“Here, I stand before you, to also reprimand your men. The war is considered over, you have lost. I am not prolonging this dribbly battle,” the imperial prince murmured, “Bring out the Druscan men who committed this murder, so that they may be executed.”

“If you are unwilling, just say, and we can start this show,” Hadrian's eyes undulate, gently brushing the mane of his horse. “I am not here for a debate, and I am sure you, too, are not here for one either.”

“The men,” the imperial prince commanded.

“Lucien.” He barked from underneath his helm.

Hadrian Tiberias croaked his gaze in the direction of Lucien.

Roger casted a glance over his men, and his eyes upon the Imperials, and lastly to Lucien. He then placed a hand before Luciens' chest, “Blood for Ashford. I wish you fortune in the wars to come. As for me, I shall meet my fate within my keep.

No sooner had the Archduke spoken did he withdraw to his keep, where the last of his men readied themselves for the battle to come. To the untrained eye, their cause was a lost one. A meager eighteen hundred men bore still the cross of the Vydric, the tattered remnant of the Druscan host which had been bled dry at the Battle of Lizard’s Run. And their losses had stripped them of more than men. Depleted of arrows, blades, and mail, the Druscans stood a host in name alone. Against them marched the might of the Empire, fourfold in number, drawn from a score of Imperial vassals. And yet, what the Druscans lacked in numbers, they bore in resolve and discipline, tempered in the Battle of the Sunset, the Storming of Cleves, the Sacking of Waldemer, and the Battle of Lizard’s Run. There had they learned of the Empire’s treachery: the Emperor’s blades were not the keepers of peace, but instruments of slaughter, for soldiers clad in Imperial burgundy cut down dozens of Druscans upon the open fields of Westmark. So did those who remained now stand with the certainty of men prepared for death, hungering for vengeance, their blades eager to sate such an appetite. Comparatively, the Imperial Host, though great in number, was a patchwork of stray Imperial guards and vassal levies, nigh all among them green men untested upon the battlefield. 

The Druscans were granted but a few short minutes to gather themselves whilst the Imperial host organized for the assault. At their head would lead Roger, dressed as one of their own, a soldier among soldiers, his rank betrayed only by the crown upon his helm. Arrayed so, the Druscans stood ready whence the Prince Hadrian at last voiced his commands, ordering the Imperials to scale the northern walls. Lacking the proper engines of war, the Crown Prince had chosen speed over patience, eager to bring an end to this conflict. His rashness would cost him greatly. Drawn inside by a feigned retreat, great swathes of the Imperial host found the gates barred fast behind them, and in the courtyard of Waldemer, they were hewn apart, slaughtered within the palace grounds. Those not trapped within the courtyard fared no better, as arrows rained down from the Waldemer’s parapets upon them. 

Having yet to fell so much as a single Druscan, the Crown Prince gave the order to fall back and reform the line, to ready the Imperials for another assault. The next advance was to be led by the Tar of Numendil, and once the ranks were redressed, a second charge loosed upon the walls of Waldemer. Roger led the Druscans still, who greeted the Imperials with steel. And upon the ramparts of Castle Waldemer, he came upon the Tar. Upon his Adunian counterpart Roger brought down his carbarum blade, only for it to be turned aside by a blade of the same make, wielded by the Tar. This exchange of blows would last some considerable time, before at last, though wearied and bearing still the wounds of Westmark, Roger’s blade drove deep into the Tar’s calf. So was yet another retreat called, as the Imperials whisked the Tar away, lest Roger’s blade more fatally find him elsewhere.

By now, scores of Imperials had fallen in the fruitless assaults upon Waldemer. Over a third of the host was slain, with more yet deserting into the woods to the north. Perhaps now chastened by his blunders, the Crown Prince set his scouts to ride the circuit of walls in search of some breaching point; at last they came upon a breach in one of the northernmost towers. Seeing his chance, the Prince drove a contingent ahead, to ladder into the Castle. As the Imperials swarmed the tower, the few Druscans holding the tower shouted for aid to those still butchering stragglers in the courtyard. They came at once, steel slick with blood, and met the climbers on the ladders. The fight was desperate, and close-run, but in the end, the invaders were thrown back, though only just.

Despite all expectation, the Druscans had held their ground, but the fight grew only more desperate with each passing hour, as what few resources the Druscans had to them dwindled down. Roger, whether haughty from his unlikely performance or desperate to bring the fighting to a swift end, pressed for a counterstroke, stripping the northern tower of its garrison. It was the opening the Imperials needed. The remainder of the Imperial host poured through and at last, the remainder of the Druscans were all cut down, save their commanders. Roger himself had been cast from the tower, his leg shattering in the fall, and all he could do was look up as the Empire’s banner rose over Waldemer.

The details of the battle would provide much for Roger to think upon, as he and his household were swept towards the capital. Could victory have been his had he not ordered that final, fatal charge? If victory had come, would it have mattered? Such thoughts were fleeting, for the capital drew nearer upon the horizon, and before long he was thrust in the great hall, to stand before the Emperor’s sons, his left and right hands in his absence.

Another man might have cowered to be faced with the Empire’s wroth. Roger was no such man. And so when that demand was laid plainly before him, to render his knee in fealty and swear again, his answer did not come swiftly. Fear gnawed at him, yes, if even it did not show. It was fear for his lady wife, for his young son and daughter, for the people who bore his banner. Yet he bore another fear too, a deeper one: fear of a soul forsworn, left to linger and rot in the void. Between his Emperor and his God, it was made apparent he could no longer serve both. One oath was to be broken with his answer, and he had long weighed which.

At last, he raised his voice, made certain from his contemplation, and spoke the same words of Jon Renault before him, those which he delivered before Philip the Tyrant:

“I bow to no man but GOD.” 

And so too did he share in Jon Renault’s doom. In the Emperor’s hall, he was hewn down,  as his knights gave their last cry: “Blood for Ashford”. His death bought neither land nor crown, but the passage of his soul into the Seven Skies. And in that death, his defiance rang louder than any victory.

	Arnaud of Drusco
	Geordie of Houndsden
	Renaud of Greye
	Lucien of Brionnes
	Michael of Zenorein
	Kerescen of Basarab
	Imre of Drusco
	Charles of Drusco
	Drolzu’Gorkil
	Leofric of Drusco
	Fulbert of Clare
	John of Orange
	Jon of Virdain
	Drogo of Valognes
	Tobias of Staunton
	Economos of Valdev

The Charge of the Clevite Brigade, 2044

And for their hearts could not know wisdom…

Nor contentment in their greed…

Render upon them only appetite…

Eternal in life, eternal in hunger…

Transgression for their sin most foule…

“CHARGE! CHARGEEEE!”

“BLOOD FOR ASHFORD!”

“DEATH TO THE HARRENITE!”

“WOE TO THE HALFBREEDS!”

The cry for war, echoed by Druscan men baring hearts infused with zeal and passion for their liege lord, rang out across the valley. The thunderous claps of a thousand hooves soon joined in tandem, a prelude to the cacophonic battle to come.

Frederick van Haeger rode amongst strangers that day. Farmhanders and fletchers, blacksmiths and stonemasons, soldiers and the sons of lords both greater and lesser. Each of them rode as one that day, in spite of their differences in station and class, into the charnel pit that was war.

Yet unlike those around him, van Haeger knew his death was writ large. As he smashed down the reins of his horse, pale steed spurred into a gallop alongside the men and women of Drusco, the battle to come made him snarly lowly beneath his helm. The hunger. How many years had it been, since he had last drank deep? The quenching of his thirst that had been denied to him would be his undoing, he knew - he rode forth to desolation and desolation alone awaited him. 

From beneath the veil of his bascinet helm, Frederick could not help but smile. Death would come for him on his own terms, at the very least.

