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THE HAMMER WAS STRUCK, 1814


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THE HAMMER WAS STRUCK

1814

 

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A likeness of TRH Countess of Dobrov and her daughter HE The Imperial Majordomo, Lady Milena Carrion-Tuvyic. Painted in 1808.

 


 

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OBITUARY

Elizaveta Angelika Carrion-Tuvyic nee Ruthern

On this fateful eve, it is with profound sobriety that the House of Carrion Tuvyic, comital lords of Dobrov, announce the passing of their leal matriarch and Countess, Elisabeth of Metterden, at the matured age of sixty. The Lady Dobrov perished suddenly overnight, issues regarding her fluctuating blood pressure roused by the trial of her sister, Irene Sarkozy, having long since plagued her.

 

Over the course of her life, The Countess of Dobrov had been awarded praise for her roles in the productions: 

  • War of The Two Emperors, written by HIH The Princess Imperial, where she played Queen Anabel I of Curonia.

  • Birth of a Nun, unperformed and written by Dame Yuliya Napier-Styrne, where she played Sister Lorina Carrion.

  • Courtship of Sarai, written by Dame Yuliya Napier-Styrne, where she played Princess Sarai of Malinor.

 

In addition to her contributions to the theatrical world, TRH Countess of Dobrov served as a founding member to the scholastic Blue Stocking society alongside her daughter, HIH Princess Josephine of Crestfall, and Dame Yuliya Napier-Styrne and served as the Governess-Secretary of the Imperial Court during the rule of Emperor Peter the Third. 

 

Countess Dobrov was a doting mother of six children: Sigismund Chekhov, Alexander ‘Dima’ Ratibor, Tuvya Konstantin, Sofiya Antonina, Sigmunda Agnessa, and Milena Ipera. Through them, she was a grandmother of seven beautiful grandchildren.

 

Letters addressed to the beloved acquaintances of The Countess of Dobrov, at  one point or another, were delivered to their private residences and apartments.

 

They know who they are.

 


 

To My Intimates, 


 

I will address each of you in this letter, one by one. Mind you, The dead have no need for secrecy. In every mundane cycle, there is waxing and there is waning. A sun is prone to set upon the very same horizon from which it emerged. The treacherous moon gallops forth in its stead, taunting those left bereaved by the sun’s lively company. 

 

The curtains, my readership, are wont to be called and none will be left - in due time - to deliver the final standing ovation. The rose’s thorns did prick the maiden's fair palms and bereaved them of their virginal touch; pure, unscathed, radiant. 

 

What is left, when the somber tide withdraws? Legacy. Memory. Will I be thought of when it is so? Will love consume me?


 

A thought for another eve, I do suppose. There is time to lament the inevitability of acts coming to dire closings. Live brazenly, not with submission.

 

To my Chrysanthemum, heed this well. You will do greatly by foremost listening to yourself. Your future is prosperous in the arts. Think always of your mother when in doubt.

 

To my Jackalope, think not of the past or the scars that it has inflicted upon you. I bear the greatest of loves for you and will carry you with me forevermore. I hope you will do the very same.

 

To the Crow of Dobrov, be prudent. The times ahead will be difficult for you. Look upon our Kremlin, Anavet,  the namesake of myself and our late daughter-by-law, should you seek my guidance.

 

To Irena, the only one amongst those labeled I will address plainly: we did well - didn’t we? I know naught if you’ll receive this, or if you will live beyond the duration of your trial, but we must be confident with our efforts in salvaging the reputation of our homeland - so carefully curated by our sister, Queen Viktoria - and to honor our niece, Princess Nataliya, so gravely betrayed by her nephew. By Bones and By Barrows, through fire and blood.

 

With thundering applause, it all ends.

 

Fanfare.

 

Lightning.

 

Culmination.

 

You will reap what you sow, always.







 

With high hopes and a full heart,

Veta

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"I feel guilty," mutters Sigismund to himself as he sits atop the battlements of the Dobrov manor, looking out over the great expanse of the forests of Grenz.

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Emerentia could not help but feel a pang of vague sorrow for the woman she genuinely feared, lips thinned as she turned her chin downright in prayer. 

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Ostromir hopes to rejoice, but he cannot. That elder Raevir has confined himself within that chamber , blinds shut and darkness encroaching. He sat amidst such umbra scene , pondering.

