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Au Revoir, Dear Pruvia


clonky
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AU REVOIR, DEAR PRUVIA 
 

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A youthful girl staring out the window of Provins Chateau

 

The exuberance of a child is something as priceless as the jeweled heirlooms of the Pruvia’s past. Only a youth can be more energized than any other to have a visit with her grandparent. The sweet smell of a newcomer, showing love that no other stranger alike is able to. An unconditional warmth even when one has not met the other shows the meaning of family.

Heiress Pruvia was meant to meet her grandfather for the first time in her short life. Her nerves radiated from her, causing her heart to Thump, Ba-dump, thump. She couldn’t help but to feel the ache of anxiety grow like a festering weed inside her mind, wondering if the relative would take to her.

“Bonjour…” Rang a meek tone from Amadie Marléne. Her grandfather stood in front of her, confronting a man with an eyepatch to scare any small girl into a frenzied fright. He simply turned to Amadie’s father and inquired if the girl was the heir, the one that Philip spoke so fondly about. A simple nod seemed to break away those tensions between stranger and stranger, surging open the possibilities of a family bond. 

 

“Do not be so formal with me, girl! I’m your grandpapa!” The hearty voice of Lord Simon Pruvia came like a song to her ears. My family, thought Amadie. She knew not of who he was, or what travels he had found himself upon across the lands of Almaris, but the familiarity of the two struck like a piano chord - welcoming into a story of song. He conjoined her into a fitful embrace, throwing her into the air as the heiress’s father always did. Perhaps Philip got this trait from the original of the action - Lord Pruvia. 


After surging into the Provins Chateau, Amadie found herself whisked away from Lord Pruvia by her mother, being sat between her two parents. The casual conversation of family was something Amadie respected gratefully, but the looming shadow of tension hung in the brightly colored purple-hued room. To Amadie, her grandmother, Lady Provins seemed to take no liking to this meeting. The words blurred together, the only thing prominent in the room was the fury that her Imperial Grandmother held. Rage, Rage, Rage.

It was suffocating. The heat of anger was hot on her face, and the youthful heiress made a fuss to her mother, in which she received the complaints with bad-manners. Eventually she was tugged away, being pulled by the wrist, being told to account for the safety of the frightened Amadie.

“STOP! STOP!” These helpless cries filled the echoed halls, bouncing off the fanciful walls of the estate as men filtered into the room. Who were they? Why are they infiltrating my home? Amadie’s mind raced, until they surrounded her Lord Pruvia. Tears streamed down her cheeks, the droplets flying off her face whilst she wailed. Eventually the men filtered from the room, and Amadie was quick to race to her quarters.

With dress skirts scrunched in balled hands whilst elevating up the stairs, she ran across the planked floor to her room, flinging open the wooden door and racing toward her window. She heaved, gasping for her breath as hands landed on her windowsill. In the distance she saw her grandfather, Lord Pruvia, running off into the distance and disappearing into the outstretched undergrowth of the wild.

“Au revoir.” Whispered the Pruvian girl. Her heavy breaths fogged the window, and in the next moment when the glass had cleared, he had gone. Where he had gone, she did not know. All that the heiress knew is that he would be back again, to wish her a proper farewell.

 

 

Spoiler

OOC: Please only comment on this post if you were present for the following events, thanks!

 

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[!] A letter would be departed solely to the Heiress, sealed with the Dragon of Pruvia.

 

To Amadie, my future heiress.

 

I had not anticipated that I would need to be writing this letter. Yet, a man’s fate is fickle. It is the most abstract foe you may ever know. By the time you read this letter, I will be gone, away by the sea. The reason of this tumult is one you may not understand, nor do I expect you to. Our Empire prides themselves on their fair ideals of Joseph Marna, yet they themselves have marched into my home in an attempt to slay me like chattel on the road without explanation nor trial. Pressing their blades to my neck, they would have killed an innocent man had I left with them. The laurels our Johannian ancestors now rest on you, dear, and if you will, allow me to impart to you some guidance in this missive:

 

In this day and age, the streets of Providence are all littered with nobles, in one way or another. You will merely become a commoner with a title, as you must endeavor to continue proving yourself. No longer is the peer assessed by the strength he can amass, he is charged to tend to his manor and offer tax to his Empire.

 

Your honor is your greatest authority, but let it not become your greatest burden. When Sergei Othaman committed a great heresy against my family, I quickly took arms against him. Unfortunately, he died after losing this duel, because he lost his honor. Never allow yourself to do the same. Heed your words, and remain stalwart on them. If you do not, then you have no purpose of living, as a man’s worth is his ability to course the waves in the face of a coming tempest, and all great men land ashore or go down with their ship.

 

The greatest service is not always through the sword, but through intellect. John I conquered the fields of battle, but his intellectual strategy was second to none. At the fickle age of young adolescence, I had quickly mastered the art of the blade, a prowess matching many officers of the Imperial army themselves - a trait which carried onto my pursuits in the Fourth Brigade, as well as the operations of the Sedan and Nordling war. Yet, no work of mine was as meaningful as the tenure of Foreign mediacy. The age of grand knights and martial yore is dissipated, gone to us.

 

To you, I impart the first and only dagger of my time in the Fourth, conveyed by Captain Iskander Basrid to the most elite soldier of his squadron. Within it lies the dried blood of traitors, heretics, and Nordlings. Never clean it.