Let them know only folly and ruin, these monsters of the night…

Let the finality of death elude them…

Just as the worth of mortal life…

Steel rang against steel in baleful song as the riders clashed against eachother like battering waves. Much of the cavalry - Druscan, Myrinese, Numenor - found their horses toppling against their enemy in the initial clash. Frederick held firm for only a minute before a pike smashed against his cranium, sending him toppling down from his horse. 

In a few more moments, the fallen huntsman had managed to recompose himself, arising to his feet. He gazed all about him - from both sides of the battlefield, infantrymen charged forth, their swords raised skyward as they screamed cries of combat. With each swing of the blade against one another, the sons of Horen rendered bloodshed anew. Frederick found himself mesmerized, stood still like a statue…

Blood…

Blood..

Blood

BLOOD.

The Beast stirred and wrestled within like a giant. That which lived within all his kind, doomed to forever exist behind their eyes. The monster amongst men swivelled his head, his attention struck upon a young Myrinese infantryman. A boy, from the look of him, no older than sixteen winters. The unfortunate youth clutched a longsword in hand, looking this way and that with frenzied, beady eyes.

This one was terrified. He had no place on a battlefield. 

Good, van Haeger thought. The weak are as meat, and the strong do eat.

Frederick’s head tilted at the lad, as if in challenge. Yet he drew no weapon - his hands reached up, yanking his helmet from his scalp and tossing it aside. The youth only grew more terrified as he set his sights on the man watching him ahead - his face was coated in his own twisted ichor, his skin pale and sickly. He looked halfway between beast and man, the moustached vagrant’s top lip parted to display two ravenous fangs. Frederick’s eyes were cold and hungry, yet his mouth could only grin with such hideous abundance…

Before the hunter could move a muscle, before the accursed transformation could finish, he felt a pressure upon his chest. One deeper than the hunger he felt, one more visceral…

He gazed downward, and his grin soon faded into a scowl. A blade rippled through his chest from behind, the sword struck true - it had punctured his heart, a fatal bane for even an immortal.

“Damn…” The Vampyre murmured with disappointment in his last breath, crumpling limp onto the grass.

And as the battle raged, and Drusco tasted the sour grapes of defeat…

There, amongst the dead, Frederick van Haeger would be found - body frozen in death, a dissapointed scowl still held upon blood-soaked lips.

Mortis.

What She Was Not

The clash of the Imperial vassals at Westmark, 2044

((100 Years War Battle Scene, Tomas Honz))

“BLOOD FOR ASHFORD! DEATH TO THE HALFBREEDS!”

The sound of a thousand hooves beating upon the earth drummed across the valley, and pulsed in Katharina’s helmed head. The mass of cavalry streamed forward as one, their plumes and colourful banners fluttering in the breeze; she, the field captain of the Black Band, held the standard of that Alstreim regiment, raised high, among the panoply of Ashford flags as they advanced. But she thought not of the countless victories in battles past embroidered upon that standard, nor of the men-at-arms carrying that storied tradition alongside her - as they galloped across that field, her mind was overcome with rage, and her blood, so tainted with the curse of an impostor, boiled with the desire to kill.

She exchanged the flag for a lance with an ensign, as they briefly halted, and their counterparts emerged across the ridge in a flurry of steel and foreign banners of war. On both sides, the lances soon dropped in one mind, and the charge commenced. Screaming a battle cry at the top of her lungs, the Knight aimed her charger and her ferrum-tipped lance towards the fray. The Black Band struggled to follow her, and indeed soon became embroiled in the clash alongside the Druscans, as men and steel became entwined in grotesque slaughter. But Katharina cared little; soon her lance ran deep red with the blood of an Adunian, and she pressed on at full speed between the bodies so haphazardly thrown into war. A hellish shrill escaped her as she recalled that the warriors of Númendil were once allies to the House whose colours she claimed.

Sweat poured in streams beneath the bascinet she wore, crowned by a Waldenic torse of intertwined crimson-and-black. Mad fervour danced in her eyes like fire - deep down she knew she deserved not to bear those symbols. But she could suppress that feeling, knowing that those foes frantically parting before her path were far worse. Harrenite halfbreeds. Heretics in service of a false Faith. Adrians who spat on their own holy ancestor. They believed not in what they were, and she believed in what she was not. And what she was not fueled her fury; she wished to destroy, to utterly eradicate those who had dared to take up arms against the high seat of Merryweather of Alstreim, the marble halls of Calliopeburg, that domain she had claimed as hers and stood in very opposition, by wicked choice of the Priest conspiring with Orenid, to the mad puppet-hordes of Lemon Hill.

And if all her men, and she alongside them, were to cast their bodies upon the pyre of war to see them both burned away, she would light that fire gladly. Men and horses around her were felled and cut down in agony, and she struck another Adrian with her lance, pierced another Adunian’s mail. The pole soon cracked, and the ferrum tip was blunted to uselessness. Deep in the fray, she even sighted the plate-clad Prince of Blackvale, and tossed the remains of her lance at the royal, striking him with hardly any force, unmatched by far in ferocity by her crazed laughter.

It could have been a pikeman of his personal retinue that finally felled her charger with a well-placed jab. In her daze of bloodthirst she hardly noticed this setback, as she lunged and rolled over the field, to the point of bruising, to avoid being crushed by the carcass of her once-companion. Quickly her side-sword had found its way into her gauntleted hand. The men of Alstreim, and the banner of the Black Band, were nowhere to be seen; indeed, fewer and fewer Druscan flags still stood. Cries of agony still resounded over the valley, but the ringing of steel faded ever quieter, with fewer and fewer soldiers still standing in the clash. She hacked at whatever levyman of the coalition was the closest. An Adunian swordsman fighting nearby turned and repaid her in kind, thrusting his blade at the gaps in her half-plate. A mist fell upon her eyes, and wherever she now stood, the Knight was soon left a bloodied, shambling mess.

She collapsed to her knees, but the wretched halfbreed, fatigued and injured himself, ambled elsewhere; she tossed aside her bascinet and spat blood in his direction, and fell upon the ground, crawling towards him with the last of her strength. She hated him more than she could hate herself, though she inched across the bloodstained grass and between the mounds of corpses to her own detriment and demise. An eerie silence soon reigned upon the field; it seemed as if the battle was finally over, though Katharina could not tell if it were just a trick played upon her by her fading mind. But on she crawled, her crimson tresses muddied, blood seeping from her wounds and her scars of Sutican rot reopened upon the ground with every jolt, and she sought to avoid the direction of wherever the medics of the Empire could be.

And she understood full well that she would draw her last breath upon that accursed field of Westmark. In her final moment, numb to what should have been overwhelming pain, she instead felt immeasurable joy, and vivid delusions of being welcomed to the Seven Skies themselves, by a hand offered by Saint Ottomar, danced in her mind. It was an ugly, degrading death for an Elf from Fausten who would never see that Heaven, an ignominious end for a girl who once was Falion.

But for what she was not - one Knight Katharina of Calliopeburg, it was a death in glorious martyrdom befitting the elder blood of House von Alstreim.

TO THE PEOPLE OF GARENBRIG,

But only a few Saint’s hours earlier I, Lord LLYW GLENNMAER, was taken captive by Lord LUCIEN ASHFORD DE BRIONNES. And here I yet remain, held in long confinement within the walls of the Waldemer; and not one man of Myrine, nor of Numendil, nor of Blackvale, nor even mine own home of Garenbrig, has come forth to my aid, in spite of letters and couriers sent detailing my capture. Where aid has been denied to me, I have found instead common courtesy and, more importantly, the steadiness of sound reason. Such things, in turn, move my hand, and so do I set forth and proclaim these things three.

I | OF THE WAR

For blades have been withheld from me in my hour of need, so too shall I withhold my blade from the Myrinian host. From this hour fourth, I proclaim that no longer shall I take up sword against the Druscan host.

