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A Ransom for John Owyn

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ryno2

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To the pig-******* menagerie of Orenian Dukes, Nobles, ***** Duchess’, and myriad other nameless individuals with meaningless titles:

 

Your precious Crown Prince, John Owyn, presently (or perhaps formerly) Regent to the ‘Holy’ Orenian Empire in John Sigismund (the cowardly)’s

stead, has for the past Elven day been fed rotten grapes of the Axis vine - being that said grapes were too wrinkled and worm-filled for our swines’ slop -, quenched his thirst with water from the drain after scurrying butchers and scullery maids have washed their hands in it (I bid you take a guess as to what was washed from their hands), and following a hard day’s work breaking pickaxe after pickaxe upon rocks in the quarry (this is occurring while children laugh and sling clumps of hot iron slag from the blacksmith’s forge against him) sleeps on a bed of damp straw in the wet, cool depths of the castle midden.

 

While I would agree that his accommodations have been more than suitable for a man of his position and heritage, I would be remiss to not offer to

his underlings a ransom for his return (as is the nature of these things) to an existence which, it can be safely said, we rescued him from.

 

A pittance to the Empire, but the spare change would be convenient to us:

 

100,000 Standard Minas

 

Payable to the gate guard of the Bone Fort within one week of this letter being sent.

 

Your betters,

The Southern Axis Powers

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"I ******* hate Oren." says Vitallius as a  joke before penning a letter to the mighty Axis powers. It reads.

 

"This is getting a bit too despicable."

 

Signed, Count of Lewes.

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"Please **** off back off to whatever hole you came out of." Says Thomas

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"**** Oren man." says Osgod, a feeble stab at communication. 

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Lukas would smoke some green in his pipe, reading the declaration as he calls out, "**** Oren, man."

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The rest of the orenian forces scour the bonefort and the surroundings picking through the dead rebels to find the crown prince "Hmmm where did he go??"

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"Did...ya fuckin' fed him dried grapes man?" Says a silverholt guard

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Mayor Bradshaw chuckles reading it "Silly rebels, thinking they could try and fight Oren."

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