Death Of A Statesman

[Aetosion 2062]

The court was in session as the Aulic Councilors of Aesterwald met with dwarven emissaries. The Lord Korrektor, Ser Edward Winter II, sat quietly in his oaken-carved chair in the throne room. A draft ruffled the well-combed greys of his beard, and the chatter of gruff dwarven and harsh Waldenian voices lilted upon his ears. His eyes stared unattentively at the unique brand of ale diplomacy unfolding in front of him, but his mind was not present.

The councilor reminisced on days past, his service as Royal Scribe to Regent Goddard, his service as Lord High Steward and Lord General to William III, his collaboration on the creation of the Imperium Secundus and his resulting decade-long reign as King of Herendul, his service as Lord Chancellor to Heinrik, his service as Imperial Chamberlain to Peter and Robert, his service as Senior Knight to the Flaming Rose, and then his work as Lord Korrektor in the seat he now occupied. He had always preferred to serve monarchs than to govern himself. He sat now in Aesterwald, a kingdom fraught with more controversy than any he had served since William III. He had contemplated greener pastures across the Ebunad, but he resolved to serve dutifully in his post despite conflicts of faith and politics- he had made the wrong choices before and learned from them.

A light glinted through the stained glass cross above the throne, it twinkled softly at first like a distant star on a foggy night. Edward's eyes slid to the window and admired it, the masterwork of the artisans who created it, the significance of the lorraine cross that adorned it. The kingdom was back into the fold of the motherchurch, this pleased Edward who, while not the most dutiful man of the church, held the faith close to his heart. The light began to grow, and the Lord Korrektor was roused from his stupor. The light was now far too large to be a star or a bonfire on the surrounding mountain. It grew faster now, a radiant red saturating the throne room, then CRASH.

The many stained glass windows of the throne room shattered inward by some mysterious force. Shouts mingled with tinkling glass as the councilors and diplomats rushed for cover. Guardsmen ran in shouting, swords drawn, and the politicians with available weapons grabbed them from where they were stowed in the throne room-adjacent storage closet. The aged Winter grasped his ceremonial blade with his wizened hands, and hurriedly donned a spare hauberk.

From the gaping holes of the windows crawled beasts armed with iron and barded in plate. With a charismatic wave of his hand and a resounding shout the Hochsouveragn rallied the men to defend, the guardsmen and many of the other Waldenians falling into the well-drilled battle practices of the Black Eagles. They met the beasts with courage, faith, and arms, but the creatures charged forth still, wave after wave being slaughtered, but friendly casualties mounted too.

Corpses filled the throne room, and still the thralls surged through the openings. The defenders were pushed back into the hallway, Ser Oscar in his coat of carbarum held many at bay, but the waves of beasts only strengthened, the next waves armed in carbarum plate. Flying void beasts rushed through the windows, expelling waves of fire from their gaping maws. An explosive burst struck Edward on his left shoulder, throwing the elderly man into the air, his limp body striking a shelf full of old leather-bound tomes.

Everything was dark, but his vision returned as a guardsman rushed over to help him up. Edward staggered to his feet, only to be pierced by a stray arrow from a dwarven crossbow. He fell to his knees, his hands grasping at the floor covered with shattered glass. Through his blurring vision he saw a beast rushing for the guardsman’s back, and with a last effort he grasped a large shard of shattered stained glass, one depicting the deposition of Harren by St. Owyn, and thrust it forth into the creature, halting its swing towards his comrade. The guardsman stared with wide eyes at Edward and the beast as both collapsed to the stone floor in a growing pool of blood.

The battle raged on as Edward's soul lifted from his body, a solemn observer as his comrades fell around him, similar spectres rising from their lifeless forms. Fire began to rain down from the sky and the keep began to fall under the force of the explosions. As the last explosion immolated the mountain and any defenders who had not already escaped to the city below, the light enveloped Ser Edward Winter II.

The statesman who had crafted so many treaties, helped reunify humanity twice, and wrote countless laws and essays on nobility and government fell, his soul rising to the seven skies. His writings, maps, his house, his histories, his former kingdom, his service on so many privies, his works to preserve culture, tradition, and faith, and his heirs. These would leave his mark on this world where the dust of his mutilated and charred bones could not.

His last will and testament was found in an archive of legal records in Petrus after the Vydras began clearing the city out for reoccupation. It read:

“If this is read, I am likely passed. I hope it was quietly in my bed, surrounded by my family, but I may not be as lucky. The wealth of my estates has dwindled, but I still retain my books, a certain few items of value, and a small fortune in minas.

To my blood heir, I give the right to my titles, honors, and right to de jure holdings of land on Athera, my blade Frostborne, the Book of Winter, and a sum of 500 minas, and the duty to look after his brothers and sisters.

To the child I fostered at the behest of his imperial majesty Peter, Edgar Sparrow (son of Brenius Chivay), I leave my memoirs, a sum of 1000 minas, the black-stone signet ring of Regulus, and the iron crown of my Herendulian reign.

To the family of my wife, Cecilia Stafyr, I offer apologies for the encroachment of the schismatics on your land, as well as 128 imperial bales of wheat, and the quill-pen gifted to me by the late imperial scribe Virosi.

To the remnants of House Carrion, I offer my thanks for opportunities given and sincerest apologies for the discord that grew between us, and the actions taken that seemed justified at the time, but resulted in a growing toxicity between our two houses.

To the remnants of House Horen, I offer thanks on behalf of my house for all you gave us during the first empire, and apologies for the manner in which the King William III's reign was ended.

To the remnants of House Chivay, I send a bottle of Auvergnian wine to stock the cellars of Aeldin, and a staunch affirmation of the ideals of Kaedrin.

To the Creator's good church, I offer repentance for my sins, copies of my writings, and arms from my stores for the Palatine Guard.

To the houses and men who betrayed my trust or made efforts to take what was mine, I offer only forgiveness for your foolishness and copies of my volumes of On the Nature of Nobility, so that you may educate yourselves towards just action.



Creator save my soul. "

A marble grave marker was placed in the snowy mountains behind Petrus, it read:

RIP Edward Winter II

Born 7th of Deep Cold, 1403

Died _ of _ _, 1472

Winter has come.

[VonAulus 2082]

"RIP in peace." A small strelt farmer exclaims. 

[_Stigwig 1510]

"At least we'll have no more of that cut-throat Winter politics!" The man cries with joy.

[Kralek 519]

"Now we won't have to read or listen to anymore of his boring propaganda." Says Rhodri.

[Galendar 631]

Alexander smiles softly from the Seven Skies as his old aquaintance comes to join him, gesturing with his hand to the vast expanse of the afterlife.

 

"Welcome home, Edward."

[The Great Mongol Khan 1110]

Lucius Tython submerges into grief, "What is to become of our Society of St. Everard...?"

[The Great Mongol Khan 1110]

[]

[Aptrotta 162]

Harrison Geminine wanders around in the empty abyss of his death, the blackness surrounding his body. A light appears in front of him, a singular column of gleaming white light, shining down upon a lone grave marker. His eyes wander over the smooth marble. "Even the great must fall..." he says quietly to himself before continuing on his way, his eternal hell of emptiness.

[Minniefox 16]

"Papa.."

A young and forgotten voice exclaims in grief.

[Guest]

Martin Winter, alongside other family members on their seaward voyage to Aeldin mourns for the death of Edward. "I am at a loss for words." is all he verbally contributes to the topic.

[Lita 677]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.