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[Jachnun 566]

 

 

It was a weak frown that was forced upon Branaford IV’s face when he heard of the death of his dear companion Simon Basrid. He knew that in his final year of life he had to fulfill the final vow and task that was bestowed upon his frail being. Waking up from the concrete in Helena from a rude and awfully ugly pedestrian, Branaford IV rubbed his eyes with his dirty and smelly hands gazing at the urban sprawl of Helena, and of course at the unattractive man who woke him up. He reaches into his pocket, spreading across his palm a small map leading to Selm. As he arrives in Selm he follows the path to a dark tunnel bellow the crypts of the city. Once inside, Branaford fell to his knees, a tear falling down his face. He has found what he has been looking for, he could finally fulfill the task that was given to him. The statue of Steffan Himmel the renowned and beautified crusader who was tragically turned to stone during the crusades of the Tarchary stood before Branaford. He walked close to the statue extending his arms onto the man who was turned to stone, pulling the stone’s temple onto his. Planting a small kiss onto the stone statue’s lips, Branaford fell to the ground having felt a crippling pain in his chest. He screamed in agony, “Is this not what you wanted?!” it appeared to the old and smelly man that it was not. “Is this all I lived for? To make a smelly pastry and kiss a statue!”  as he began to regretfully contemplate the nature of his pointless life, Branaford lied down and forced upon his face a smile. Having lived a shameful and pointless 150 years of life, Branaford IV, also known as William Barrow, had died in the crypt alongside the famed crusader.

[𝖂𝖆𝖌𝖜𝖆𝖓 740]

Sergeant Willem Galbraith would skim the missive while moving to open an aged bottle of scotch from deep within storage , offering the great statesman a toast,  in his blank office in the far north he would exclaim ”It is truly a shame to see such a diligent and excellent individual step down, we can only hope his successor will be able to be held to the same standard of professionalism “ 

 

[Ivoreyy 2303]

Princess Elizabeth Anne pondered the words of the Basrid’s final missive as Chancellor. Truly, he was a man who’d taught the young woman much of what she knew now – a man who had planted allegorical tales in her mind throughout her youth, and only shaped those ideals further as she grew. It was a bittersweet end to the Basrid Ministry, for though she so mourned the loss of his excellence and skill in state, she knew in the same that he had endowed Oren with her very core foundation. Providence, service, and legacy: To walk in the grace and wisdom of God, and to understand the mechanisms, prosperity, and failure of those who had stood before them. To innovate. 

 

The woman stood upon her bedroom’s balcony, gaze panning across the expanse of the red city. “To those who shall be remembered beyond their times. May the path they paved for each of us last forevermore, and may we walk that path in an enlightened knowledge – in the knowledge they have given us.” She leant her arms against the iron railing, rapping a gloved finger upon the metal surface.

 

“One of the founding Fathers of Oren you are, Mister Basrid – and forever will be. Should my own generation follow in your name and wisdom, perhaps we may see a fraction of your dutiful mind and statecraft. Rest well in retirement now, for even the Headless Duke applauds you.”

 

[Urahra 5777]

That damned Ostromir Carrion... 

 

That thought played through Yuliya Styrne's head on loop as she wandered around Helena, trying to occupy herself until she could return home. Every day in the capital brought some new scene of chaos. On this particular day, it happened to be a 40-foot-high alchemical fire on Basrid Boulevard - just right down the street from Yuliya's apartment. Ostromir Carrion, at it once again.

 

The smell of the smoke brought back horrible flashes of memory. Yuliya, the reclusive hobgoblin that she was, did not often venture out from her apartment. Only if forced by social obligation or lack of food. But the reek of burning wood invaded her sanctum and made her nearly sick with anxiety. She'd left purely to escape the assault on her senses.

 

It was a bad day and only seemed to be getting worse - until she stumbled across the news of Basrid's retirement. 

 

Heat rose into her cheeks at the sight of her own name on the missive. Her shaking, scarred hand claimed a copy of the letter and folded it delicately, slipping it into her silk purse - a new memento for her collection. On those nights lying alone in bed, hating herself because the verses didn't flow or the characters wouldn't behave, she would look back on it and remind herself that a man in Oren's highest office praised her as a blessing and a treasure.

 

Basrid was a man whom she had come to admire fiercely. Not necessarily for his statesmanship, but for the undeniable passion, force, and fire he brought to the stage. Yuliya had never cared much for politics, but the moment she laid eyes on Basrid, she knew he had the flair of a thespian. The man oozed charisma. His mannerisms fascinated the eye, his diction arrested the ear. She needed him for her stable of actors; he’d be the jewel of her collection if only she could convince him to take the stage.

