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Ithe casting back a brooding few flickers of a likely coral translucence about so cashmere and whatever seemly fabrics and fibres so tread in traces, that dim an ebony about delicate fray for the sake of garb, a great fry and coal cackled about its few crackles and sparks for every so often, whereabout parallel the ornate quintessence a lounge. Lo', did that lounge so occupy the lanky, though by no means brooding, figure a gentle cast of silhouette, likened so only by its backdrop that of the Sir Vladislav Ostrobor Vimmark, for which had each corner of his dim dress become obscured some degree in the mirror of brilliant lustre to his far forefront. Only by a kind retort, however, did he subject his weary mind to in so a moment; so a few significant instance, for whereupon had he held his child daughter in either arm, forearm of her own, the good Leopoldine, thus digits having become encumbered in a respective anchor of firm grip. Cobalt, to either pools an iris', swirled some in its disposition that fine fry that relinquished its essence before, as the Vimmark only surveyed the timid scene, and its odd warmth.

 

Forsooth, though so, a tired misery transversed for the warm obscuring of so a kind few frames, if much at all, in its laces bound by the cold exchange of news that bore so, not the last ounce a similar geniality that otherwise, had the Carrionborn sought hereupon. No –– only vain dichotomy to such beseeched, and so had it come to him, the Vimmark lord, by word of the grapevine, in a slighting dismay. 'The Lord Dima Carrion has passed,' did the handmaidens weep, as per echo of what previously had courtiers and, all the fairer, too noble maidens proclaimed and wept; 'the Father Dima is no more.'  These a lousy cries penetrated mahogany by mahogany tapestries, to which had the Raevir man's estate aided and held accountable, for its presence then. The subtlety of these cold niceties penetrated one eardrum in a fine enough ring, managing exit by wishes of the next, in respect to the lord. Though the wit thereof, he but dimly discerned:

 

His brother had perished.

 

Tso terrible obituary and necrologue, not one crease in taut blight a leathery patch nor furrow to the man's pallid countenance, he simply beckoned an eerie stillness to his cerulean stare over and a past, in surveillance that gleam to his flank at his forth. Nor either, did his fair form and its endearing, deep accoutrement and garb contour nor falter any in its stiffening, or lack hereon. He became completely, and utterly still. Perhaps, this were in show, his distress and, fittingly, unwitting reaction; or mayhaps even, a display of utter shock for so an instance. Not one theorem could be entirely accurate, for he differed little whence had he watched a dance and linger of hearth previously. But if one thing were certain, at all, it could very well be his displeasure, and revulsion for so; this were a state, any one man or woman could detect of his detached mind, in even the slightest survey of his guise. For, though displeasure were one way he had become versed well in, it grew tenfold in pores and tissue about his sickly visage.

 

And at once, steadfast a proposition, he came to waver. Near ivory a lips, in much their acquired dryness, and dank quality to the cracks that ran about them, sought split and part in the conservative line for had they drawn over, in creases a dimples at either end of his face. And, by the wishes of the hasty slurring and dancing of his tongue about the roof of his mouth, Vladislav heeded eulogy, curtly:

 

"… A – bottomless curse. Bottomless sea. Curse to all that will ever be; and soon, the world may cease to be. Though they have relinquished you in their synod, I wish you would be… zealous, for this world's pardoning of your spirit. I hope you have found your place, somewhere; it is of my wishes, to raise your kin as my own.

 

Farewell, Brother."

 

Spoiler

 

 

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After seeing to the body of Holy Sir Nicholas, and then aiding the General of the ISA with transporting the body of Cardinal Amadeus Johan would turn to walk back into the city, as he saw his friends in the square he would wave towards them both as he shouted "Dima! Cyril! it is fine! Manfried has been returned back to Provid.." his words cut short as he saw Father Dima rush towards the man, and in the blink of an eye a bright light and blast would blind Johan for a moment as the large man fell to the ground "Wh.. what just happened.." he`d state as he tried to get back onto this feet, as he`s vision finally returned he`s eyes would widen as he saw the terrors that had just taken place

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Sofya Carrion-Tuvyic hadn't known her elder brother that well. She didn't know most of her family all that well, for that matter. The Crow spent most of her time inside, studying the past, idolizing it greatly. The girl, who had just turned twenty, felt like she had betrayed her brother- by never knowing him.

 

She set out to make that change.

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Beatrice Virosi remains traumatized from the bombing in which Father Dima died, scarred forevermore.

Emerentia mourns the loss of Sigismund's brother, going to wipe a handful of tears from her eyes. 

Edited by DahStalker
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A certain Mali'Ker offered a single sigh at the news. He showed no remorse for the loss of a Valah, but was simply dissapointed in the fact he was short one political ally.

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The day was a long one, no doubt, but even in Irene’s undying pessimism she knew it not to worsen any further. Yet a sound pierced her ears and the explosion erupted before her, screams echoing all around and cries for one’s family– all of it along with the blood that now littered the Karosgrad square. The blast sent her stumbling back with no attempt to recover herself, but even her crash could not stop her from rushing to her feet and screaming out for the young man she watched obliterated before her eyes. Her nephew. Rarely did the woman allow a crack in the surface of her often solemn countenance, but she could not contain the scream that boiled in her throat. 

 

She scrambled over what remained of her nephew, of the boy she had hoped to introduce to more of her family but moments before the diet; the boy she had remembered the birth of when her sister sent her an excited letter with the joyous news, the boy seen play in the fields outside of Helmholtz and anger some strange entity, the boy she had grown to love as one of her own for his passions for the world and the people therein were something she admired greatly. For she could never hold such kind views of a world she grew to despise, while he flourished in the love of the people and the institution he was a part of, even in the face of a schism. 