II | OF MY PERSON

For I have been much enlightened during my time within the walls of Castle Waldemer, so too do I commit my person unto Lord Roger Ashford de Rouen, to remain a ward beneath him until such a time that I come of age.

To those of Garenbrig, my own home, who continue to fight in this battle, I offer my earnest plea: lay down your swords, and shed not your blood for the cause of another man who knows not even your name. Go back to your homes, and to your farmsteads, and turn away from this petty war, which is only to bring ruin upon us all.

SIGNED,

His Lordship, Llwy Glennmaer





 

In the early hours of the afternoon the Druscan group led by Andre Ashes walked in the front doors of Trident’s Peak. The keep was unguarded, Madelief van Aert, the Princess of Myrine and mother of Calias Mareno, was captured with ease and promptly taken back to Drusco as prisoner.

When The Marenos stood before Archduke Roger to air their grievances, it was Calias’ foul tongue and loose lips which led to the escalation of this conflict. Where the Princess and her Husband should have sought to guide and direct their heir as becoming of their station, it was their weakened hands that faltered, unwilling and unable to control their young lord which led to the prompt escalation and derailment of diplomacy between these two noble houses.

The terms of her release are as such:
Turn over Calais II in a prisoner exchange.
Until then, she will remain imprisoned and watched over by Renaud of Greye. 

NO WORDS, BUT DEEDS.

André Ashes, Champion of Drusco

FOUNDED IN 2028

To carry forth the will of GOD with sword in hand is mayhaps the most sacred charge which He has levied upon His servants. This charge, men have taken upon themselves since the earliest days of the Church, in defense of the one true faith. Seek no further than Saint Andrew Vydra. For, when the Holy Mother Church was beset on all sides, by schismatic within and heathen without, GOD did raise Saint Andrew as His chosen vessel from among the lowly, to bear His sword and bring the infidel host to heel. For his unwavering fidelity to the Holy Mother Church, he is revered in the Seven Skies among the most devout servants of the faith. It is he that does set forth the image by which all men who raise their sword in GOD’s name ought to measure themselves. Thereby, in his most holy name, do we hereby consecrate the establishment of the Most High Order of Saint Andrew--otherwise to be referred to as the Vydric Order--in the year of Our Lord, 2028, by Lord Roger Ashford de Rouen. For those who seek to set upon the path once righteously tread by the Saint King of Akovia, and to champion his ideals of the supremacy and unity of mankind, as is the will of GOD, to be enforced through the sword. 

ALTMASTER | The Altmaster of the Vydric Order is the supreme head of the order. He serves as its primary military commander and administrative chief. The Altmaster oversees governance of the order, leads military campaigns, and maintains the Order's rule and disciplines. The position directs foreign relations, is tasked with the appointment of high-ranking officials, and ensures the welfare of the knights alongside its clergy. 

GREAT COMMANDER | The Great Commander is the second-highest authority within the Vydric Order, subordinate only to the Altmaster. Chief among his duties is to aid the Altmaster, offering counsel and guidance as needed. He is likewise charged with the oversight of the Order in the absence of the Altmaster.

COUNCIL OF VYDRA | The Council of Vydra is composed of four key officers that may be brought from different chapters of the order. The Field-Marshal leads the troops onto the battlefield. The Vicar oversees all clergy and spiritual matters, while also supporting the Order's diplomatic efforts. The Trappier manages equipment and uniforms across all ranks, ensuring the Order remains properly outfitted. The Seneschal controls finances and works closely with the Brother-Bailiffs to maintain the Order's estates and resources.

BROTHER-BAILIFFS | Beneath the charge of Altmaster, the Brother-Bailiffs are responsible for the direct oversight of individual chapters, overseeing the regular maintenance and operations thereof. Given such, the Brother-Bailiffs serve as direct liaison betwixt his own forces and those of the Order writ large, labouring diligently to ensure that the will of the Vydric order is executed with utmost fidelity.

KNIGHT-COMMANDERS | Within individual chapters, Knight-Commanders are responsible for the oversight of retinues, which are small contingents composed of knights, brothers, and initiates. These distinguished retainers are made to oversee the regular functions of these individual retinues.

KNIGHTS | Brothers-in-arms who distinguish themselves, provided they show unwavering service and the martial prowess to warrant it, are elevated to the rank of Knight, by either the Brother-Bailiffs, the Altmaster, or the Great Commander. Within the Vydric, they serve as the vanguard, and may assume additional roles in oversight or command.

KNIGHT-SERGEANT | Knights who have made themselves distinguished beneath the purview of the Knight-Commanders are elevated to the rank of Knight-Sergeant, serving effectively as officers within their respective retinues. These Knight-Sergeants are expected to aid their superiors in the daily maintenance of their retinues, overseeing the day-to-day operations and trainings. 

CHEVALIER | Knights who demonstrate exceptional skill with the blade are promoted to the rank of Chevalier. Renowned for their martial prowess, the Chevaliers are elite soldiers who serve as the primary cavalry within a given chapter. Often considered the most skilled fighters of the Vydric, the Chevaliers are expected to be unmatched in combat, to uphold the reputation of the Order.

DISCIPLINARIAN | Knights who showcase exceptional discipline and acumen are elevated to the rank of Disciplinarian. Within a given chapter, the Disciplinarians are chiefly responsible for maintaining order and discipline among their fellow Knights, as well as the Brothers and Initiates, in order to uphold the uniformity and regimentation of the Vydric.

FLAG-BEARER | Knights and brothers within a given chapter are afforded the opportunity to be chosen as the flag-bearer, a position held by only one individual for each chapter. They are responsible for carrying the standard of the Order, Chaptermaster, and Altmaster, which they are expected to use to lead and direct their retinue during formations and combat.

BROTHERS | Brothers constitute the rank-and-file of a given chapter and, as such, serve as the foundation Vydric Order’s fighting force. As the backbone of the Vydric, they are often the first to engage in battle, being regularly sent forth on raids and skirmishes. Thereby are the Brothers expected to be proficient in all manners of combat.

INITIATES | Unoathed soldiers who have neither been baptised nor yet sworn themselves to the Vydric Order are considered Initiates. As the lowest ranks, Initiates are often relegated to humbler tasks, such as gathering resources or taking on guarding duties as a means of demonstrating their fidelity to the Vydric, that they might, in due time, be deemed fit to be oathed as Brothers.

WORDS OF OATHING:

“Before my kin, my blood, and my forebears, I swear this bond, affixed, blessed be Andrik Vydra. To the Vydric Order, I give my name, my sword, and my life. Fidelity shall bind my word and deed, placing the Order above all other ties. Fortitude shall steel my spirit, that no wound, terror, or burden break me. Prudence shall sharpen my judgment, that I strike with reason, speak with sensibility, and endure with acumen. I forswear treachery, cowardice, and vain ambition. I shall stand when called, kneel when ordered, and bleed when required. Until death takes me, or my name is struck from the rolls, so do I swear, GOD as my witness..”

WORD OF HONOR | A knight’s word is the surest stone upon which his name is set. He shall cleave to his oath and to his brethren, placing the Order’s charge before all kinship, lordship, or worldly claim.

WORD OF STRENGTH | A knight is to bear pain, dread, and misfortune as iron bears the hammer’s fall. He shall not falter before wound nor woe, nor yield to despair whilst breath yet stirs within him.
 

WORD OF TEMPERANCE | A knight’s hand is not to be guided by wrath, nor his tongue by folly. In all things, he shall weigh the course with care, strike with cause, and speak with wisdom, lest ruin find him through reckless deed.

WORD OF JUSTICE | A knight’s hand is not to be guided by wrath, nor his tongue by folly. In all things, he shall weigh the course with care, strike with cause, and speak with wisdom, lest ruin find him through reckless deed.

