiling faintly) Courage, Gerwulf, is a fire in the breast of man, yet fire must not burn untamed. For courage unbound by wisdom becomes recklessness, and courage that forgets loyalty becomes rebellion. Would you have a man defy his lord for every whim of his heart?

Gerwulf: Then what is the answer, Adelmar? If each virtue fails when alone, what is the greatest of them all?

Adelmar: (standing tall, his voice steady) Listen well, my brothers. No virtue stands alone as greatest, for they are as the branches of a great tree. Strength is its trunk, holding firm against the storm. Wisdom is its roots, deep and unseen, guiding and grounding it. Loyalty is the bark that binds it together, protecting it from harm. Courage is the sap that flows within, giving life and fire to all.

But above all, let us remember this: A tree does not grow for itself. Its shade shelters the weary, its wood builds the homes of the tribe, and its fruit nourishes the next generation. So must our virtues serve not the self, but the kin, the tribe, and the Kanun.

Alric: (nodding slowly) You speak true, Adelmar. No man is an island; no virtue is its own master. Together, they weave the strength of the Reinmaren.

Hrothulf: And the Kanun, like the forest, binds us all. Without it, even the mightiest oak falls alone.

ON THE SOURCE OF VIRTUE

Thus the ink flows further, for the inquiry did not end with the hearth's dimming. Among the Reinmaren, wisdom is a flame, ever kindled anew by question and answer. The dialogue resumed upon the next gathering, when the tribe's spirits were high and their thoughts sharpened by the Kanun's demands.

Adelmar: Brothers, we have spoken of virtue and its measure. But tell me now—what is the bond that holds these virtues to man? By what force does he choose the path of honor over that of folly?

Hrothulf the Smith: (scratching his beard) Discipline, Adelmar. It is discipline that holds a man steady, like the forge clamps the iron. Without it, strength grows wild, wisdom strays, and courage becomes madness.

Adelmar: Aye, Hrothulf, discipline is the guardrail of virtue. Yet I ask: What gives a man the will to endure such discipline? For the path of restraint is steep, and the pull of ease is strong.

Alric the Elder: (with a knowing smile) It is faith, young ones, that binds man to virtue. Faith in Gott, faith in the Kanun, and faith in his kin. A man who believes not in his purpose cannot wield discipline nor claim honor.

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) But what if his faith falters, Alric? If a man looks to the heavens and finds no answer, does his virtue wither? Must all strength depend on that which we cannot see?

Adelmar: (raising a hand) Hush, Gerwulf, and hear Alric’s wisdom. Faith is not a crutch for the weak but a beacon for the lost. Yet you raise a fair question: What becomes of the man whose faith is shaken?

Alric: (pausing) Then he must turn to his kin. For when a man’s heart wavers, the tribe shall steady him. We are not meant to bear the burden of faith alone.

Adelmar: (nodding) Well spoken, Alric. But I say this: A man must first carry his own faith before he leans upon others. For no Reinmaren shall live as a burden, nor shall the Kanun permit weakness to fester. Faith must be sown in a man’s heart like wheat in the field, and though others may water it, the root must hold firm.

The dialogue turned then to the role of the tribe and the Kanun.

Gerwulf the Young: (with furrowed brow) Adelmar, if the Kanun binds us to virtue, can it not also bind us to error? What if a law is unjust, or a chieftain commands what is false?

Adelmar: (with gravity) A bold question, Gerwulf, and one that cuts deep. The Kanun is the spine of the tribe, but even spines may bend when burdened with folly. In such times, it is the duty of the wise to speak, the duty of the strong to act, and the duty of all to remember this: The Kanun exists to serve the tribe, not to enslave it.

Hrothulf the Smith: (nodding) Then the Kanun is a tool, like the hammer. It shapes, but it must be wielded with care.

Adelmar: Aye, Hrothulf. And like the hammer, it must be strong enough to bear the blow. But beware, my brothers, for the tribe that casts aside its Kanun for every whim soon becomes a horde, not a people.

Alric the Elder: (with solemnity) And the horde devours itself, as wolves turn upon their own in times of famine.

Thus, the night grew deeper, and the dialogue circled ever closer to the heart of the matter.

Adelmar: Let us then ask the final question, brothers: What is the purpose of man’s virtue, his Kanun, and his tribe? What is it that we strive for, through all trial and toil?

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) To endure, Adelmar! To stand unbroken against time and tide.

Hrothulf the Smith: (with a smile) To build, so that those who come after us may walk upon firmer ground.

Alric the Elder: (softly) To serve Gott, who made us, and to honor His will through our lives.

Adelmar: (lifting his alehorn) Aye, brothers, all these answers are true. Yet they are but branches of a greater truth: The purpose of man is to uphold the harmony of the tribe, that we may stand as one against the storm. For in unity lies our strength, and in virtue lies our unity. Let this be the measure of all things.

ON THE NATURE OF HONOUR

And so the discussions to be had in the mead hall nightly turned to something less abstract and more worldly, when I posited onto my brothers a question about the nature of honour, where it is earned, and how, which ignited further discourse among us.

Adelmar: (standing before the fire) My brothers, we have spoken of virtue and the tribe. Now I ask you this: What is the nature of honor? Is it a man’s own, or is it given to him by others?

Hrothulf the Smith: (stroking his beard) Honor is the fruit of a man’s deeds. It is the weight of his actions, judged by those who see him. A man cannot claim honor for himself, just as a tree does not taste its own fruit.

Gerwulf the Young: (challenging) But if others misjudge a man’s deeds, Hrothulf, does his honor falter? If a good man is reviled by the foolish, is he dishonored?

Hrothulf: (frowning) Then he must endure until the truth is seen. The eye of the tribe is not easily deceived.

Adelmar: (interjecting) Yet what if a man dwells among the blind, Hrothulf? Shall he cast aside honor because none can see it? Or shall he guard it within himself, like a flame against the wind?

Alric the Elder: (nodding) A man’s honor is first his own, I say, for it is tied to his conscience. He must act rightly even when no man watches, for Gott sees all.

