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[PK] 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐢𝐧


Urahra
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Presumably nestled within the lush territory of Dobrov was the wig-and-spectacle donning Baroness of Woldzmir, a woman who matured in the luminous company of Dame Yuliya Styrne. The letter delivered to Elizaveta by a young courier that had valiantly ventured into the imposing depths of the Kremlin Anavet was recognized immediately, and knowing of the playwright's health, she quickly grasped at it. 

 

It felt as though all had grown dimmer - the torchlights, the sunlight that was suggested by the crevice produced between the curtains on the windowsill of her bedchambers, her heart. Elizaveta had lost the woman who had throughout her life been a constant guide and - in some capacity- a surrogate mother. She remembered the first time, aged eighteen, when she performed upon a stage, the fiery applause her characterization of Queen Anabel had elicited rousing in her something foreign and magnificent. Forty years later, she was a different woman yet her passion for the stage had not faltered.

 

"The First of many to come - such is the travesty of my predicament," she voiced to one who lurked in the shadows as she rose, either limber hand of hers grasping the missive with ferocity.

 

"My dearest, Madame," she spoke, meandering toward her balcony. "You shall be remembered upon the vast tapestry of man, your mind and its fruits of profound literary importance displayed upon banners and within ivory bastions of knowledge. Your advise to me has never been forgotten - and indeed, I have achieved freedom beyond imaginations... for a price, perhaps, but what change for the better is gratuitous?"

 

"The first of the greats, you were. I am confident your pupils will honor your legacy as I will, forevermore." 

 

 

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The Princess Imperial received her letter within her own Estate, Rosemoor House, seated alongside her daughter. The news of Yuliya's death was a profound shock to a woman who of late had feared for the safety and security of her own family - never sparing a moment to imagine that the loss she could anticipate, perhaps, would come from beyond her husband and children.

 

She read over her letter with fond smile, herself recalling the events of Lorin + Augustus' debut. It had been a young Elizabeth's waking dream to portray a character of her own ancestry, crafted in a masterful use of language that brought even the most stoic of audiences to a hushed anticipation. A defining moment in the Princess' life, as she stood on stage alongside her mentor of many years and told the ancient story of compassion. Her favoured line amongst the four acts told a story in and of itself - allowing that young Princess to harness the strength of that same Lady to which she portrayed.

 

My words grant me fine wings with which to fly
And dream that I am in a distant place.

 

Perhaps, Yuliya's life had ended in the same way as one of her own classic tragedies. A Styrnian-esque tale of her rise to success, and an end imbued with the audience's lingering wish that one more of her plays - just one, could have graced the stage of Providence.

 

"She was the brightest of women. One that history shall remember. She told her daughter then. 

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It took some time for the emotional weight of the obituary to hit Corwin - far longer than it had taken the elder to conclude studying its text, even with an unwieldy contraption loaded with lenses which allowed his ruined sight to discern small print. "Seventy, eh? Far too young. And she still looked better than I did at five-and-twenty!" he whispered to the paper, part in jest and part in disbelief, stricken by the news.

 

Without delay he departed to light a candle in the Krähenstadt cathedral, throughout his journey reminiscing warmly of his correspondence with Bianca and her column, and the stroke of fate that allowed them to meet in person. His unlikely casting granted the man some insight on a very personal struggle - as he acted out the role of his people's once most hated figure, the ancient Waldenian came to terms with his own religious feelings. Much as he admired the woman, however, his grief would soon grow beyond his mourning for Yuliya at the grim news of another friend's death...

 


 

The gaunt figure known as Percy L. trudged across the sleet-coated streets of Providence. Ignorant as he were of the accident, he spared a brief thought for the only woman besides the late Empress who had shaken him to his core, her sole eye stripping his shivering figure to its very soul as vividly in his mind as it had been in person. The thought was fleeting; his unlucky encounter with a mailed rebel soon occupied his psyche, and the man considered taking up the blade for the first time in his life...

 

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Emerentia sat silently within her chambers for the remainder of the evening once discovering the death of her beloved mentor. Once she had read of the contents of the note given to her she hoisted a hand to cup her mouth with a muffled sob, teary gaze flickering toward the lone violin pivoted away in the isolated corner of her room.

Edited by DahStalker
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"Adalia!" Harren exclaimed with teary eyes as he learned of Yuliya's death, "Badminton woman died." He murmured with a frown, dramatically turning to one of the books laid on his desk, Badminton, the Sport of Gentlemen - A Rules Handbook. He brought a hand up to wipe his tears, "Badminton woman... I will finish what vy started." @shay

 

 

 

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The news reached James in a letter after he had finished his daily woodcutting and had begun to cook his breakfast. The opening words stuck him numb. He sank to his seat to read the rest of the announcement, then stared at the cane- her cane- leaning against the corner of the kitchen where he had left it the previous night.

 

With a decisive finality, but no plan, he snatched the cane in hand and began a march toward Providence which lost steam before he reached the gates to leave Karosgrad. A few minutes saw him meander back into the house and slump over the kitchen table. Tears burned in his eyes as his eggs and bacon burned in the pan. He struck the pan with the tip of her cane and sent his breakfast into the kitchen coals.

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4 hours ago, Gusano said:

"Adalia!" Harren exclaimed with teary eyes as he learned of Yuliya's death, "Badminton woman died." He murmured with a frown, dramatically turning to one of the books laid on his desk, Badminton, the Sport of Gentlemen - A Rules Handbook. He brought a hand up to wipe his tears, "Badminton woman... I will finish what vy started." @shay

Adalia rummaged through her things in the corner of Harren's room, pulling out the trusty racquet she won the esteemed badminton tournament with "This is a catastrophe, we'll never forget vy badmanton lady." she frowned, shedding a single tear before temporarily removing a picture of Harren and Adalia on the wall to hang the racquet in respect.

 

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Henry Penton wore black that day. His usual color was missing from his clothing and face. In the blustering wind, he stood in the gardens, which seemed to have been drained of their once prominent beauty too. From his pocket, he retrieved a small envelope which he placed on the ground.

 

It was that morning when he had written it, stored up in his home offices with nothing but sorrow on his mind. He put his thoughts to paper, as well as he could, and figured he would write one last thing to the Madame Directress.

 

If I had known the last time we spoke would be the last time we spoke, I would have asked so many more questions. I have needed your direction a million times, and I will need it one million more. For the short time I knew you, I saw a woman devoted to the arts and enjoying life. Believe it or not, many people go throughout their lives knowing nothing of the delights or sorrows you have endured.

 

I shall publish every poem, direct every production, and write every word with the belief that you watch over me. I have resolved that I cannot control what has already occurred, so I am devoted to ensuring what little charge I have is used properly. If I have any say in the matter your name shall reign as one of my inspirations and motivations. Most certainly, however, you will be recognized as a preeminent figure of exceptional literature by all.

 

Words will always fail me when it comes to describing this grief. Therefore I regrettably have to say goodbye, in this letter, to a good mentor and friend. May we meet one day again.

 

Signed,

Your Friend,
Henry Penton

 

As he stood and watched the letter blow up into the air, his mind convinced itself of closure, but a few tears managed to stride down his face. He would write on, but not without the weighty heart of a man who had lost something so dear: A brilliant and remarkable mentor.

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