Those who desire to enlist in the Most High Order of Saint Andrew are advised to seek audience with one bearing the distinction of Knight-Commander or higher. Alternatively, a letter may be sent declaring one’s intent, whereupon the sender shall be received and examined by one of like rank. If a man is judged fit for enlistment, he shall be received as an Initiate of a given chapter, wherein he shall commence his service to the Vydric Order. 

Requirements

The Order requires little of those who seek admittance. Chiefly, it favors descendants of Horen, a principle founded upon the doctrines of Saint Andrew, who upheld the undeniable dominion and supremacy of Mankind. Yet those of nonhuman descent—namely the scions of Malin and Urguan—may yet be admitted, provided they cast off the heretical customs and false idolatry of their kind, and embrace the customs of Mankind. Furthermore, those of nonhuman descent who have not yet embraced the true faith shall be baptised upon admittance, and shall take upon themselves new baptismal names, to honor saints and holy places of yore.

NO WORDS, BUT DEEDS.

HIS LORDSHIP, Roger of Bourdon, Altmaster of the Vydric Order

And when at last the unsightly white walls of Númenost lay before them, the Druscans found neither the great host promised by Calias, nor the retainers of Númendil to meet them in battle. Instead, he found shut gates which guarded an empty city. Not to be denied, the Druscan host pressed into the mountains, rode up its peaks, and from there scaled the walls to breach it. 

To no surprise of anyone, the meager host of Numendilians and Myrinians hid behind their palace gates. It was made very clear today that the Numendilians have successfully taken a page out of the Balianite Novellen playbook: to speak brazenly while cowering behind their doors.

Even the Tar of Numendil abandoned his own people! Upon hearing the Druscan bannermen charge through the city square, the Tar of Numendil vanished into thin air, leaving his own subjects to be apprehended by the knights of the Alliance. 

We celebrate the cowardly Tar of Numendil for sparing the lives of his citizens, by magically vanishing upon this day.

Hurray to the Allied forces! Ave Drusco!

The Mask of the Heart

Playwright: Elijah Nastoria | @PrinceTheDM

Published By: The Montello Creatives Guild, 2043

“Love is a fine thing, but it will not keep a roof over your head when the rain comes through.”

-Character List-

PASCAL DURRIN – Male lead. Son of Renaud Durrin, heir to a vast merchant fortune. Earnest, romantic, and eager to find his place among the nobility. Torn between his father’s pragmatic ambitions and his own ideals.

CYRA VEYRIN – Female lead. Noblewoman of House Veyrin. Intelligent, poised, and strategic, with a sharp understanding of her family’s financial decline. Torn between using Pascal for survival and feeling genuine attachment.

RENAUD DURRIN – Pascal’s father. Famed and ruthless merchant whose fleets span the empire. Ambitious and calculating, intent on using marriage as a business transaction to elevate the family’s social standing.

MARCELLE DURRIN – Pascal’s mother. Socially astute and supportive, she guides Pascal in presenting himself in a way that appeals to noble circles, while sharing her husband’s pragmatic outlook.

LORD VEYRIN – Cyra’s father. Once prosperous, now financially strained. Proud but desperate, he sees Cyra’s marriage as the family’s best chance at restoration.

LADY VEYRIN – Cyra’s mother. Sharp-tongued and socially calculating. Focused on securing a wealthy match for Cyra, unafraid to apply pressure to achieve it.

SERVANT – A discreet member of the Veyrin household staff who delivers Pascal’s arrival in Act 1, Scene 3.

ACT I – THE DANCE BEGINS

ACT I – SCENE I
The ballroom of Bellavere Hall. Music drifts through the air as couples dance. Servants weave between guests with wine and sweetmeats. CYRA stands at the edge of the floor, poised but apart. Her gown is elegant yet modest, the difference between her family’s dwindling fortune and the glittering wealth of the room as stark as sunlight on marble.

CYRA (aside)
Look at them… gold glinting in candlelight, silk sweeping over marble. And somewhere in this sea is the one who will lift the Veyrin name from the dust. Not a noble - richer than a noble. Hungry for our crest.

Her gaze finds PASCAL across the room, politely speaking with a circle of older lords. His posture is respectful, almost deferential.

CYRA (aside)
There he is. The merchant’s son. Durren ships sail farther than kings’ armies, bringing home treasures most will never see. And yet he bows too deeply to men who would never return the courtesy… Pity. He will be the perfect mark.

She glides across the floor toward him. PASCAL turns, catching sight of her. He straightens, surprise and awe softening his features.

CYRA
Master Durren. I had begun to think the tales of your elegance were exaggerated. I see now they do you no justice.

PASCAL (flustered)
You honor me, Lady Veyrin. I never imagined a noble would… seek me out.

CYRA
And I never imagined a merchant could carry himself with the air of a courtly knight.

PASCAL blushes, glancing at the floor before meeting her gaze again.

CYRA (aside)
Remember why you are here. For the Veyrin estate. For survival. Nothing more. Nothing less.

PASCAL
You are too kind, my lady.

CYRA
Well… are you going to ask me to dance?

PASCAL (quickly)
Ah - yes, forgive me. Lady Veyrin, may I have this dance?

CYRA (taking his hand with calculated grace)
Yes. You shall.

They step onto the floor. As they move together, CYRA feels the warmth of his hand, the rhythm of his breath. She rests her head briefly against his chest, hearing the pace of his heart.

CYRA (aside)
And yet… how dangerous, if survival begins to feel like something else entirely.

Lights fade.

ACT I – SCENE II
The terrace of Bellavere Hall. Lantern light spills through the tall windows, casting warm gold across the cool stone. Beyond, the gardens stretch into shadow. Music and laughter drift faintly from inside. CYRA and PASCAL step out, hands still loosely clasped from their dance.

PASCAL
I confess, my lady… I thought you might vanish back into the crowd the moment the music ended.

CYRA
And lose my chance to speak with the man whose ships make half of Bellavere’s nobles lean forward at dinner? That would be foolish.

PASCAL laughs softly, still a little unsure how to hold himself around her.

PASCAL
You make it sound far grander than it is. My father built our trade… I have only just begun to learn it.

CYRA (aside)
And therein lies the opening. A man still finding his place will cling to the first hand that steadies him.

CYRA
Humility suits you. But do not pretend the Durren name carries no weight. Even the highest lords depend on what your ships bring from across the sea.

PASCAL (earnest)
And yet, I will never belong among them. Titles are a door no coin can unlock.

CYRA studies him for a moment, masking the flicker of sympathy behind her composed smile.

CYRA
Perhaps… but doors can be opened from the inside.

PASCAL tilts his head, curious.

PASCAL
And would you… open such a door for me?

CYRA (aside)
Say yes. Bind him. Each word another stitch in the Veyrin banner. Do not let sentiment loosen your grip.

CYRA
If the right opportunity arose… I would not see it go to waste.

Silence hangs between them, the garden breeze carrying the scent of roses. PASCAL steps closer, his voice quieter.

PASCAL
Then I am glad fate put you in my path tonight.

CYRA (aside)
Fate had nothing to do with it, dear merchant. But… I almost wish it had.

From inside, CYRA’s mother calls her name sharply. The moment breaks. CYRA glances toward the ballroom, then back at PASCAL.

CYRA
I must return. But perhaps… you might call upon the Veyrin estate tomorrow?

PASCAL (smiling)
It would be my honor.

She offers a slight curtsey and slips back inside, leaving PASCAL on the terrace, staring after her with the look of a man already lost to love.

Lights fade.

ACT I – SCENE III
The drawing room of the Veyrin estate. Evening light filters through tall windows, catching on dust motes. The space is stately but worn, with a faint sag in the drapes, hairline cracks in the plaster, and polish rubbed thin on the armrests of the chairs. CYRA sits on the edge of a chaise, posture perfect. LADY VEYRIN pours tea with deliberate grace. LORD VEYRIN, hollow-eyed, stands near the mantel with a thin ledger in hand.

LADY VEYRIN
I hear you made quite the impression at Bellavere last night.