Adelmar: A wise word, Alric. Yet I add this: Honor is both within and without, as the roots of a tree feed its branches. A man must first hold himself to the Kanun, for without inner honor, the judgment of others is but an empty noise. But when a man’s honor shines true, it strengthens not only himself but the tribe as well.

The discussion turned then to the burdens of honor, and whether it is a gift or a weight.

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) If honor is a man’s burden, then is it not a chain? Must he always bear it, even when it drags him down?

Hrothulf the Smith: (gruffly) Aye, Gerwulf. But better to be chained by honor than freed by disgrace. A man without honor is like a shield without a bearer—useless and cast aside.

Adelmar: (calmly) Yet let us consider, Hrothulf: Can honor become a prison? If a man clings too tightly to his pride, refusing aid or forgiveness, does he not make a virtue into a vice?

Alric the Elder: (speaking slowly) Then honor must be balanced by humility, Adelmar. A man must hold himself high, but not so high that he cannot bow before truth or repent of his failings.

Adelmar: Aye, Alric. For honor that cannot bend will surely break. Let us say, then, that honor is the weight of a man’s soul, and it is borne best by those who walk upright, yet with open hands.

ON THE TRIBESWOMEN

After a hunt, when warriors, builders, and wise ones gathered. Each with their craft and their counsel, we spoke at length. The scent of roasted venison filled the air, mingling with the sharp tang of ale, and the voices of my people swelled with life. Yet in that moment, I felt the stillness before a storm of thought, and I turned to them, my gaze firm, my voice rising over the murmurs.

Adelmar: We have spoken of men and their virtues. But now I ask: What is the virtue of a woman, and what is her place within the tribe?

Hrothulf the Smith: (grinning) A bold question, Adelmar. I say a woman’s virtue lies in her strength, like a man’s. For she guards us, and without her, the tribe withers.

Gerwulf the Young: (nodding) Aye, and her wisdom is no less than a man’s. Many times have I seen a mother guide her sons with greater skill than the sharpest chieftain.

Alric the Elder: (with a raised hand) Yet let us not forget her loyalty, brothers. A woman’s heart binds the tribe as surely as the Kanun. She is the keeper of kinship, the weaver of ties that hold us together.

Adelmar: (smiling) True words, all of them. A woman’s strength, wisdom, and loyalty are the pillars of the tribe. Yet I say this: Her virtue is not apart from a man’s but stands beside it. As the bow cannot loose an arrow without the string, so the tribe cannot endure without both man and woman, bound in harmony.

Hrothulf the Smith: (raising his horn) Then let us honor our women as we honor ourselves, for their worth is equal to ours.

Adelmar: (lifting his own horn) Aye, Hrothulf. And let the Kanun protect them, as it protects the whole tribe, for they are the hearthfire of our people.

ON JUSTICE

After Prince Leon’s coronation, my warriors, my kin and I all sat in silence when the newly crowned Prince and Princess left our midst. Beneath the fire did we sit, my kin’s eyes reflecting the flames, waiting for words that would stir their hearts. The old oak beams above us creaked, as if the very hall itself listened to the question I now raised. I looked upon them, steady and unwavering, and spoke another question.

Adelmar: Brothers, we have spoken of honor, virtue, and kinship. Now tell me, what is the nature of justice? Is it the law of the Kanun alone, or does it rise from some greater source?

Hrothulf the Smith: (firmly) Justice is the Kanun, Adelmar. It is the word of our fathers and the foundation of the tribe. Without it, there is no order, only chaos.

Gerwulf the Young: (hesitant) But what if the Kanun is flawed, Hrothulf? What if it serves one man’s will rather than the tribe’s good? Is that still justice?

Alric the Elder: (stroking his beard) Justice must serve truth, Gerwulf, and the Kanun must be its vessel. If the vessel is cracked, it is the duty of the wise to mend it. But woe to the man who casts it aside lightly, for without the Kanun, truth is but a fleeting shadow.

Adelmar: (nodding) A fine balance, Alric. Let us say, then, that justice is the harmony of truth and the Kanun. It is not fixed, but like the river, it flows and changes, yet always seeks the same course.

Hrothulf the Smith: (grumbling) A hard task, Adelmar, to keep the river within its banks.

Adelmar: (smiling faintly) Aye, Hrothulf. Yet it is the task of every man, for justice belongs not to one but to all. Let each of us be its keeper, and let the tribe stand as its shield.

ON THE NATURE OF EVIL

It was on the third night of the gathering, when the air outside carried the bite of winter and the fire within roared high, that I addressed my kin with a question of grave import. The men, weary from toil but sharpened by thought, leaned forward, sensing the weight of the matter.

Adelmar: Brothers, we have spoken of honor and justice, of virtue and the Kanun. But now I ask you this: What is the nature of evil, and from whence does it come?

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) Evil is the opposite of virtue, Adelmar. It is dishonor, cruelty, and treachery. It is the path of the coward and the oathbreaker.

Hrothulf the Smith: (gruffly) Aye, Gerwulf speaks true. Evil is in the deeds of men who forsake the Kanun. It is not some shadow lurking in the world; it is born of choice. A man chooses evil when he turns from the light of truth.

Alric the Elder: (solemnly) Yet I wonder, brothers, is evil merely the absence of virtue, like darkness is the absence of light? Or is it a force of its own, cunning and alive, seeking to twist the hearts of men?

Adelmar: (with measured tones) A fine question, Alric. Tell me, then: If evil is a force, does it not require a will to act? Who, or what, wields this force?

Alric the Elder: (thoughtfully) Gott has no part in evil, this we know. So it must be the work of the Deceiver, the great Enemy, who stirs strife and tempts the weak to fall.

Hrothulf the Smith: (grunting) Then evil is not born of man alone, but of the Deceiver’s whispers? Does that not strip a man of blame for his wickedness, if another has led him astray?

Adelmar: (shaking his head) No, Hrothulf. The Deceiver may whisper, but it is the man who listens. A wolf may howl at the door, but it cannot force you to open it. Evil comes not only from without but from within.

After a time, Gerwulf broke the silence, his voice uncertain.

Gerwulf the Young: Then is evil in every man, Adelmar? Are we all cursed to carry its seed, waiting for it to grow?

