An Open Letter

[Guy d'Yood of Mann 39]

 

Nearly brought to tears, a certainly smallest Orenian in fifties would gather what few utensils he still had gathered, pile them along the few, homemade, wax candles and start scribbling, his heart racing straight outta the thin chest. Within a few furious minutes, did he finish an equally open answer - and with his olog compatriot's aid, halfling would hang it up where need be, for all willing to glimpse it's contents to read as following:

 

"How much? How much more blood has to be shed to satisfy those, who value little more than their own miserable gain? To quench their thirst for 'revanche'? When folks such as meself would point out their ambitions, their divisions, as dangerous to our nation, to many, not unlike yourselves, we were merely laughed at. Laughed, before such laughter would die down in turn to the countless, immeasurable tears to be shed for all those lost in the senseless conflict brought equally by both sides. I am merely a servant, less then that, and yet, am I truly, the only man in Oren to see that you're merely bleeding our kingdom out, like a beast that claws at it's own entrails in the last, agonal deed? That the only thing you'll accomplish, will be our end?

 

You claim to have suffered beyond what anyone could imagine. And what can say those, that don't have blue blood, those who cannot voice their suffering? Your lad is a good man, of kind heart, but what makes his torture more horrifying than all that Oren's citizens had to endure? How dare you scream and yammer about the torment you're enduring, when but a few breathes ago, countless citizens would be slain only because they preferred to die standing than bend their knees to rebels. Felsen suffers, bleeds and dies, like a festering wound you wouldn't ever wish to heal. Did you at least once consider, how many men and women - freemen in service to all of ye sorry whimperin' heat-struck she-wolves - will die in a feud sired by nothing but your own devices? Both you and de Sola are to blame, and the fact neither of you sought to have the matter solved differently than by blade, proves little but your own fault.

 

You claim that his majesty employs thugs, and I hardly can disagreed. But what is he meant to do, when all the lads with their hearts in proper place 'ave your values shoved in their heads? When all men of any value or virtue depart to fight your wars, what little is left in the river devoid of fish to pick but the scum at it's bottom? I may not be happy about deserters in King's retinue, I may not be happy about the aims of the Order, who still allow the whimsycal nature of men such as Barnardian to prove everything but that it is disciplined. Samuel of Hadvar be damned, for I myself have been forced to let the murderer, honorless scumbag, living up to the gossip that he's the only real child o'Ragnar's, walk freely, rather than see his lifeless body sway in the wind. We need every man that can bear arms, now that you lot are more busy killin' each other rather than slayin' banditry and other highwaymen, the sorry whoresons who dare to threaten all Orenians, from lowliest servants to the very councillors themselves.

 

Countless men face injustice in royal bureaucracy. Nobles and commoners alike await years at the time before a vademecum is found to their case. Corruption strings up what little dignity and manners were left in the latrine you, and other 'bluebloods' turned old Imperium into. Andrik Vydra must weep, if the dead still may weep in the Skies. Both friends and foes of mine had endured that injustice, and in turn, for their patience and loyalty, would finally be rewarded. But apparently, rewards mean must when they're not served instantly, as if you hold your very own king to be a aengul-damned barmaid whom you can slap around to dance at your whims.

 

You claim sorrow as numerous lives are lost, and brothers are herded into this butcherhouse of ambition, but you yourself hold little to no regard to turn brothers against sisters, children against parents, and for what? To replace one king with another who's hands you'd tie even tighter, and make the bureaucratic hell even more of an ordeal to endure for the commoners? A nation is not unlike a living organism. If but a single important organ fails to comply with the rest, all of it will grow sickly. When you turn on each other, I must say I'm curious how shameful is it to point fingers at others instead of those so eagerly bringing that sickness. But do come, and if you come, know this. You may not know me, you may not know any other commoners serving the crown. You may never care to hear of our lives, of our loves, the children we defend. But we will not care for your claims, or even claims of those that pretend to defy you while scheming on their own. Have Vanaheim promised to Othaman, have Felsen given to dogs, fend dwarven warmongerers against us - we will care not. When called upon by /Oren/, we will stand on the walls and we shall fight to the last man, dying standing, rather than let you descend upon our families. Reach out for our lives, our goods, our children, faith and values. Make us weep with every blow forced to crack the skull of the siblings we held in our arms. Make us cringe as we must send arrows after those we trusted more than anything. I myself still remember days, when the civil war first loomed over horizon. My first question was "What side will Vladovs be on?" so that we could stand with those who always remembered honour. But it seems, honour died with Athera. 

 

So reach out for Felsen, oh unholy alliance, if you might. But remember, that the laws were carried over on the ships, and back in old Petrus, thieving recidivists' hands were simply cut.

 

Sincerely yours, vox Orenia populi."

 

[RyothGaming 14]

"Why must are people wage war, I wanna get people to safety somewhere isolated who aren't fighting while this madness happends"

[Publius 4098]

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