CYRA
So I am told.

LORD VEYRIN (without looking up)
Impression is not enough. The Durren boy’s fortune is.

CYRA
Father—

LORD VEYRIN (closing the ledger with a sharp clap)
Do you think the roof repairs will pay for themselves? The steward’s wages? The orchard we had to sell last spring?

CYRA’s gaze drifts briefly to a chipped porcelain vase on the side table.

CYRA (aside)
To them, I am another asset to be leveraged. Another vase to patch before the next guest arrives.

A knock at the door. The SERVANT enters and bows.

SERVANT
Master Durren has arrived, my lady.

LADY VEYRIN’s lips curve into a satisfied smile. PASCAL enters a moment later, dressed neatly, posture slightly formal but warm-eyed. He pauses to take in the room.

PASCAL
It is beautiful here. Everything feels… timeless.

CYRA
Timeless?

PASCAL
Yes, the furniture, the drapes… it is like the vintage pieces my father finds in the old markets overseas. Things built to last.

CYRA (aside)
Vintage, he calls it. I call it old. Faded. A breath away from breaking.

LADY VEYRIN (lightly)
We do treasure our history here, Master Durren.

PASCAL smiles at CYRA, oblivious to the tension under the words.

PASCAL
If you would allow it, I would like to see more of your home… perhaps the gardens?

CYRA (a practiced smile)
Perhaps. And one day, you will show me these treasures you speak of.

LORD VEYRIN (from the mantel, quiet but pointed)
Some things are worth showing only to those who can keep them.

The line hangs in the air. PASCAL hears only courtesy, but CYRA hears the weight of an unspoken order. The tea is poured, conversation resumes, and the curtain falls with the unshakable sense that both are being moved by hands they cannot yet see.

Lights fade.

ACT I – SCENE IV
The Durren townhouse. Unlike the Veyrin estate, there is no faded grandeur here. Everything gleams with recent purchase. The walls are lined with polished wood paneling, the rugs still rich with color, and every item in the room has the subtle shine of something new. PASCAL sits in an armchair by the fire, speaking with his mother, MARCELLE. His father, RENAUD, stands at a large desk with charts and ledgers spread before him, a globe turned toward the eastern seas.

MARCELLE
So… a Lady Veyrin.

PASCAL (smiling faintly)
Yes. We danced at Bellavere. She is—

RENAUD (without looking up)
The Veyrin name carries weight. Old blood, once considerable land.

MARCELLE
Though I hear their fortunes have thinned.

PASCAL
I did not notice their fortunes, Mother. I noticed her.

RENAUD (turning to face him)
A noble title is something coin cannot buy. But coin in the right hands, joined to the right name, can go much farther.

MARCELLE
Pascal, you have worked hard to be accepted in their circles. You have always felt that door was closed to us. Perhaps now…

PASCAL
I do not care for the door. I care that she opened it for me without asking what I could pay to walk through.

RENAUD
You are romanticizing her. Nobles marry for advantage, not affection.

PASCAL (quietly)
Perhaps she is different.

MARCELLE (gently)
Different or not, you will need to show them we can match what they expect. Invite her here. Show her our best. The summer house in Rivelonne. The gallery. Let her see we are not grasping upstarts.

PASCAL glances at the polished furnishings, then toward the fire.

PASCAL (aside)
They speak of status and proof, of what she might bring. I think only of her in the lantern light, of the way she looked at me as if I already belonged.

RENAUD returns to the globe, tracing a shipping route with one finger.

RENAUD
We sail for Caravan next month. Bring her to the dock before we depart. Let her see the ships.

MARCELLE
A noblewoman will notice the little things. The cut of your coat, the way the crew greets you. Appearances matter.

PASCAL (half-smiling)
Then I suppose I will have to be perfect.

He takes a sip of tea, gaze fixed on the fire, the faintest flicker of determination in his eyes, whether for love or ambition, even he might not yet know.

Lights fade.

ACT II – CRACKS IN THE MASKS

ACT II – SCENE I
The Veyrin gardens, early afternoon. The last of the morning mist clings to the roses. Bees hum lazily from bloom to bloom. CYRA walks ahead along a gravel path, trailing her fingers over the hedges. PASCAL follows a step behind, his gaze drawn more to her than to the flowers.

CYRA
You see… this part of the gardens was once the pride of the estate. My grandmother had a dozen gardeners working these beds.

PASCAL
It is beautiful still.

CYRA
Beautiful, yes… though you should have seen it then.

PASCAL (smiling)
You speak of it as if it is gone entirely. But all I see are blooms that carry their history proudly.

CYRA (aside)
He finds poetry in decay. How easy it would be to let him keep believing.

They pause at a small stone bench tucked beneath an arbor. CYRA sits. PASCAL remains standing for a moment before taking the place beside her.

PASCAL
When I was a boy, my father took me to the spice markets in Avern. The air was heavy with cardamom, saffron, cinnamon. I thought I would never smell anything more intoxicating… until now.

He gestures to the roses. CYRA meets his eyes briefly, then looks away.

CYRA
You travel so far, yet speak as though you have been starved for beauty.

PASCAL
Because beauty is rare where trade takes me. Noise, heat, coin changing hands… beauty there is fleeting. Here, it is steady.

CYRA (aside)
Steady. If only he knew how much of this steadiness is an illusion.

PASCAL
If I am honest… I have feared that one day you might see me as others do. A merchant’s son, pretending at grace.

CYRA
And if I have never thought that?

PASCAL
Then I would call myself the luckiest man in Bellavere.

There is a quiet between them, filled only by the rustle of leaves. CYRA reaches out, brushing a bit of lint from his sleeve. Her fingers linger an instant too long.

CYRA
Perhaps you should not fear what I see.

PASCAL
And what do you see?

CYRA (after a beat)
Someone who might surprise me.

PASCAL smiles, warm and unguarded. He stands and offers his hand to her. She takes it, rising. For a moment, neither lets go.

PASCAL
I will return tomorrow.

CYRA (aside)
And I will be here. Perhaps not for the reasons you think… though perhaps also for reasons I do not yet understand.

They walk slowly toward the manor, the path ahead dappled in sunlight.

Lights fade.

ACT II – SCENE II
The Bellavere promenade, late afternoon. Sunlight glints off polished shop windows and carriages roll along the cobblestones. CYRA and PASCAL walk side by side, their pace unhurried. Passersby glance at them, murmuring. A few bows and curtsies greet CYRA. Curious eyes linger on PASCAL.

PASCAL
I am not sure I will ever grow used to people staring.

CYRA
They are not staring at you.

PASCAL
Then who?

CYRA
At us.

They pause near a jeweler’s display. PASCAL leans to examine a silver pendant, but a voice interrupts - HENRI, a well-dressed merchant with a knowing smile.

HENRI
Lady Veyrin. Master Durren. A fine afternoon for shopping.

CYRA
Henri.

HENRI
I was just saying to a colleague how quickly fortunes can change. A garden in full bloom one year… and a little less so the next.

CYRA’s smile holds steady.

CYRA
You speak in riddles, Henri.

HENRI
Do I? Perhaps I only mean that beauty takes tending. And tending costs coin.

PASCAL straightens, his tone cooling.

PASCAL
If you mean to say something, Henri, say it plainly.

HENRI
Plainly, then - a man in your position should know when he is being courted for his purse.

A tense silence follows. Henri offers a shallow bow and strolls away, leaving the weight of his words behind.

PASCAL
What did he mean by that?

CYRA
That he is jealous. And that his tongue is as cheap as his manners.

PASCAL
Is there truth in it?

CYRA (after the briefest pause)
None worth repeating.

PASCAL studies her face, searching for something in her expression. She holds his gaze, steady and composed, until he nods faintly.

PASCAL
Then I will take your word over his.

CYRA (aside)
One lie told to keep him. How many more will I need before I lose him anyway?