Adelmar: (steadily) Aye, Gerwulf, the seed of evil lies within us all. But so too does the seed of virtue. It is the soil of the soul, watered by the choices we make, that determines which shall grow.

Alric the Elder: (nodding) And the Kanun is the plow that tills the soil, guiding it toward virtue. Without it, a man is left to wander, and the weeds of evil grow wild.

Hrothulf the Smith: (grimly) But some men, Adelmar, seem born to wickedness, as if their soil is barren from the start. What of them? Are they not beyond saving?

Adelmar: (pausing) A hard truth, Hrothulf. Some men, like blighted trees, bear only bitter fruit. Yet even they were once saplings, their fate not yet written. Evil is not born whole, but shaped by neglect, by the breaking of bonds, and by the whispers of despair.

After a time, Alric spoke again.

Alric the Elder: Then what, Adelmar, is the answer to evil? If it comes from within and without, how may it be overcome?

Adelmar: (raising his hand) The answer, Alric, is threefold. First, a man must guard his heart, for the Deceiver’s whispers find no foothold in a soul rooted in faith. Second, the tribe must stand as one, for evil thrives in division. And third, the Kanun must be upheld, for it is the light that scatters the darkness.

Hrothulf the Smith: (with a growl) And if a man falls to evil, Adelmar? What then?

Adelmar: (gravely) Then he must be judged, Hrothulf. The Kanun demands justice, and the tribe must not shrink from it. Yet even in judgment, we must remember this: The purpose of justice is not only to punish but to restore. If a man may yet turn from evil, let him be shown the way. But if he is lost beyond recall, let him face the fire, that his corruption may not spread.

Gerwulf, his voice quieter now, spoke again.

Gerwulf the Young: Then is evil stronger than virtue, Adelmar? It seems it strikes with cunning and speed, while virtue is slow and hard-won.

Adelmar: (with a faint smile) It is true, Gerwulf, that evil is swift, like a storm upon the plains. But storms pass, and the sun endures. Virtue is the steady hand, the unyielding root. Though evil may rage, it cannot prevail where men stand firm, bound by faith, by kinship, and by the Kanun.

ON REDEMPTION

Returning from the Frankish battlefield, the earth beneath our feet was solid, and the sky above us stretched wide, heavy with the weight of the coming storm. Beneath the open expanse, I stood among my people, the warriors and the craftsmen, their faces etched with the struggle of the seasons. In that moment, with the clouds darkening above and the first tremors of thunder in the distance, I raised my voice.

Adelmar: My brothers, we have spoken of evil as a force and a choice, a whisper within and a storm without. Now I ask you this: Can a man who has fallen to evil ever be redeemed? Or does the shadow cling to him always, staining his soul beyond repair?

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) Surely redemption is possible, Adelmar. If a man turns from his wickedness and seeks the path of virtue, must we not welcome him back?

Hrothulf the Smith: (grimly) Yet how can we trust such a man, Gerwulf? If his soul was weak enough to fall once, what stops him from falling again? Is it not safer to cast him out, lest his corruption taint the tribe?

Alric the Elder: (sternly) But to cast a man out, Hrothulf, is to lose him forever. Is it not better to mend what is broken than to discard it? If we abandon our kin to the shadow, are we not guilty of a greater sin?

Adelmar: (raising his hand) Peace, brothers. You each speak a part of the truth. Redemption is the hope of every man, for none are born wholly good or evil. Yet redemption must be earned, not given lightly. A man who has strayed must prove his repentance through deeds, not words, and the tribe must judge him by the measure of the Kanun.

The men nodded, their brows furrowed in thought. After a moment, Hrothulf spoke again, his voice heavy with doubt.

Hrothulf the Smith: But Adelmar, what of those who are beyond redemption? The Deceiver’s mark is upon them, and their hearts are blackened to the core. Must we not destroy such men, for the safety of the tribe?

Adelmar: (gravely) Aye, Hrothulf, there are those who are lost beyond recall. Such men are as wolves among the flock, and their evil must be rooted out. Yet even in destruction, we must not take joy in their fall. Justice demands action, but it must not be tainted by vengeance.

Gerwulf the Young: (hesitantly) Then what of mercy, Adelmar? If we destroy the wicked, are we not forsaking the mercy that the Kanun teaches?

Adelmar: (gently) Mercy and justice walk hand in hand, Gerwulf. To show mercy to the repentant is to honor the Kanun. But to spare the unrepentant wicked is not mercy—it is weakness, and it invites further evil. Let the Kanun guide us, that we may discern when mercy is righteous and when justice must be swift.

After a long silence, Alric, the oldest among them, spoke once more.

Alric the Elder: Adelmar, if evil lies within every man, and the Kanun alone keeps it at bay, then I ask you this: What of those who have no Kanun? The outlanders, the heathens—they live beyond our law. Are they not doomed to evil by their ignorance?

Adelmar: (thoughtfully) A heavy question, Alric. The heathens do not know our Kanun, but they are not without their own laws. Every tribe has its ways, its rules to guide its people. Yet I say this: The farther a man’s law strays from truth, the greater his peril. The Deceiver whispers loudest to those who have no light to guide them.

Gerwulf the Young: (eagerly) Then must we not bring the Kanun to them, Adelmar? Should we not spread its wisdom beyond our own tribe, that others may be saved?

Hrothulf the Smith: (gruffly) And if they reject it, Gerwulf? Will you force them to kneel to the Kanun?

Adelmar: (firmly) No man can be forced to virtue, Hrothulf. The Kanun is not a chain but a guiding star. If others will not see its light, then they must walk their own path. Yet let us not abandon them wholly, for even a heathen may find truth if he is shown the way.

I turned to the fire with a distant gaze.

Adelmar: Brothers, the nature of evil is this: It is the shadow that seeks to consume the light, the storm that rages against the tree. It is cunning, persistent, and born of both the Deceiver’s will and the weakness of men. Yet it is not invincible.

Gerwulf the Young: (quietly) How, then, do we stand against it, Adelmar?

Adelmar: (with resolve) We stand as the tribe has always stood: by faith in Gott, by the strength of the Kanun, and by the bond of kinship. No man may face the shadow alone, but together we are a bulwark against it. Let each man guard his heart, honor his brothers, and hold fast to the law. For in unity lies our greatest strength, and in the light of truth, the shadow cannot endure.