 

For what seemed like hours Irene remained on her knees of the square with shaky hands trying to piece what was her nephew and what wasn’t, what still remained. Yet nothing she could find resembled Dima besides a single golden cross that lay where he once stood, bloodied and bits ruined from the intensity of the blast. Irene avoided the square thereon, taking the long routes to exit Haense or to get to the palace, and there would be no sleep for her in the days to come. Her office remained left in disarray from the papers she had swept off her desk in utter anger for the little she could do, how helpless she had been then other than a witness to a bloodbath.

 

—————

“It is impossible now,” Sigismund had said, “A dream I once had, but dreams last only in your sleep, when the world around you matters little, and all you know is the abut of what lay inside your hopes and wishes. It was once there, but now it is gone. I focus only on what I can do, not what I vainly aspire to do. 

 

The young Carrion watched on as her brothers bickered before her, arguing over things she understand not. Little could she comprehend the words of these boys much older than her, but the tone held in their words and thee pain in their gaze was something she could feel.

 

“Some men live and die by dreams, Sigismund. But others see nothing more than life and death. They are already dead, for they have no dreams,” Ratibor retorted.

 

Ratibor always liked to see the best in the world, Milena remembered as she drug her scrawny fingers alongside a drawer in the empty room that was supposed to be her brother’s once the construction of their family’s castle in Dobrov was completed. He would want me to do the same too, to see the light in the darkness. I know he would. If he were here right now... There were a few pieces of furniture sprawled about the room, but none of it orderly. “A better place,” she muttered to herself, “He’s in a better place now, he’s where he wanted to be. With God. He’s with God now.” She collapsed in the middle of that emptied hall, sobbing and sobbing without end for her dear brother she had lost. 

 

Spoiler

@JoanOfArcGenuinely some of the better RP I have had on the server in years, and I couldn't have asked for a better opportunity to make friends. Ratibor was one of the most human characters I've seen in a long time, with flaws of his own but human nonetheless and still a very optimistic person. Late night VCs with you and Nectorist have been a blast, as well as any of the RP we've all had. 

 

Edited by Eryane
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Nikolas weeped for his fallen friend. He would look up from his blubbering tears into the night sky, knowing that Dima had a place in the heavens.

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Sergei Othaman would walk enbrace his grandchildren, to comfort them after being given the news of their beloved uncle's passing." Dima vasn't just vyr aedinpader but he vas my friend, and he of all people has a place in the seven skies" he'd say in a gentle voice to his crying grandchildren

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Elisabeth sat on the stairs, waiting like she di every day for her father to come back from his church adventures like she did every day. The last time she had saw him that day was when she peaked out from her tired eyes to see him leave  she was ready to show him the painting of  she had made!  but as she waited, it grew colder and colder till night fell. Tears stained and the paper hung limply in her hands. as she would see her Namesake staring down at her with darker clothing. rushing forward she left with a hush whispers and tears. The world grew only darker as she heard the very words she dreaded. 

The painting left on the ground unwanted and uneeded. 

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That evening, a letter would reach George Galbraith, yet little did he know about the implications that he was to read. As he read about the horrendous passing of Dima Carrion, the aging man dropped the missive as he put his head in his hands.

Has he lost another comrade?

Was it not just a month ago, that he shared the Josephite bench with the young man, his hope instilled in him?

In truth - he saw Dima as a young version of the legacy, the future generation. Young Dima was smart, and entrepreneurial. The young man had potential. But it was now too late.

 

That night he would weep, lighting a candle for the Tuvyic's honor.

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The Baroness of Woldzmir waltzed in solitude within the illustrious, dim-lit confines of her homestead. Her footfalls were quick, and each movement fluid. The waltz, that coordinated exchange, was reminiscent of the very one she and her son had engaged in many years prior. This time, however, he was not there to accompany her. A quiet hum exuded from Lady Carrion, mellow and soft, accompanied only by rivulets of silent tears that clung to the hollows of her cheeks.

 

How could she ever numb the anguish she was to feel, the very one that had not yet settled completely in her mind, of losing her youngest son - the very first that had sired her grandchildren, that had lived with piety and compassion, that dared the question the unquestionable. Were not children supposed to outlive their parentage? 

 

Perhaps it was a reality she could never and was never meant to reconcile. Life continued, despite the circumstances, and Elizaveta of Metterden had reaped the most grievous fruits that it could have sired. 

 

 

((its been a pleasure to have u play my kid bud; heres to more experiences together!!!))

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"Must every triumph be tempered by tragedy?" A brooding, defeated Franz wonders to himself as he walks atop the walls of Providence alone. The night's warm air was pleasant, almost too much so, for such an occasion that it was. Would it always be that tragedy would strike this wretched man, that the line of Tuvyic be so cursed as they were? All he wished for now was peace, a day where none he knew would perish, and all would enjoy the beauty of the ephemeral life they had been afforded.

 

"It seems I am cursed, living a life as long as I have..."

 

—————

 

Poor Sigismund, on the other hand, cannot even think, his already-shattered mind now broken again. Finding home in the filthy backalleys and decrepit sewers of Providence, the man avoids all news of his brother's passing, but the horrible truth takes hold of his heart all the same. He resolved to forget it all for now, instead immersing himself in his own survival, it too hanging by a thread.

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