They continue down the promenade. The crowd’s murmurs fade, but the shadow of Henri’s warning lingers between them.

Lights fade.

ACT II – SCENE III
An upscale tavern on the edge of Bellavere’s merchant quarter, evening. The lamps are low and the air smells faintly of spiced wine. PASCAL sits at a corner table with ARMAND, a broad-shouldered man in a weathered coat - an old friend from the docks.

ARMAND
So… I hear you have been keeping company with Lady Veyrin.

PASCAL
Word travels quickly.

ARMAND
Quicker than you think. I have heard things, Pascal. About her family.

PASCAL
Rumors.

ARMAND
Rumors often have truth at the root. The Veyrin estate is not what it was. Land sold off, repairs left undone. You know as well as I do that some noble houses marry for coin as much as they do for name.

PASCAL
You think she is using me.

ARMAND
I think you should be certain she is not.

PASCAL leans back, folding his arms.

PASCAL
You do not know her.

ARMAND
No, but I know the game. And you… you have never played it before.

There is a silence. The clink of glasses from nearby tables fills it.

PASCAL
If she wanted coin, she could take it from anyone. She chose to speak to me.

ARMAND
That is exactly why I worry.

PASCAL
I will take my chances.

ARMAND exhales, shaking his head.

ARMAND
Just… keep your eyes open, Pascal. Love is a fine thing, but it will not keep a roof over your head when the rain comes through.

PASCAL offers a faint smile that does not quite reach his eyes.

PASCAL (aside)
Henri’s words, now Armand’s. If they are wrong, I have nothing to fear. If they are right… then perhaps I already know, and I simply do not care.

He takes a long drink from his glass, the murmur of the tavern around him, the doubt heavy but the resolve heavier.

Lights fade.

ACT III – THE COST OF TRUTH

ACT III – SCENE I
The Veyrin drawing room, late evening. A storm rattles the tall windows. Candlelight flickers across the worn furnishings. CYRA sits alone, a letter in her lap, unopened. The sound of footsteps in the hall draws her gaze. LADY VEYRIN enters, her expression sharp.

LADY VEYRIN
Why are you not with him?

CYRA
It is late. He has returned home.

LADY VEYRIN
Late is when promises are secured.

CYRA does not answer. She runs her thumb over the sealed letter, eyes distant.

LADY VEYRIN
You cannot afford hesitation, Cyra. The Durren fortune could restore this house.

CYRA
And if I told you he loves me?

LADY VEYRIN
Then love is a tool. Use it.

CYRA (aside)
Is that all it is to them? A hammer, a nail, a means to rebuild crumbling walls.

LADY VEYRIN
Do not forget who you serve.

CYRA
I remember.

The storm growls outside. LADY VEYRIN leaves without another word. CYRA sits in silence a moment longer before breaking the seal of the letter. She reads. Her eyes widen slightly, a breath catching in her throat.

CYRA (whispering)
He is leaving for Caravan… and he wishes me to come to the docks before he sails.

She folds the letter carefully, tucking it away. Her hands linger in her lap, clasped tight.

CYRA (aside)
One choice could bind me to him forever. Another could set him free… and ruin us all.

Lights fade.

ACT III – SCENE II
The docks at dawn. The air smells of salt and tar. Gull cries echo overhead. The Durren flagship looms at the pier, sails furled, crew bustling about. PASCAL stands near the gangplank, scanning the crowd. His face brightens as CYRA approaches, her cloak pulled close against the sea wind.

PASCAL
You came.

CYRA
I said I would.

PASCAL
I wanted you to see what my life is… before the court halls, before the dinners and the dances. This is where I belong.

He gestures to the ship, the ropes, the men at work. CYRA looks over it all, then back to him.

CYRA
It is… impressive.

PASCAL
One day, I hope it can be yours too.

CYRA (aside)
If I take his hand now, the Veyrin name will rise. And he will never know it was built on a bargain, not a vow.

PASCAL
You are quiet.

CYRA
I am thinking.

PASCAL
Of what?

CYRA
Of what it means… to belong somewhere.

PASCAL steps closer, lowering his voice.

PASCAL
Wherever you are, that is where I belong.

For a moment, her eyes soften. Then the shouts of the crew break the stillness as cargo is hauled aboard.

CYRA
You will miss your tide.

PASCAL
Not if you ask me to stay.

She meets his gaze. Her lips part, but no words come. Finally, she steps back.

CYRA
Go.

PASCAL searches her face, then nods slowly. He takes her hand, presses it to his lips, and turns toward the ship. CYRA watches him board, the gangplank rising behind him. She remains until the vessel slips into the morning mist.

Lights fade.

ACT III – SCENE III
The Veyrin gardens, several weeks later. Summer has deepened, the roses in full bloom. CYRA sits on the same bench beneath the arbor as before. PASCAL enters from the path, travel-worn but smiling.

PASCAL
I returned sooner than planned. Caravan was… profitable.

CYRA
And you came here first.

PASCAL
Of course.

He sits beside her. For a moment, they simply look at one another.

PASCAL
While I was away, I thought of what Henri and Armand said. About your family. About… motives.

CYRA’s hands tighten in her lap.

CYRA
And what did you decide?

PASCAL
That I would rather be used and know your company than live without it.

She exhales, almost laughing despite herself.

CYRA
You are a fool.

PASCAL
Then let me be your fool.

CYRA (aside)
Here it is. The moment I could confess, shatter the game, and lose him. Or play on and keep him, knowing he stays not by truth, but by choice in spite of it.

CYRA
Very well. But know that once you step through this door, there is no stepping back.

PASCAL
I have no wish to.

He takes her hand. She lets him. Around them, the garden hums with life, oblivious to the bargain struck between heart and ambition.

Lights fade.

CURTAIN

A Missive by the

House de Rouen

Disseminated among all the Vassals and Lords of Burgundy.

Lady Rosceline and the long awaited Daughter of Rouen, 2044
 

CHRISTENING CEREMONY AND 

A LAMENTA UNTO LADY

It is thus the will of the Archduke that his daughter be christened in lavish ceremony. Thereby, the Archduchy extends invitations unto all Lords and Ladies of Drusco and their noble households to behold the first daughter born of Rouennais blood in more than a century, whom shall be vested the name Gisela Wilfrichete, and henceforth known as Gisela of Drusco in formal pen. All men and women unabluted who desire to be baptised under name of GOD are welcome to partake of the ritual after the newborn Lady, in blessing to He. On conclusion of this ceremony, attendees are invited into the Godstead of Waldemer, where the Lady Rosceline shall bid all to witness the first ‘Lamenta’ writ by her own hand and dedicated to Lady Gisela under relish of ales, wines, and sweetbreads.

ADORATION UNTO ST. JULIA & LADY SILIS, WRIT BY HAND OF LADY ROSCELINE    

Penned under hand and seal at Waldemer Keep,
This 10th of Horen’s Calling in the Year of St. Wilfriche, 2044, by the Grace of God.
By the command of Archduke Roger de Rouen.

“The Ashford sun will reign supreme. None shall escape it. Our people will bask in its warmth; our enemies will be burnt by its rays; and those of our dynasty will be forever illuminated by its glowing luminescence.”

The final words of Olivier de Savoie, the Drowned King.

When our Holy Mother Church was under siege, and the wicked rose to topple God's order, He uplifted a chosen instrument in Andrik Vydra to strike down the unjust and immoral. So do the Druscan men don his cross now, for our charge much resembles his own. Lesser men of lesser callings cannot comprehend this, to take upon a charge so holy and sacred; so do they mock us, seeking to tear down that which they cannot understand. 

We are a people who have never strayed from God’s ordained path, for our legacy is wrought from Saint Lucien of Ulmsbottom, from Olivier de Savoie, and from the war-veterans of Oren and Veletz, who fought against all odds beset against them. If this coalition headed by the headless Calias insists upon bloodying the realms of Man, then theirs will be the same fate met by all those who stood against our august forebearers: humiliation and defeat. We will repel these Signatories, crush them under the might of the Ashford sun, and record them as yet another footnote in another long list of evil attempts to oppose the Eshænveurd people.