ON WHAT IT MEANS TO BE REINMAREN

The hall was full that night, the fire blazing high as the men and women of Kanunsberg gathered to feast and to talk, for winter’s cold had pressed them close together. I sat at the head of the company, the alehorn in my hand, voice rising above the din.

Adelmar: Brothers and sisters, tell me this: What does it mean to be Reinmaren? By what measure do we call ourselves true to the blood of our fathers?

The question rippled through the hall, and a murmur rose among the gathered. Some nodded in agreement with the weight of the question, but others frowned, their brows furrowed in discontent.

Walfram the Bold, a warrior with a voice as loud as his temper, stood suddenly, his chair scraping the floor. His face was flushed with drink and conviction.

Walfram the Bold: I’ll tell you, Adelmar. To be Reinmaren is to be free! Free from the yoke of lords who do not understand us, free from the chains of laws that weaken our will. The Reinmaren are warriors, not scribes. We are masters of the horse, not servants of ink. This Kanun you praise binds us too tightly. To be Reinmaren is to ride unbridled, to follow the wind and the blade, not the quill and the word!

A murmur of agreement rose from some of the younger men, their eyes glinting with admiration for Walfram’s boldness. But, I leaned forward and spoke.

Adelmar: Bold words, Walfram. But let me ask you this: What is a tribe without law? What binds us together, if not the Kanun?

Walfram the Bold: (snorting) Blood binds us, Adelmar! Blood and the will to stand as one. Did our fathers need scribes to tell them how to be men? Did they wait for parchment to teach them to fight, to ride, to plunder?

Adelmar: (nodding) Aye, blood and will are strong bonds. But tell me, Walfram, when two brothers quarrel, whose blood is thicker? When one man’s will stands against another’s, which prevails?

Walfram the Bold: (hesitating) The stronger man prevails, Adelmar. That is the way of the world.

Adelmar: (leaning back) Then tell me, Walfram, is might alone the measure of right? If the strong man crushes the weak, is he just? And if so, what becomes of the tribe, when strength turns against itself?

The hall grew quiet as the weight of my words settled upon the gathered. Walfram scowled, his fists clenched, but he did not answer.

Adelmar: (pressing on) You speak of freedom, Walfram, as though it is the greatest good. But is a horse truly free without its reins? Does it not become wild, untamed, and lost? The Kanun is not a shackle, but a bridle. It does not weaken us; it guides us. Without it, we are not a tribe—we are a herd, scattered and helpless.

Walfram the Bold: (with defiance) But the Kanun demands too much, Adelmar! It demands obedience, sacrifice. What of the man who wishes to live by his own will, unbound by these rules? Is he less a Reinmaren?

Adelmar: (with a faint smile) A good question, Walfram. But let me ask you this: What is a man who lives only for himself? If he turns his back on the tribe, does he not also turn his back on the blood you hold so dear?

Walfram the Bold: (growling) He may stand alone, but he is no less strong for it.

Adelmar: (shaking his head) Strength is not found in isolation, Walfram. A single spear breaks easily, but a bundle of spears endures. The Kanun binds us together, so that the strength of one becomes the strength of all. Without it, your freedom is naught but loneliness, and your strength is a fleeting shadow.

Walfram fell silent, his scowl deepening. The younger men who had cheered him before now shifted uneasily in their seats. After a long pause, Walfram spoke again, his voice quieter, as though the fire of his defiance had dimmed.

Walfram the Bold: (grudgingly) Perhaps you are right, Adelmar. The tribe must have law, else it falls to ruin. But tell me this: Does the Kanun not stifle the spirit of the warrior? Does it not demand too much of men who would ride free and fierce?

Adelmar: (gently) The Kanun does not stifle, Walfram—it shapes. The warrior who rides without purpose is a sword without a hand to wield it, sharp but aimless. The Kanun gives us purpose. It tells us not only how to fight, but why. Without it, we are beasts; with it, we are men.

Walfram sat down heavily, his head bowed. The hall was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Finally, Walfram looked up, his voice low but steady.

Walfram the Bold: (conceding) You have spoken well, Adelmar. The Kanun is a burden, but it is a burden worth bearing. To be Reinmaren is not to be free of all bonds, but to be bound by the law that makes us strong.

Adelmar: (smiling faintly) Well said, Walfram. To be Reinmaren is to carry the burden of the Kanun with pride, for it is not a weight that crushes—it is a foundation that upholds. Let no man forget this, that our tribe may endure, strong and unbroken, for generations to come.

ON HIERARCHY

The hall was dimly lit, the fire crackling as its embers danced upon the stone hearth. The people of Wesenburg sat in a wide circle, their faces shadowed by the flickering light. I, seated upon a rough-hewn bench with his alehorn in hand, cast my gaze across the room and spoke.

Adelmar: Brothers and sisters, I pose a question to you this night: Why do we place chieftains over us? Why do we bow to their word and bind ourselves to their rule?

For a moment, the hall was silent. Then, Fredegund, a wiry man with sharp eyes and sharper words, stood, his voice cutting through the quiet.

Fredegund: Why, indeed, Adelmar? Why should one man’s will be raised above another’s? Are we not all of the same blood? Does the chieftain’s sword strike truer than mine? Does his voice carry more weight than yours? I say this: Chieftains are but men, like the rest of us. Their rule is a yoke, and their power but a pretense.

A murmur of agreement rippled among some of the younger men. Fredegund, emboldened, folded his arms, a smirk on his face. 

Adelmar: A fair challenge, Fredegund. But let me ask you this: Without a chieftain, who would lead us in battle? Who would guide the tribe when peril arises?

Fredegund: (with a scoff) The strongest man leads, as it has always been. Let those who have the strength and the skill to command step forward, and let the rest follow willingly. Why bind ourselves to a single man, as if his strength never falters?

Adelmar: (nodding slowly) Strength and skill are worthy traits, Fredegund. But tell me, when many strong men vie for leadership, whose voice prevails? When one sword clashes against another, do we not divide ourselves, rather than unite?