 

Serve with glory.

 

Your loving grandfather,

 

THE HONORABLE Simon Casimir Pruvia, 2nd Viscount of Pruvia-Provins, 2nd Shield of Providence."

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The doors to that Pruvia's room rumbled in an echo as pearly knuckles landed against them in a rhythm of dread, Claude's head depressed to showcase the woman's frayed nervousness. "Deedee?" She purred, her voice muffled by the residual fright of the evening's events. "Your grandpère will return, Deedee. Please, let me speak to you."

 

She waited a moment, then two... When the first sniffle echoed back from inside the locked chamber, Claude's wrists began to ache, as if her entire body had been branded in a transgression against her most beloved kin, her perfect little daughter, weeping with meaning for the first time before her. Not risking her own tears, Claude resolved to amble away, but not before her breaths began to kiss her lips with the vibration of a coming downpour.

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The noble Prince of Vilachia stared onwards at the hefty orenian congregation, steering his gaze towards the Lord Simon Pruvia with solemn features. “This fight will enervate us.” He muttered silently, flocking his rear side onto the saddle of his horse and swiftly turning away, watching as the orenian rally chased his persistent bait.

 

As he routed the foolish criminals that attempted to entice the Lord Simon Pruvia without trial or proper conduct, and as he turned to face them with a  smouldering gaze, the orenian-party was already half-way across the field, running away from the two men; they were outrallied, yet more fearless. Antonius remembered a certain Helane on that very moment, and images of the fallen Azdrazi monarch Oliver rushing them down with his brothers in-charge caused a silent prayer to be hushed.

 

Upon returning to the site, he only noticed the scampering party hiding amongst their marble keep walls, likely out of fear and trepidation for the duo.

 

“You have committed the most foulest and vile crime; the act of foreboding against almighty GOD — let it be penance that strikes you down. It was our great Lord Simon Pruvia that brought justice and serenity to the mantles and halls of the nation, and now he is to be attacked by a pack of rabid dogs of the state, without proper trial, nor the conduct to assert his innocence. Lest it be the justice of GOD that smites you down.”

 

The Vilac turned heel, allowing for the fearful, shivering party to continue hiding in their decrepit walls. He was not as surprised, for a man on horse scared a dozen of orenian armed-soldiers. 
 

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And so, Anne Caroline sat within her chambers. Her mind was racing, her head feeling heavy after the events that had transpired. She had thought she would be rid of this loveless marriage, this unfaithful husband, this lizard-worshipper - but it was all for naught when she saw him and his friend run away.

"Though perhaps," she thought to herself, "perhaps there still is a chance."

Anne once more did not sleep well that night, she was too preoccupied with bawling her eyes out. It was not often for the woman to have a breakdown such as this -- a display of weakness -- and because of such, she savored each moment of it.

Sooner or later, it dawned on her that she had a lot of explaining to do, especially to her granddaughter.

"I'm sorry, Amadie," she whispered, whilst looking to one of the many small paintings of her family members.

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"See how they scurry like roaches afraid of the light?"

 

The one-eyed Southeron called over to the younger man at his flank.

Straddled against their horses, the two opted to still their steeds where they stood;

watching as the Prvuia and the Horen desperately tired themselves amidst their escape.


"An innocent man would have nothing to run from."

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Drasus DeNurem stood outside the pristine white manor that was Provins, spending a moment to catch his breath after the recent events. As the members of his party filtered up the steps and into the exterior courtyard one by one, he lifted his head to speak . . .

 

"The witless heathen has escaped our grasp. Lord Pruvia is truly dead, any semblance of the great man he was is most assuredly gone. These gutless worms will not be spared so long as I live, and all those who become wretched slaves to demonic beings will be shown no mercy. I cannot believe the coward Simon has degenerated into, couldn't even stand with honor, only turn tail and slink away into the night."

 

He would look off into the direction that the pair fled to, the Kingdom of Haense. Taking one last deep breath, the Archchancellor would motion for his comrades to head back to the City . . .

 

"This family will no longer be tortured by the adulterer, the traitor, the heretic, or the abomination. It's truly fortunate that all of such were contained in one recreant man."

 

 

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8 minutes ago, Goon said:

"An innocent man would have nothing to run from."

 

"Can ye SHUT THAT RACKET?!" A disgruntled neighbor bellowed. "Tryin' ta sleep 'ere!"

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2 hours ago, Werew0lf said:

“An orenian victory is being able to survive for more than thirty minutes."

 

'Leon' meandered through the roads of Almaris whilst picking at the shrubbery and berries which painted the landscape of the plain he trekked. While upon his journey did that sagely man cross his path, muttering the few words which immediately engraved themselves within the boys head like a stone tablet. "I gotta write that down..." He murmured to his donkey companion, continuing to hush the words every few minutes in means to memorize them.

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Philip rushed back towards Provins, heading for Amadie's quarters. With knock or two the man tried to enter his daughter's room, but to no avail. After the mention of explanation, he was let in only to be told that she doesn't wish to speak with anyone. It seemed like stressful moment not only for her, but the whole family. The Viscount opened bottle of Pruvian Port and indulged himself in drinking for the rest of the night.

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