“For our courage is not in the multitude of our army, but strength cometh from Heaven. We will fight for our lives and our laws, and as for the enemy, we shall fear them not.

We will trust Him.”

Savoyard Prayer of Edgar de Saltpans.

A number of petty grievances has been presented to mask this unrighteous cause. So too shall I return one of my own make:

• To the House van Aert, today you have broken the pact you have made to me under sacred oath. This is the most grievous wound to my heart, you have betrayed me. The next heir to Blackvale will be sent to Drusco upon his birth to ward, until he is of age to inherit.

• To the Norland Governor, Karoslund will be granted independence from your heathenous realm, and vassalized directly under the Empire.

• To the Kingdom of Numendil, the Archduchy of Petra and House Leomonte will be granted independence and the charter and vassalized directly under the Empire.

• To Myrine, Calias ‘the Spanked’ will become a monk of  the Church, stripped of all title and power. 

• To the True Faith. By sponsoring this war, it is clear you wish to see further division of Man, and bloodshed. You divide the successors of Godfrey, and for this, Callahan and Anorhil will resign from office, and the election of the Pontificate will be handled by all members of the priesthood. 

• To Garenbrig, your first and last mistake was signing that missive. For this, we will burn your keep, and your heir will ward under Drusco.

You advised my missive to be curt and so shall this be its end.

The Druscan Answer will be delivered upon the battlefield, writ in the blood of men of Myrine, of Numendil, of Blackvale, and whatever other petty brigands you can muster to your feeble cause.

I’ll consider your terms agreeable should you consider our own the same. I await the Emperor’s approval.

NO WORDS, BUT DEEDS.

Roger of Bourdon, Archduke of Drusco.

A Missive by the

House de Rouen

Disseminated among all the Lords of the Imperium

Let it be known to all those faithful of the Holy Imperium that the young Lord Raymond Thibaud, heir of the Rouennais as firstborn son of The Archduke of Drusco, hath in the early year of 2040 perished.

Whilst riding forth with his father’s retinue upon the wooded slopes of the Druscanland, the young lord, strong of limb, keen of eye, and beloved of all, was laid low from his steed by a grievous mishap. There, amidst broken undergrowth and damp earth, a wound was taken, deep and unseen beneath the flesh. Seven days later and sans nary sign nor symptom, this fester did turn sour, and fever consumed, his hand held fast unto the cloth of his Solar gambeson as he breathed his final breath into GOD’s hands.

All are bidden to mark the days of mourning for the brief but sharp light that was Lord Raymond. The Household de Rouen shall grieve privately in ancient Eshaenveurd custom, and later make public the urn of the ashburned heart preceding entombment. May St. Lucien keep him in his charge.

Raymond Thibaud

Ashford de Rouen

2029-2040

Penned under hand and seal at Waldemer Keep,
This 14th of Tobias’ Bounty in the year 2041.
By the grace of GOD and command of Archduke Roger de Rouen.

The Capture of Livius Flavius, 2041.

“To the Nornish barbarians, their Haeseni lapdogs and those whose beliefs lie in the All-Father,

Your Master of Gold & Coin will be flayed in thirty Saint minutes. If you value his life, then come forth in battle. Show us just how willing you are to die for your Godless cause – show us whether mongrels remain mongrels, or whether the blood that courses through your veins will endure as it did countless times before.

Castle Waldemer awaits.

Signed, Antoine de Bruges”

Five Men of Drusco rode upon the lands of Norland: Sir Jon, Georg of Barbanov, Antoine de Bruges, Cedric, and an unnamed Druscan warrior. Upon their trek to the Far North, they fell upon Karosland, greeted only by the cold air which chilled its humble township, now devoid of any citizens save but two wayward souls. The first was an old mage, a trafficker of some dark magicks, her craft likely fostered amongst such godless infidels; the second, the Master of Gold and Coin for the heathenous Crown of Norland. With efficient speed, Kerecsen Ivanovich and Cedric had tied and captured the Master of Gold & Coin. So did five men ride into Norland, and so did six men return to Castle Waldemer.

CONTENTS

I| The Archduke

A| Succession

B| Authority

II| The Palatium

A| Palatial Assemblies

B| Palatial Terminology

C| Palatial Documents

II| The Magnates

I | THE ARCHDUKE

The Prince of Savoy is the absolute ruler of the Druscanland, titled Archduke or Archduchess of Drusco.

A | SUCCESSION

The succession to the role of Archduke is absolute agnatic primogeniture. In the absence of heirs male, the role of Archduke is to pass through the female line to the nearest male relative, provided that said relative is of the Ashford dynasty.

B | AUTHORITY

Authority level shifts according to existing law, capitularies and edicts. Magnates can also shift the authority according to their relative strength.

II | THE PALATIUM 

The Archduke’s Advisory Body, split into three chambers: The Princely Household, The Privy Council, and the Council of Magnates. Called ‘the Palatium’ as, generally, the Archduke’s Palatial residence serves as the seat of Government.

✦ The Princely Household:

The Archduke 

The Archduchess

The Baron of Blackwald

The Lords and Ladies de Rouen

The Knights-Retinue

✦ The Privy Council: 

The Privy Council is composed of the seven administrative limbs of the government, each steered by a councilor appointed by the Archduke (except for the Palatine) according to his aptitude and skill of advice. Each councilor wields a powerful advisory voice that speaks directly to the Archduke regarding not only his respective functions but also general governance. They preside over their ‘limb’ with complete discretion over its frameworks, employment, and undertakings, granted authority by the presumption of their expertise. Additionally, they give second legal consent beneath the Archduke under Acts and Edicts, especially those pertaining to their office.

The Palsgrave | The Minister of the Palatium and chief officer of the government, acting in the Archduke’s stead in many situations, but never with the full right of the ban. Can elect the use of Envoys in vassal and foreign regions to act administratively in his stead for various purposes. Within the office of the Palsgrave is also the Chancery, a body of scholars.

Envoys | Envoys are representatives of the Palatium sent to vassal provinces to encourage the well-functioning of the palatial government as well as espouse domestic diplomacy, or in the event that the ducal household is indisposed, to foreign states to represent the Archduke or Palsgrave and espouse foreign diplomacy. Some administrations may choose to employ Envoys for a permanent or temporary time, if the laws and functions of the Archduchy’s vassals require tending. 

The Chancery | A body of scholars that document all government actions and pen various letters or compendiums on behalf of the government whenever is required. They are also tasked with the upkeep of the chancery roll. This position may overlap with any other.

The Vicar | The Bishop of the land, serving as emissary from the church to the lands of Drusco. When there is no Bishop, it shall be the local Father. The Bishop may serve as the chaplain of the Castle Waldemer, or appoint one, with the Palatine’s discretion, but his duties as clerical overseer extend to all the magnates’ jurisdictions as one of intercession and moderation.

The Marshal | Minister of the Archduke’s Army, the Marshal is the chief organizer of the Archducal levy, and second only to the Archduke in military command, and thereby entrusted to a high position within the Vydric Order as an extension of his dual responsibilities. He oversees the mustering of troops, the arrangement of camps, the supply of arms and horses, and the movement of forces during campaigns. In battle, the marshal ensures discipline, relays orders, and often directs the army’s formation and strategy. 

The Seneschal | The steward and treasurer of the Archduchy and minister of the Exchequer, responsible for the maintenance of all records pertaining to land division for the purposes of the collection of princegeld, with additional focus with respect to property ownership. The city government is enveloped beneath the Exchequer, albeit the Seneschal serves only as its moderator. Accordingly, the Exchequer is the second largest ministry after the military, requiring the staffing of city stewards, architects, and tax sheriffs.