Fredegund: (with a frown) Aye, division is a danger. But surely the tribe can choose anew each time the need arises. Let the strongest rise when the moment demands it, and let the rest stand aside.

Adelmar: (raising his brow) Then you propose that we cast aside our chieftains after each battle, like tools that have served their purpose? Tell me, Fredegund, what becomes of a tribe that changes its leaders as one changes a tunic?

Fredegund: (hesitant) It... risks discord, I suppose. But is it not better than binding ourselves to a single man, who may grow weak or corrupt with time?

Adelmar: (leaning forward) A good concern, Fredegund. But let me ask you this: Does the Kanun not bind the chieftain as it binds the rest of us? Is he not judged by the same law? And if he falters, do we not hold him to account?

Fredegund fell silent, his smirk fading. The hall was quiet, save for the crackling of the fire. 

Adelmar: The chieftain is not above the tribe, Fredegund; he is its servant. His strength is the shield that guards us, his voice the counsel that guides us, his rule the thread that binds us together. Without him, we are a herd, scattered and preyed upon. But with him, we are a spear, sharp and unbroken.

Fredegund: (grudgingly) But what of those chieftains who abuse their power, Adelmar? Are we to endure their tyranny for the sake of unity?

Adelmar: (firmly) No, Fredegund. A chieftain who breaks the Kanun breaks his bond with the tribe. It is the duty of the people to challenge him, to hold him to the law. But let us not throw away the mantle of leadership because some have worn it poorly. A bad chieftain may falter, but a lawless tribe is doomed.

A murmur of assent rose from the gathered, though Fredegund’s brow remained furrowed. He spoke again, his tone quieter but no less determined.

Fredegund: (reluctantly) You speak well, Adelmar. But tell me this: Why must the chieftain’s rule be for life? Should we not test him, ensure that he remains worthy of the tribe’s trust?

Adelmar: (smiling faintly) A fair point, Fredegund. A chieftain’s worth is measured not in years, but in deeds. If he fails to uphold the Kanun, he must answer to the tribe. But if he serves faithfully, why should we cast him aside? Loyalty must flow both ways, Fredegund. A tribe that does not honor its chieftain’s service is no better than a chieftain who abuses his power.

Fredegund sat down heavily, his arguments spent. The hall was silent once more as I swept my gaze to the gathered.

Adelmar: Brothers and sisters, we have chieftains over us because no man can stand alone, and no tribe can endure without guidance. The chieftain is not a tyrant, but a steward. His rule is not a burden, but a bond—a bond that unites us, protects us, and gives us purpose. Let us honor that bond, and hold our chieftains to it, as we hold ourselves to the Kanun.

ON ENDURANCE

The fire crackled in the center of the longhouse, casting shadows that danced upon the walls. Around it sat a circle of tribesmen, their faces weathered and stern, their hands gripping mugs of ale or resting upon sword hilts. I, seated with my lyre upon my knee, tuned its strings absently, the faint melody filling the quiet.

A young man, Ewald brash and untempered by age, leaned forward, his gaze fixed on me and my song.

Ewald: Adelmar, your songs speak of endurance, of trials faced by our ancestors. You sing of men who bore burdens beyond measure. But I ask you: what good is endurance when ill-fortunes strike us down? Is it not better to rage against the storm than to stand still and be swept away?

I plucked a soft, deliberate chord, letting it hum in the air before replying.

Adelmar: You speak of storms and rage, young one. But tell me, when the tree stands against the wind, does it not endure? When the wolf is caught in the hunter’s snare, does it not endure? Endurance is not stillness; it is the strength to bear the storm and emerge unbroken.

Ewald scoffed, shaking his head.

Ewald: A fine metaphor, skald, but the tree may endure only to rot, and the wolf may gnaw its leg off to escape. What then is the point of such suffering?

I plucked another note, sharper this time, as though to punctuate the young man’s words.

Adelmar: The point, you ask? Then let us find it. Do you believe that life is measured only by triumphs, by victories won with no price paid? If the wolf gnaws its leg to escape, it lives. And in living, it passes its blood to the next generation, teaching them caution. If the tree weathers the storm and loses a branch, that branch becomes the firewood that warms the hearth. Is this suffering wasted, or is it transformed?

The young man furrowed his brow, but his defiance remained.

Ewald: Yet not all storms leave the tree standing. Not all wolves escape the hunter’s blade. There are those who endure and are broken nonetheless. What say you to them?

Adelmar: I say this: even in death, there is endurance. The fallen tree nourishes the soil, and the wolf who dies feeds its kin. No effort, no suffering, is wasted if it serves the greater whole. Our ancestors endured not for themselves alone, but for us—for this tribe, for the songs I now sing. To endure is not to avoid pain, but to bear it so that others may walk lighter.

A grizzled elder, Enver silent until now, raised his voice.

Enver the Elder: And what of those who endure, yet feel the weight of their burden crush their spirit? What do they gain?

I met the elder’s gaze, fingers strumming a low, steady chord.

Adelmar: They gain legacy, elder. The spirit may falter, but the deeds of the body remain. The farmer endures a lifetime of toil for the harvest that feeds his children. The warrior endures the blood and the blade so that his tribe may stand another day. Endurance is the bridge between the present and the future, built upon the backs of those who suffer but do not yield.

Ewald’s voice softened, though his doubt lingered.

Ewald: Then you say endurance is for others, not for oneself?

Adelmar: Not only so. To endure is also to grow, to learn the measure of your strength. The flame endures the wind, and in doing so, it burns brighter. The man who endures his trials emerges stronger, wiser, more certain of his place in the world. And when he can no longer endure, he leaves his strength to his kin, his tribe, his people.

The young man, Ewald, sat back, his arms crossed, but his gaze was no longer defiant. The elder nodded slowly, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

I strummed a final chord, voice rising to fill the hall.

Adelmar: To endure is to be part of something greater. It is to stand not only for yourself but for those who came before and those who will follow. And if you fall, let it be said that you endured until the end, and that your endurance gave rise to others. That, my friends, is the measure of a life well-lived.

ON HONESTY

The moonlight spilled into the quiet chamber, casting long shadows across the tapestries that adorned the walls. A single candle flickered between us, its light dancing on the faces of I, Adelmar, and Princess Adalfriede. We sat across from one another, the air heavy with unspoken words.

