Pasnian Migration

[Valentyn 136]

- Pasnian Migration of 1596 -

 

 

Pasnian Men and Women going to their new home

 

 

 

 

 

 

Conrad shuts the heavy oaken doors, enlaced with thick iron braces and an almost faded brass lock. In days of old, the very doors he nonchalantly shuts stood against the shoulders of many an intruder. Now those days were past, locked away inside the memory of Conrad and his people. As the rasp of the wood battling against the stone floor came to an end, and the iron lever slid into the lock, the thud of the door filled the room, until it was entirely silent. The room was empty, secluded, devoid of not just sound, but conflict. Conrad himself liked it this way. This way he was detached from the many troubles that plague the land of Axios and those who tread upon it, this way he was not Oren or Pasnia. This way, he was merely Conrad, his own entity, alone.

 

A heavy, yet relieved sigh met the end of the echoing thud, before he trudged toward his chair. A slow sit, then a reclined souch shortly followed, before he slid his hand below the side of his desk, pulling a drawer, and retrieving his treaty-making equipment. The parchment was laid, the ink was set. As he found the quill, he noticed how worn it had been. The very same quill that served Conrad’s time as a noble had never been so worn as it was now. The decay of it was almost exponential, Conrad would remark. Times were indeed troubling. Leagues were formed, then dissolved. Treaties signed, then torn. Perhaps it wasn’t just Conrad’s quill that had worn so rapidly these days.

 

As the man began carefully and intricately etching each proposal, statement, and diplomatically concocted act of flattery, the memories would flood his mind. The memories of years spent on the castle balcony, overlooking the land he once called his own. The health of the good people of Pasnia, the succulent taste of the first bite into the apples grown on his lands. The melody of the local bard’s lute, the laughter amongst the streets of his lands. In another world, it might’ve still been his home. Then came the memory of the treaty he signed, the ink that donned the very quill his careful hand swished about now, the indents created on the stretched sheepskin canvas.

 

The same treaty that marked the end of Pasnia in this world forever, at least as the populated land it once was. His people became nomads until then, bending to most of the rising, and then falling lieges. Migrating and fleeting alongside the power of other momentary nobles and Kingdoms. The Lotharingian coins they carried with them were perhaps the only constant of those days.

 

Now with the assured permanency of the Staunton leadership, having stood inside its walls for so long, Conrad and his advisors shifted their gaze to the Courland Kingdom. Observing the honour, well treatment to vassals, and protection Courland offered, discussions were held. Nights spent in halls drinking and debating, serenading, and a few times even roaring, conclusions were met. These conclusions Conrad now immortalized into the short piece of information he wrote on.

 

The Ruskan approach to Courland was nothing but a positive argument to his case. The well treatment they received, and the help they were given, merely added to the Staunton reputation of honour.

 

Conrad firmly planted the dot at the end of the letter, signing the bottom, and rolling it up. Another relieved sigh followed, but this time followed by a small smile. Perhaps the Pasnians might find another place to rebuild, and continue their history. But these lands weren’t, and could never be Pasnia. They were not Oren, who could carry the name wherever they went. His people needed a new name. Conrad took a brief moment to ponder what it might be, before the train of memory-laced thought that nostalgically carried him through the letter before returned. Conrad needed a name befitting of his history and the distant past, to rebuild what only now exists in memories. “Istria.” he’d mutter under his breath, as his hand would grasp at the door’s handle, pulling it. Allowing the outside world to encompass him once more, and for Conrad to stop being an individual, and become Istria.

 

 

 

 

The letter read:

 

“Dear noble King Joseph Alexander. I, Conrad Roswell, Count of Istria, solemnly swear to serve under the glorious nation of Courland, and the honourable House Staunton. We swear to fight in thick and thin, and serve the interests of our Staunton lieges. We humbly request for a land to house our Pasnian peoples in by the wise Ruskan Archduke, under the name of ‘Istria’. We promise to serve for as long as we stand, bound by oath and honour. We promise to fight until GOD himself tears us from the world, and our very beings are scattered. Ave Courlandia.

- Count Conrad Roswell. -”

 

 

 

 

[func_Soap 410]

((Well written, even if you disagree with it. That I don't, ave1!!1#!

[Heff 2460]

Ra!! For the Hetman roswell!