The Palatine | Obliged to the Archduchess and subject to her appointment, the Palatine serves as the curator of ceremony for Drusco, administering the Princely Court for the purposes of recording & perpetuating internal and external events, traditions, decorum, the arts, and learning. By extension of the Princely authority, they direct the collaboration of the vassal estates to the benefit of domestic unity. Hence, the Palatine is also regarded as a domestic envoy. As chamberlain of the Palatium, they are also the first point-of-contact for commoners, envoys, noble & Princely guests, pilgrims, and all others to be hosted in the grace of the Castle Waldemer and her grounds.

The Justiciar | The Keeper of Laws, responsible for all things concerning the serving of criminal and civil justice. He presides over the superior court of the Capital as its magistrate, and appoints eyr justices to arbitrate laws across the Duchy in his stead. He is often positioned directly next to the Archduke during the holding of the Ducal Court in order to facilitate the agreement of the Archduke’s word with established law. 

The Knight Champion | The highest-ranking and most esteemed knight in the realm, the Knight Champion is the embodiment of Ashford principles of chivalry and fortitude. His primary duty is to lead and oversee the knights of the Vydric Order, ensuring its members uphold the code by which they were oathed. He advises the Archduke on matters of war and knighthood, assigns quests and missions to worthy knights, and may serve as arbiter in duels or disputes among nobles and warriors. In times of war, he rides at the forefront, rallying the order beneath the royal banner; in peace, he mentors younger knights, tests their mettle, and guards the realm’s noblest ideals.

✦ The Council of Magnates - The Magnates owing allegiance to Drusco. The Magnates are privy to the Princely ear as chiefs of the Archduchy’s subdivisions, with all playing a piece in the success of the administration. Though they do not reside within Castle Waldemer, they are considered part of the Palatium for their significant importance to the government of the Archduke and his rule over the unified Druscan people.

A | PALATIAL ASSEMBLIES

✦ Palatial Assembly - Contains all members of the Palatium, as well as any other trusted confidants of the Archduke. Held by the Archduke for any reason that excludes the common people.

✦ Assembly of the Council of Magnates - A formal meeting held by the Archduke with only his direct vassals in attendance. Other members of the Council of x may be in attendance if matters pertain to them. Vassals are always allowed the attendance of their spouse, however, the attendance of their advisors is at the discretion of the Archduke.

✦ The Noble Assembly - An informal assembly held by the Archduke with only the nobles of the Archduchy in attendance, meant to speak on matters exclusively pertaining to nobility. Called usually on the eve of war to ready the nobles and make them aware of increased levy and princegeld obligations, or to resolve inter-noble disputes (often with duels). May also be a place for the execution of informal orders, proposals of arranged marriages, etc. This is often held within a makeshift camp in a field or forest. Also called the Bountyfield, after the day of Tobias’ Bounty in which it is traditionally held.

✦ The Holding of Princely Court: When the Archduke summons all citizens of the Archduchy, including but not limited to the citizens within the capital, the citizens within the vassal-states, and the citizens within the Princely demesne. Traditionally, he announces several news, then allows for petitioners.

B | PALATIAL TERMINOLOGY

✦ The Ban - The Archduke’s reserved right to exercise absolute authority over matters concerning order and punishment within Drusco, most especially the command over the military.

✦ Princegeld - The Princely Tax on Vassals (50 Minas)

✦ Princely Demesne - Also referred to as ‘the coronetlands,’ and includes any lands held directly by the Archduke. Some lords may exist directly beneath the Princely Demesne, in which case his land is owned by the Archduke and therefore may be repealed at any point without contest.

✦ Tax sheriffs - Soldiers from the levy who are additionally employed by the seneschal to threaten people should they not pay their taxes.

✦ Princely Court - When in reference to the Archduke’s extended household, this includes all the lower and upper staff, as well as guests, courtiers, and administrative officers residing permanently or temporarily in his presence. May be a fixed structure (i.e the principal palace or preferred secondary residences) or an itinerant court (i.e during times of warfare or continental migration).

C | PALATIAL DOCUMENTS

✦ Capitularies - Large-scale documents that contain several chapters within them, typically completed in the beginning of a reign to announce the administrative agenda that the new ruler wishes to dole out by the end of his reign, however, a Archduke may choose to complete capitularies at any time throughout his reign and as many times as necessary if events require it. Confirmed, signed and released in concord with a palatial assembly.

✦ Edicts - Documents created by the Archduke spelling out specific action(s) they wish to take related to the function of one or another part of the Archduchy’s administrative functions. Confirmed, signed and released in concord with the Council of Seven.

✦ Acts - Documents signed in concord with the entirety of the Palatium, often that change much of the functions of the Archduchy’s administration, or one overarching function with extensive consequence. Confirmed and signed by the Archduke, released in concord with a palatial assembly.

✦ Letters patent - Documents spelling out only the granting of titles. Can be Knightly, Noble, or Titular letters designated for use by the Princely Family. Signed by the Archduke.

✦ Warrants - Documents used for a great manner of reasons that require the highest prerogative, including search and arrest, exile, the stripping and re-granting of certain rights, etc. Signed by the Archduke.

✦ Charters - Documents spelling out only the granting or settlement of land, buildings, and rights. Nobles must have both a charter and letters patent. A precise map must be included in land charters to indicate what land is held, and if it is leased from the king or transferred ownership to. Signed by the Archduke and the Seneschal.

✦ Great Charters - Documents including letters and charters. Typically created in the case of vassal transfers. Signed by the Archduke and the Seneschal.

III | THE MAGNATES

Upper Magnates

I| Marquis / Marchioness - A Lord  equipped specifically for the defense of one of the Archduchy’s cardinal borders in a borderland known as a March.

II| Count / Countess - The ruler of a swathe of land beneath the coronet known as a County.

Lower Magnates

III| Baron / Baroness - A minor lord holding a small swathe of land beneath the Princely Demesne known as a Barony. Able to pass his titles hereditarily.

IV| Knight - A person esteemed by the coronet due to his martial achievement, and hence granted the honorific of Ser, as well as a fief (such as a manor or homestead) beneath the Princely Demesne, albeit not hereditary.

V| Patrician - A wealthy commoner charged with the holding of significant lands inherited by his successors, and therefore eligible for the special privileges of his wealth.
 

SUCCESSION

The succession to the rank of vassals is agnatic-cognatic primogeniture by default, however, upon ascension to the rank of Marquis, magnates may choose their own succession. 

BY HIS GRACE ALONE, OUR WORD IS GIVEN

Penned on the 14th of Sun's Smile, 2039
 

☩

To those faithful under the light of God,
O Lord of Light, bless this child born of vow and mercy. Guard their breath,
Guide their steps, and let love follow wherever they go.

Amen.
__

With joy and gratitude, the House of de Bruges proclaims the birth of a healthy son to Lord Faustin and Lady Adelaide, soon after the solemnization of their union. The child, a gift of providence, arrived in the earliest days of their married life and shall be raised in the full light of noble tradition, bearing the name of his honored father. Prayers of thanks have been offered in the chapel of Castle Waldemar.

After quiet deliberation, his name was chosen, the first belonging to his father, as is tradition, and the second drawn from a softened form of his mother’s middle name. A joining of lines, measured and deliberate, as he was.

✴︎ Faustin Emile de Bruges ✴︎

To those who offered kindness, spoken or unspoken, we are grateful. Your warmth did not go unnoticed. To those who whispered otherwise, do not trouble yourselves with congratulations. He is already far beyond the reach of small intentions.

SIGNED,

“The hidden sun burns still,”

HIS EXCELLENCY, Faustin de Burges,

Lord Vavasour de Bruges, Palsgrave of Drusco


HER LADYSHIP, Adelaide of Artois,

 Lady Vavasour de Bruges, Underpalatine and Troubadour of Waldemar