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Elizabeth ran to her twins room in a state of shock and dismay. not even knocking she open the door a muffled wail “Nikolai! Oh, Nikolai Death’s touch has entered again.” Tears streaming down her face looking for any sort of comfort.  “I’ll miss her so much, I’ll miss mumu so much.” 

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Augustina was sad to hear the woman she idolized as a child had passed, Agnes changed her mind, this was a big deal. How come suddenly the woman she working for died and then Aimee married Ostromir? This was fishy, very fishy.

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Emanuel Montcalm sat back and smoked a cigarette in his rocking chair as the Lady Angeline Montcalm fed him blood pudding.

Edited by Tiresiam
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4 hours ago, Tigergiri said:

Elizabeth ran to her twins room in a state of shock and dismay. not even knocking she open the door a muffled wail “Nikolai! Oh, Nikolai Death’s touch has entered again.” Tears streaming down her face looking for any sort of comfort.  “I’ll miss her so much, I’ll miss mumu so much.” 

Nikolai lacked the words his father could often tell to everyone, so what he did was sit by his sister until she late listening to every word she say. He however could not find a single word to exchange with her and that was the worst part of his night.

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[ https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5D7Xbkx_cPI ]

 

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“My Chrysanthemum dear, do not weep or grieve.”

 

A fire crackled at the hearth of her chambers, yet the light did not reach the corners of the room save for a dim glow of light that allowed Milena of Dobrov comfort in reading the worn parchment lightly held up by her fingers. The contents of her mother’s letter amidst the Social Season of 1810 was no longer a mere exchange of words between the pair; now, it immortalized her mother outside of the confines of her mind. It had been well over a year since she taunted her mourning heart by desiring to read the letter. The letter seemed to nearly foresee the tragic death that would soon come upon her mother in years later after its' conception. 

 

Tears lined the sights of the Carrion as she skimmed her mother’s endearing written word when she had been in time of great need and torn between two men suitors; being the Baron of Helvets who she adored and the Count of Leuven who she had been struck with love by. It all seemed detrimental to the entirety of her life over the course of the season’s melodramatic occurrences, only for both men to be traitors. She read over the paper again; then thrice. She did not read it for the thousands of meanings and correlations she could connect between the writing and her mother’s passing, yet instead to find solace in the mere recognizable stroke of her mother’s handwriting.

 

“Your fate, at the end of the day, lies in your hands and your hands alone.” 

 

Milena reached for a second paper that had collected dust from where it rested upon the mahogany end table near her bed. The eulogy of her mother remained risen in one hand whilst the letter from 1810 was clutched in the other. “So many hushed words to hide all the vigor you upheld inside, so many sweet excuses for what you knew to be wrongdoing– even if it be against your reputation, for all that Father had done to you, for all that the world had inflicted upon your torn soul. Yet at the final draw of the curtain, you must have found some peace in knowing your future lies in your own hands, and your hands alone, when for so many years it must have felt nearly at your fingertips yet still not within your grasp,” Milena monologued aloud, and set aside the two papers after brushing off the last remnants of dust. 

 

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“Betwixt endless pristine column,

In the jewel of Oren,

A ballerina pranced

Reveling in the joy of her dance

For the hall was empty,

And that was company plenty.”

 

A gentle hand reached for the nearby handkerchief as she dotted the corners of her teary eyes and the nearly dried cheeks where streams had earlier marked her cosmetics. From within her, a familiar voice of her namesake echoed endless phrases for her to pursue strength and resilience over the downtrodden state she fell deeply into. Milena heaved out a restricted breath, and closed her eyes shut. She could hear the faint resounding of her mother’s lullabies; her mother’s monologues; her mother’s performances; her mother’s love of the arts– her mother’s only earthly escape from the distresses that plagued her. 

 

“You aren’t alone in these circumstances - so what path, with your experiences and laments in mind, will you proceed on?”

 

The glassy bottle of ink and the pen to pair with it tempted her; called to her. Perhaps it was again that she could lament in the creativity of her expressive sonnets and verses in wake of all the loss that attempted to keep her in the darkness she had grown accustomed to. 

 

“Chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums, chrysanthemums…” She uttered without cease, gazing off to the diminishing flames and the sparks that arose from them.

 

 

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