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THE WIVES' PLOT


Eryane
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https://youtu.be/mWQACEqf4QY

 

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THE WIVES' PLOT

 

‘Dear Diary,’ a young girl no older than the age of seven penned in a little journal. ‘My tutor, Tiberia, says I must fulfill God’s desired path for me and that I must make a legacy of my family’s name; yet, what is legacy?’ 

 

“Irene,” a voice called out, deep from within her consciousness, as she thrashed against her restraints in the cell. Her head throbbed and ached from the numerous blows done to it prior to her confinement; the corners of her eyes dotted with growing blackness. 

 

               “Auntie,” another echoed from the distance,

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  “Future empress.”

 

 

                                                                           “Lady Ruthern.”

 

 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   “Majordomo.”

 

                                                                                        “New member of the NGS!”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                  “Ania.” 

                                                                                                          “‘Rena.”

 

                                                                                                                                                                         “Your Excellency.”                                         "Cursed."

                                                                                 “Dear.”

                                                                                                                                “Lady Speaker.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                    “Irena.”

                                             “Mama!”                                  “Lady Sarkozy.”

                                                                                                                                                                                                               “Mother.” 


 

“Irene.”

 

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Irene's gloved fingers ran over the top of the desk and cleared it of any substantial dust collected upon it. She lifted her hand and peered over it, blowing all the pieces away as she spoke, “The kingdom burns." There was a pause. “Our homeland burns.”

 

“The nobility are upset, thoroughly so. They wish to have more to their name and a stronger voice as the duma. These reforms I have drafted shall ensure such is given where it is due,” the Lady Speaker attempted to reason in the name of those her Aulic office presided over with her new reforms of the Royal Duma, yet her suggestions were swiftly shut down by her nephew. 

 

“I do not care for whining nobles.” The researcher and historian recalled not only the history of her family, so ingrained into her mind, but that of the many others whose sweat and blood made the very nation they presided over– now reduced to the minuscule description of ‘whining nobles’, albeit most making a majority of the population. Who did the king care for, if not his own subjects? Never before had she thought to question the king; yet the seed was planted, and swift did it grow in that scholar's mind. The people first, she told herself, the people first. 

 

“This is not new for either of us,” retorted the countess, her murky gaze reflecting the invasive rays of light emerging from betwixt the curtains. “Fire, famine, folly, my dear Irena. How they insult their forebears and drag our roots into irrelevance.” Long had such a sentiment tormented her mind. What would Viktoria have saved? What would her eldest sister have done? Even in her later years, Irene wished for the advice of her brazen sister. Perhaps she was eccentric, strange, but a warrior and a queen who had loved her people akin to no other. Was her sister watching her now, and was she proud?

 

Irene hurried into the townhouse where her great niece, Princess Katerina, had addressed to her and sought refuge within. For years, she had since been in retirement and hadn’t thought to dabble in the affairs of her people, too busied with the lives of her seemingly ever-growing children; her beloved Victor and Adeline. 

 

Katerina, dressed in a costume to disguise herself and covered in a variety of cosmetics to mask her face, ushered her aunt inside. “I ran away,” explained the princess, “Heinrik is niet just being mentally abusive... But also physical now. When I was fourteen or fifteen he threatened to lock me up until I was eighteen and not getting to see any of my friends if I kept asking to join the HRA.” She had retired on the note of knowing that her great nephew was inflicted with insanity, that some line of it ran through the royal blood descended from his mother; yet had never thought it to be so viciously displayed on his own kin. A rage boiled within her, and a sickening feeling churning in her stomach. 

 

“... He also threatened to send me to a nunnery if I kept asking why. And then he began saying I was to be wed, because of the false rumours of me being homosex in hearsay. And when I asked why he beat me.”

 

"Queen Mariya?" she further inquired after embosoming her niece into the comforts of her arms, "He does niet... mistreat her as well, does he?" 

 

The princess was silent, and her gaze dropped. A nod of her head was enough for Irene to know the truth, and it revolted her. 

 

“Sister,” Irene called out, sharply turning to face her fully. The woman oft so distanced from others reached for her sister's hand to clasp it with tightness. “Sister,” she rasped again, twice now. Her eyes were widened - perhaps with the strain of all the years of her tormented soul contained in them, yet more prominently a pain that prevailed over all. Bitter mourning. 

 

A courier halted the Lady Sarkozy as she traversed the Providence streets alone. Swiftly did he pass a copy of the publicized journal entry of Margaux Helvets, perhaps unbeknownst of her relation to who the contents covered. At first she sought to ignore the papers offered her way; yet as she read on, tremors arose all throughout her, and fell to her knees in anguish for the powerlessness, for the inability of her very being then. Her own niece, tied to a pyre by a member of her own family for nothing at all, and sent to death without trial. 

 

What could she do? For those brutalized, for her murdered niece whilst the other was beaten? Dangerous thoughts had since sparked in her consciousness, for the sake of her family and for the kingdom she saw tormented by its leader, whether they saw it already or were soon to be victim of it. Her friends frequented her side to tell her of the harsh realities now endured by the Haeseni people; crime and fear wrecked the land, from all accounts she was informed by. 