 

Alas, that all his time was taken up by dry politics! He’d missed his calling for the stage. Through some miracle, she’d managed to contract him to play the title role in her production of Lorin + Augustus. And it was Basrid’s ability to domineer the stage – along with his co-star’s quiet strength and dignity – that had given such dynamism and life to the words. No one else could have played Augustus the way Basrid did. Every subsequent actor who adopted the role would need to compare himself to the original great.

 

Watching him storm the stage as Augustus, Yuliya knew beyond a doubt that she wanted Basrid to star in every play she staged for the rest of her career. He was that powerful, that undeniable, that fascinating when you let him loose under the proscenium.

 

"Perhaps he might pursue acting more seriously in his retirement," she mumbled to herself before moving on. "One can hope."
 

[AnonymousAlexa 3890]

Angelika Bykov thumbed through the missive at the desk in her room, releasing a soft sigh. For the entirety of her life, Simon Basrid had served the glorious Empire of Oren as its Arch-Chancellor. It was difficult to imagine the Empire under a new administration, though she had full faith in her long-time colleague, Jonah Stahl-Elendil. He would certainly carry on the legacy of Simon Basrid and his administration, and create a legacy of his own. After contemplating this for some time, she drew a piece of parchment and a quill to pen a letter to the new Arch-Chancellor.

 

Dear Jonah Stahl-Elendil,

 

Congratulations on your appointment of Arch-Chancellor. I have no doubt that you are a very capable man and one who I fully trust with such responsibilities. I pray that you shall carry on the legacy of the Basrid Administration, and create a legacy of your own.

 

Best Regards,

Her Excellency, Angelika Bykov, Undersecretary of the Interior, MHC

 

((@Braehn Elendil An'Hiraeth))

[wyvernbro 77]

A short while after hearing the news, Lieutenant Stafford takes a walk about the Bastille, looking contemplative, with his hands clasped behind his back. When he reaches the mess hall, he comes across a familiar sight — the old portrait of Colonel Simon Basrid, dated from 1733, which hangs just across from the Lieutenant's old seat he always took as an enlisted trooper.

 

For a long time he studies the image of the old statesman in his army days, and thinks about how much the world has changed. He thinks back to when he himself was just a young, fresh-faced recruit, and the Archchancellor stopped by to play a game of cards with the enlisted men. A heavy sigh escapes the now middle-aged third brigade officer, his walrus moustache streaked with grey, and he gives a short bow of his head to the visage of the old Rhenyari.

[MCVDK 2830]

@KBR

 

Basileious gaze moved across the missive for a moment as his footsteps carried themselves through the hall of the Novellen. Soft sounds of his boots hitting the clean marble floor throughout the halls as his steps grew faster as the halls grew longer. “Iskander.” He noted upon finally finding his brother within the Novellen as his gaze finally raised from the missive for the first time since his carriage from Reza. “Aachen resigned. .” He noted quietly and almost sadly as his gaze returned to the missive once more. “We mustn’t let him down, Iskander.” He added, “We’re the next generation of Rhenyari within the Empire. We mustn’t let him down.” the Rhenyar repeated his words once more as they grew to a mumble, a few simply words leaving him beneath his breath. “You did us proud, aachen. The Basridi and Rhenyari. The People of Oren. You deserve the rest.”

[BenevolentManacles 2232]

Philip salutes the august statesman’s tenure.

[Heff 2460]

Peridot Carrington muses at a fireside somewhere in the world. He palms a tea cup, moving it about from hand to hand. ”The old papu, retired?” Peri had suspected that his family friend would be calling it quits. He lasted far longer than he had suspected.  The playwright speaks to nobody in particular, ”He was like the grandfather I never had. I am a mutt, but he gave me culture, affirmation in this city. There was a reason that baba found this man a friend and I a family member. Without his guidance, I do not know how surefooted I would have felt during my hay-day. A tempering, controlled flame in the chaos of life. A hearth to return to, a sharp mind to dance with and a sage to consult to. This nation, he served well. My family, my father, he served just the same. I...” Peri pauses. He sets the tea cup down and lights a cigarette, ”I am happy for the old papu, for he can indulge once more in the leisure of life and of free thought.” The playwright sets down to write a letter to the Basridi sage, to make time for a match of the King’s Game.

[peachcool 602]

Alpha sat on the cold floor in front of the empty fire place in her room chuckling to herself, she had repeated the words “Alexandra.” several times by now. Alpha laid on her stomach as she poked her finger at the dead fire, sparks erupted from her finger as a dim red glow shone from her eyes. A grin formed on Alpha’s features as she recalled the memories she had with the old man. “There’s only more to come!” she’d comment to herself as she twirled her hand around; Meanwhile the flames from her fingers would catch the coals on fire, creating a perfectly warm crackling fire for the night.