Adalfriede: Honesty, you say, Adelmar. A fine virtue for men who have nothing to lose. But for those who carry the weight of crowns and swords, what good is truth when it leaves you exposed?

Adelmar: Honesty is not for the weak of spirit, Adalfriede. It is not a weapon, nor a shield. It is the ground beneath your feet. Without it, you are adrift, no matter how many crowns or swords you wield.

She let out a low laugh, shaking her head.

Adalfriede: Spoken like a man who has never worn a crown nor borne a sword. Strength, Adelmar, comes from the surface. If the world sees a lion, they will not dare to test if there is a lamb beneath.

Adelmar: But what of the lamb within? If you crush it, what remains? A hollow shell that roars but feels nothing. A mask that fools the world but cannot fool itself.

Adalfriede’s eyes narrowed, her voice colder now.

Adalfriede: You think I do not know myself? That I am blind to what lies within?

I shook my head.

Adelmar: I think you see it too clearly. And it terrifies you. So you build walls, layer upon layer, until even you cannot reach what lies behind them.

She leaned forward, her voice cutting.

Adalfriede: And what would you have me do, Skald? Tear down my walls, lay bare my weaknesses for the world to see? You would see me devoured in an instant.

I met her gaze without flinching.

Adelmar: No. I would see you free. The strength you speak of—the mask, the lion’s roar—it is a chain, not a crown. To hunger for strength is to starve the soul. It is a thirst that can never be quenched.

Adalfriede’s lips tightened, and for a moment, the room was silent save for the faint crackle of the candle. When she spoke, her voice was quieter, almost pained.

Adalfriede: And what of hunger, Adelmar? Is it not better to kill it? To feel nothing, to want nothing, to be untouchable?

I leaned back, and folded my arms across my chest.

Adelmar: To kill hunger is to kill life itself. A man who hungers not is a man who lives not. Hunger is what drives us, what shapes us. But it is not the hunger for strength or power that makes us whole. It is the hunger for truth, for kinship, for something greater than ourselves.

She scoffed, though the edge in her voice had softened.

Adalfriede: And what truth do you hunger for, Skald?

Adelmar: The truth of the tribe. Of myself. Of the songs I sing. I hunger to see my people not as they pretend to be, but as they are. Weakness and strength, scars and glory, all laid bare. That is where true power lies—not in hiding, but in embracing.

Adalfriede was silent for a long moment, her eyes fixed on the flickering candle. When she finally spoke, her voice was softer, almost wistful.

Adalfriede: You make it sound so simple.

Adelmar: It is not simple, Adalfriede. It is the hardest thing a man—or a woman—can do. But it is worth it. For when you are honest with yourself, no mask, no wall, no crown can ever bind you.

She looked at me, and for the first time that night, the hardness in her gaze faltered. She said nothing more, and we sat in silence to light our pipes, the candle burning low between us.

ON PRIDE

The fire crackled in the halls of the newly build Kretzen, its light flickering on the faces of us two men who could not have been more different in our ways, yet so bound by blood and love that no feud could truly sever us. Chieftain Leon, broad-shouldered and clad in his war-cloak, sat with his chin lifted high, a cup of mead in his hand and I, thinner, my tunic simple and dirt-streaked from the fields held my own cup, drained, beside me.

The tension was thick. Leon had summoned me again, to speak of what could have been—what should have been, in Leon’s eyes.

Leon: You waste yourself, cousin. A skald, a farmer—Adelmar, you are more than that. You should be sitting in the Herrenhaus, ruling men, guiding the tribe as a Duke. The Lord knows I would have fought every lord in the realm to see you raised.

I smiled to Leon.

Adelmar: Fought them all, aye, and then what? Would you have ruled as Prince over a land of scorched fields and broken oaths?

Leon scowled, his pride stung.

Leon: Do not twist my words. You know what I mean. Our line—our blood—was meant for more than the plow. Look at you, Adelmar. You have the wit of a Lawspeaker and the tongue of a skald. You could have been a great man.

I stepped closer.

Adelmar: A great man, you say. Tell me, cousin, is greatness found in a throne? In gold? In warriors who bellow your name but do not truly know you?

Leon: It is found in honor! In deeds that echo through the ages! In the pride of one’s name!

I sat across from Leon.

Adelmar: Pride, Leon. It is a fire that warms the soul—until it burns you from the inside out.

Leon slammed his cup on the table, his voice rising.

Leon: And what would you know of pride? You who fled from the life of a ruler among men, from the halls where decisions are made! You left me, Adelmar. Left me to shoulder it all.

For a moment, I said nothing. Then, I spoke, my voice steady but carrying a weight that silenced Leon.

Adelmar: I left, aye. Because I saw what you do not. A chieftain is not the flame of pride, Leon. He is the hearth where others find warmth. He is not the thunder of his name, but the steady hand that holds his tribe together. Pride does not make a chieftain. Love does.

Leon’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing.

Leon: And what love is this, that would abandon kin?

Adelmar: The love that knows its place. You think I am weak for tending the fields, for singing songs, for standing not as a commander in your battles. But tell me, Leon, who feeds your warriors? Who reminds your people of their history when the battle is done? Who ensures that when we return from war, there is still a tribe to lead?

Leon opened his mouth to retort but found no words. I pressed on.

Adelmar: A chieftain who rules only for himself, who seeks glory at the cost of his people, is no chieftain at all. You think the tribes demand pride? They demand service. They demand a man who will bend before his people so they may rise.

The room was silent, save for the crackling of the fire. Leon stared at me, his face a mix of anger, confusion, and something deeper—understanding.

Finally, he spoke, his voice quieter.

Leon: You think I do not love them? You think I do not serve?

I reached across the table, clasping Leon’s arm.

Adelmar: I know you love them, Leon. But love without humility is like a shield without a strap—useless when the storm comes.

Leon looked down at the table, his fingers tightening around his cup. For the first time, he seemed unsure.

Leon: You shame me, Adelmar.

I shook my head, and gave my cousin a faint smile.

Adelmar: No, cousin. I remind you. You are a great man, Leon, but greatness is not measured by how high you stand. It is measured by how low you are willing to kneel for your tribe.