 

Elisabeth faced Irene in all her wigged likeness, lips puckering. A dire knowingness plagued her expression as each of the Sarkozy's words panged in her head.

 

“No more,” was all Irene said as she met the gaze of her sister. 

 

The Countess’s lips drew only minutely upward. “For the fallen, we will be brave.” There was a silence that filled the rooms in which they stood. Both the sisters exchanged a knowing glance, be it one of necessity for what they believed just when so much was not. The quietude was shattered by Elisabeth, “No more, Irena.”

 

And so was born the Wives' Plot of 1814, in the name of their homeland against the mad king who claimed rule over it; in the name of the legacy of their sister, Queen Viktoria, for Nataliya, for Katerina, for Queen Mariya; and many others who feared the sake of the nation under the reign of King Heinrik II and the consequences of those who dare speak out against insanity. 

 

“We will perish if we do not persist," said she, and left without another word.

Edited by Eryane
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Igor sat in his office as he sent letters to each candidate of the election. His workplace where Irene once kept nice and clean was now absolutely riddled with crumpled up documents, unfinished works, and empty bottles of Carrion. The news of his once admired predecessor and a woman who he looked up to only stressed the Lord Speaker more than ever. But Igor knew he couldn't stop... Work work work. That was all Igor knew now. However, in his mind he couldn't get the thought of Irene out of his head. He never had a close connection with her, not in any way outside of his profession anyways. Igor just couldn't help but feel some sort of despair and frustration towards the whole situation. He then slapped himself hard, took two shots of Carrion Black, and went back to work. It was all he could do to get his mind off of it. "Damn you Irene..."

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A loathsome Mutt would grumble as it observed the latest happenings. 

 

"Sin flourishes when the Virtuous are cowed into inaction..." 

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Nataliya Reza sat in her bedroom in Freeport. The Princess would be seen curled up on her bed, her arms wrapped around her legs tightly attempting to comfort herself, after hearing the news of what had become of her two aunts. "Why?" She whimpered gently to herself before bringing her hand forth, covering her face as she began to weep. "Haense." she gritted through her teeth.

 

 


 


"Auntie Auntie! look at the frog I found da? isn't it- um- Magnificent!" the tiny princess stated proudly, finally able to use the new word her beloved Aunt has taught her. Irene, pursed her lips at the girl's muddied dress she was recently due to the others being destroyed by the same fate. However, Irene eyes soften. "Good Job Nataliya. you are finally starting to put those words to use." she responded gently, brushing The Princess Royal's hair out of her visage. "Da! . . I wish you were around more . . I am quite lonely . ." Nataliya muttered, allowing her head to drop. Irene's visage turned sorrowful. she then cupped her hand under the child's chin, lifting it before stating "You are never alone Nataliya, remember that." The Future Empress then grasped Nataliya by the arms, lifting her upward as she brought her into a tight hug. 

 

 



Nataliya wiped the tears from her cheeks as she muttered gently "I will end this. For Aunt Irene and Aunt Elisabeth" 

 

 

 

 

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Erik Ruthern recalls being sent to Helena all those years ago to look after Irene when she was to be married. He had read the report and statement put out by the Empire. "Didn't know you had it in you," The Captain lets out a sigh before retiring to his bedroom.

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Katerina Ceciliya stared at the palace garden from her balcony. A thought repeating in her head over and over. "Why?" She knew why of course, but was afraid to admit it. Afraid to admit that her aunt had tried to save her from her brother. But did she truly need saving? He had after all stopped mistreating her once she had returned to Haense. Hope, it lingered in her mind; but she was afraid, a coward. For she had been a coward so many times, especially during her other aunt's execution. It was hard to break from the fear and the cowardice which she had grown so used to. But she could do it, she knew she could.

 

"Nie more..." she whispered to herself, her head lifted high as she did. 

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Archimandrite Vladrick would look upon the news sighing "This madness and abuse must stop. This brainwashing, this brutality is not one of a man but of a beast. One cannot be a servant of GODANI yet murder his own kin, beat his wife and threaten one's own people for the simple pleasure. I condom this attempt of murder but I can see why it had happened and for that I can't blame them... Blind loyalty is just a bad as the man who orders it. I see my homeland burning and collapsing in front of my eyes, I pray for the nobility to see the madness of their king and step up and help him see the error of his ways."

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Erik Othaman simply shook his head as he placed a hand to his face. He remembered his expulsion from his ancestral homeland and his mistreatment at the hands of mad monarchs. "Irene finally sees it... If only the rest had such resolve and bravery to speak out."

The Knight would recall how he scaled the walls of Vasiland with a handful of his closest comrades and breached the Scyfling defenses. He sent a letter to the King for reinforcements that day and it was ignored. He was left to die. His life was worth throwing away.

"Never again." The Othaman firmly stated. "It takes bravery to face down impossible odds. Haense was founded upon the backs of the steel-willed. Karl Barbanov @Ark, Tarcell Othaman @Eddywilson2, Rhys var Ruthern @Imperium, and many more. Those men built Haense not by rolling over when a threat came, but by standing their ground and fighting as brothers in arms."

"Bravery."

"Honor."

"Haense would have perished had they not persisted."

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