Leon sat in silence, the weight of my words settling over him. In that moment, the warrior and the farmer were simply two men, bound by blood and love, striving to understand what it truly meant to lead.

WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

TO TILL THE SOIL; TRIBUTE TO

DIE ERDE BESTELLEN | TO TILL THE SOIL

Published by the Princess of Minitz and Sutica

In the year of our Lord 2010

Frederica in the wheat fields of Kretzen.

ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR,

HARK, FOR I SING THE TALE OF OUR BELOVED CHIEFTESS, 

She who built the hearth of this tribe,

She who toiled the soil of this land, 

She who marked her palms with calluses. 

She, whose name is Frederica I Barclay.

In the dawn of her reign, when the winds whispered her name through the fields, she stood as a beacon to all—a heart both fierce and kind, a hand both gentle and firm. Her legacy, like the earth she tended, grew deep and steadfast. The tale of Frederica, our Chieftess, shall echo through generations, for she was not merely a leader, but the very soul of the tribe itself.

CHRONIK DER KAPITEL | CHRONICLE OF CHAPTERS

INTRODUCTION ᚠ BARONESS AND SENESCHAL ᚠ CHIEFTESS ᚠ CONCLUSION

I. INTRODUCTION

Young Frederica on the road into the new lands.

FREDERICA WAS BORN A TWIN unto the High Chieftain Alfred, Prince of Sutica, alongside her brother—Erwin Ulrich¹. Long had the tribe awaited the girl, destined to become the future of the Reinmaren, and long were the prayers of her mother and father. With great joy did the heavens answer, and the celebration that followed was one for the annals of time. Yet joy and sorrow often walk hand in hand, for shortly after her birth, her mother passed in the throes of childbirth, bringing forth yet another child—Dietrich.
The babe Frederica was cradled in prophecy and promise, her path intertwined with the destiny of her people. She was to wed the son of Chieftain Leon, Prince of Minitz, uniting the tribes of Minitz and Sutica. When the tribes of Minitz and Sutica released their oaths to King Aleksandr II of Hanseti and Ruska² and marched into the northern tundra, Frederica was but a small child. The path, the fields, forests, and rivers, the sound of hoofbeats on stone—all were imprinted upon her soul. Thus were her earliest years marked by the ways of the ancestors.

1. HPG Alfred Barclay, HPG Theodosia Barclay, Announcement of twin birth, 1958

2. HRM Aleksandr II, HPG Alfred Barclay, The Stallion Decree,1960 

II. BARONESS AND SENESCHAL

Frederica praying over the river in the Ferdenwald.

WHEN THE TRIBE ARRIVED TO SETTLE, Frederica was not yet a woman, but her spirit rose swiftly to fulfill her duty as Baroness of Sigradz and Seneschal of the Heather Court³. It was her hand that raised the first tents and later the first walls of Kretzen. Her hand planted the first fields⁴, and her ink helped to pen the decrees that would shape the Heather Court. As Seneschal, the second hand to Princess Adalfriede of Minitz in all matters of the Court, she was its foundation. Being a devoted steward of the Court, Frederica became a connoisseur of culture and the art of fine craft, her particular delight resting in intricate jewels⁵.

In time, as once did the daughter of Theoderic and the son of Gelimar⁶, so too did Frederica, the daughter of High Chieftain Alfred, wed Baron Brandt, son of Chieftain Leon⁷. Thus were the tribes of Minitz and Sutica joined, and their union brought forth a child⁸—long awaited and long foretold—Erwin Barclay. As Rodimar, the son of Theoderic and Gelimar’s children, became the first Chief of the united tribes, so too was Erwin to be—the seal upon unity.

 

3. HRH Adalfriede of Hexenwald, HL Frederica Barclay, The Officers of the Heather Court,1968

4. HL Frederica Barclay, Das Planzen der Felder,1969

5. HL Frederica Barclay, Die Kronjuwelen von Reinmar, 1972

6. HE Erich Barclay, The Legacy of the Reinmaren, 1822

7. HRH Alfred Barclay, HRH Leon Barclay, HRH Adalfriede of Hexenwald, HL Frederica Barclay, HL Brandt Barclay, The Great Unification, 1979

8. HL Frederica Barclay, HL Brandt Barclay, An Announcement of Birth, 1981

III. CHIEFTESS

Frederica adorned in the royal regalia.

UPON THE DEATH OF HER FATHER, ALFRED⁹, the orphaned Frederica was crowned  Chieftess of the Reinmaren¹⁰. Not long after, Fürst Brandt, her husband, abandoned his tribe and duty, leaving Frederica to bear the weight of the crown alone. Despite all the tragedy that befell Frederica, in the dawn of her reign she was not truly alone, for she had the guidance and counsel of her mother by law—Adalfriede¹¹. Frederica carried Adalfriede’s strength with her even after her death¹², ensuring her legacy remained ever-present.

In time, death claimed her father-by-law, Chieftain Leon¹³, and with his passing came Frederica’s elevation to High Chieftess of the Reinmaren, and the crowning of her son, Erwin, as Chieftain¹⁴. 

For two decades, Frederica led her people through conflict and peace, despair and prosperity. She was beloved by many and respected by all, for as a son honors his mother, so did her tribesmen honor their Chieftess.

Death claimed Frederica I Barclay, Chieftess of the Reinmaren, Princess in Reinmar and of Sutica, with a crown upon her brow and her people within her heart¹⁵.

 

9. HRH Alfred Barclay, My Lyre and I, 1988

10. HRH Frederica Barclay, The Changing of Crowns,1989 

11. HRH Adalfriede of Hexenwald, The Tale of Adalfriede and her Hird

12. HRH Adalfriede of Hexenwald, Adalfriede's Will, 2003 

13. HRH Leon Barclay, Burden Passed 

14. HRH Erwin Barclay, The Coronation of Erwin I, 2004 

15. HRH Frederica Barclay, Ein Halb Gelebtes Leben, 2010

IV. CONCLUSION

TO LEAD THE TRIBE IS AS IF TO TILL THE SOIL, and Frederica was a masterful farmer. She planted the seeds of wisdom and placed the bricks of virtue, upon which the fields of Reinmar flourish and the walls of Kretzen stand. Though our Chieftess is absent in flesh, she remains in the soil of our tribe, and from this soil shall grow generations of sons and daughters—the fruits of Frederica’s labor.

WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, WILHELMINA VON BRANDTHOF, Princess of Minitz and Sutica

THE TALE OF

INTRACTABLE GUNDELIND

DIE GESCHICHTE DER WIDERSPENSTIGEN GUNDELIND | THE TALE OF THE INTRACTABLE GUNDELIND

Issued by the Seneschal of the Heather Court

In the year of our Lord 2002

A coal rendering of Gundelind’s runestone.

ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR,

HARK THESE WORDS THAT FLOW FORTH FROM THE LAND, for there I had uncovered this tale, etched upon ancient stone in the Reinmaren runes of old.

ᛁᚾᛏᚱᚪᛣᛏᚪᛒᛚᛖ ᚷᚢᚾᛞᛖᛚᛁᚾᛞ

Intractable Gundelind

Gundelind being cast from her father’s tribe.

‘Tis what the heading reads, revealing the contents of this tale. The author’s name had been lost, but the mention of the sacrifice of Oswald points to a time shortly after the tribe’s turn to Canonism.

Let it be cautionary to those of you, o lads and maidens of the tribe, who might allow external temptations to lead you astray from your virtue and your kin.

IN THE DAYS OF YORE, after the tribes proclaimed God as their one and only Lord, there lived a Chieftain by the name of Waldemar. His tribe was strong, his warband numerous, his cattle and horse healthy, and his daughter the fairest and most merry in all the Land. She bore the name Gundelind, and many men of the tribe came forth to seek her hand.

First came Aldemar, the wisest scholar of them all—but Gundelind deemed him too old.
Second came Edelrad, her father’s closest hirdman and most trusted advisor—Gundelind found him too pious and proper.
Third came Hildebrand, the fiercest warrior in Waldemar’s warband—but Gundelind turned from him, for he had sacrificed his beauty in battle for the tribe.
Last came a man from lands far and strange, whom Gundelind had not heard of. His name was Drazhan. He was young, of free and frivolous spirit, and he was the most handsome of all she knew. Gundelind’s heart was swayed by this foreigner.

“Wed that man, intractable daughter, and you shall wither,” bade Waldemar. But Gundelind was heedless, and so she wed Drazhan, who took her from her father’s tribe.

In time, Drazhan said unto Gundelind, “My heart is yours, wife, yet you would make me happiest if you painted your eye to appear younger, as the women of my land do.” And Gundelind painted her eyelids, which grew red and swollen, yet Drazhan was content.

Again, Drazhan spoke to her: “My heart is yours, wife, yet you would make me happiest if you wore the light, revealing garments the women of my land wear and dance around as they do.” So Gundelind adorned her neck with gold and her figure with the lightest silks she could find, and danced, and her body twisted and shivered from the cold, yet Drazhan was pleased.

Once more, Drazhan sought to ask something of Gundelind, but three men stood in his way and struck him down, for he cherished too much the beauty of his face and the smoothness of his hands, and had never wielded a sword.

Bereft, Gundelind fled back to the land of Chieftain Waldemar and cried unto him, “Father, it is I, Gundelind, and my husband is no more. Take me back into the hearth of your home.”

Yet she had been made into a foreign woman, with her body and eyes swollen, and her father did not know her. He bade his men to cast her from the tribe, for what has once ripped itself from its roots, no force will sew back together.

WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

HER LADYSHIP, WILHELMINA VON BRANDTHOF, Seneschal of the Heather Court

REFERENCES

1. Aelfwin von Kretzen, HRH Frederica Barclay and HE Nikolaus von Kanunsberg, The Tale of Osmund, Principality of Reinmar (1973)

Lo and attend me, for I sing the song of Ewald, the first man to speak the laws of the Reinmaren long before the days of Theoderic and Gelimar and their feud. Not a young man by any means, white hair sprouted from Ewald’s ears and his nose but not from his head, his pate as shiny as a riverstone worn smooth by the current. He raised a runestone by the river’s edge, a tall spire to tell the tale of his chieftains. Three in all, each marked by a spiral graven with Ewald’s own wrinkled hands.

The fourth chieftain approached, a boy of six and ten. I know not his name, and Ewald’s Song remembers him only as the Young Chief. The Young Chief puffed his chest and planted his spear in the ground. Verily he looked the part of the chieftain, with a horsehair tassel around his spear and a warhorn at his hip, but he grew no beard, and his face held the soft roundness of youth. He turned to his elder for wisdom and advice, for his father was dead, and his father’s father, and his father before him, for if they had lived he would not be chieftain, but his ancestors had left him all alone in the world.

‘Good elder,’ the Young Chief cried. ‘I know not what to do. My goatherd spreads bad rumours of my craftsman, and the tribesmen turn to me for justice.’

Ewald rose ponderously from his spot on the riverbank. ‘The tongue is a scythe and everything that it reaps. Planting bad rumours grows in your tribe as a poisoned weed, and the man who tills the soil is a bad worker, joshqiptar. You must burn the weed away. Let none call the goatherd to work, let none give him pay for his meat and cheese until his tongue is cleaned of bad rumours.’

‘I will not punish a man who speaks only words. Words are wind, not daggers,’ declared the Young Chief.

‘Punish him, you will,’ said Ewald.

‘I am the chieftain! It is I, it is I! Who are you to put your word above mine?’

‘I served three chieftains before you. This stone tells of their deeds, but it is also in here.’ He tapped the side of his bald head. ‘Your father punished the man who spread bad rumours. I know it, for I was there. Your father’s father had the tongue of the joshqiptar. I know it, for I was there. His father before him forbade the tribe from calling the bad worker to work. I know it, for I was there.’

‘The tribes of our neighbour to the south punish the man who steals a stallion, taking his hand for a thief. The tribes to the west reward the stallion-stealer with a horsehair braid made by the chieftain’s own hands. The northern tribes have abandoned the way of horses and now tend the fertile lands as farmers. My father and my father’s father are dead. I do not follow the commands of dead men!’