To Whom It May Concern

[Narthok 10416]

To Whom It May Concern

Spoiler

 

 

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There are a few things I would call this Charlotte character who claims to be my overlord, Harlot, Dwarf-Lover, Race-Traitor, Garbage? But never let it be said that I would call them ‘your majesty’.

 

I am not an Orenian born. I hail from the land of ice and blood, the Kingdom of Norland. A Kingdom infamous for its dynastic squabbles. Pretenders took the name of my Grandfather, claiming to be his issue. For years they denied my lineage while the realm withered. It withers still. But I cannot rightly call it my home. For I have wandered the roads and the wilds for far longer than I have ever lived under a Nordic roof. 

 

It was Philip who brought my people in from the cold. I care not for his motivations, I care not for his needs. When we needed him he was there. 

 

The Harlot of Urguan speaks at length of the hardships Philip has subjected his people to. To the origins of the wars that have afflicted our realm I cannot speak, for I do not know. But I was there at Southbridge. I spilt dwarven blood in defence of the Empire. I held my oathmen as they breathed their last breath in defence of the only home they had ever known. 

 

Charlotte, where were you at Southbridge? Warming a dwarven bed perhaps? You must have been. For I did not see you there. 

 

You cite the tenants of Nenzing, my ancestors fought and bled in the mud at Helana. Despite the odds that day they prevailed. This pathetic power grubbing sentiment that infests every word you have laid to paper in your letter is the absolute last thing this Empire needs. 

 

The Empire of Man, whatever name it has born be it Oren or Renatus were never loved because they were great. Not by the men who mattered. They were great because they were loved by great men. Their greatness was built upon the untold sacrifices of those who put the greater cause before themselves. Hardship is necessary to human greatness. It is what sets us apart from the other races. One day we will all die, let us die for a purpose greater than ourselves.

 

You speak of peace while threatening our shattered realm with another war. I cannot think of anything so vile as such bare ambition so obviously unearned. 

 

So I shall clarify now.

 

Philip III is the Emperor of Oren.

Anastasia I is the Empress of Oren

 

Philip III is my Emperor

Anastasia is my Empress

 

Cross the border and you will be treated to a mouthful of sharpened steel rather than your customary meal of dwarf.

 

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Manfred von Arichsdorf 

[Taketheshot 3834]

Joseph d'Azor read the missive of the man from Archisdorf. "A man who has the courage to stand beside his Imperial brothers will carry more respect than one who consorts within the bedchambers of dwed could ever dream of. More flies with Archisdorf honey than Kal'Darakaan Vinegar..." 

[KBR 2046]

Anastasios Basrid smiles warmly at the thought of his battlebrother. 

[Nectorist 12869]

Philip III looks over the letter from Manfred. taking a few moments to contemplate. It was a dark age that engulfed the world. Long ago, thousands of banners, for fields dotted with hundreds of thousands of men, could be found without difficulty. The past was bright, the past was bloody, the past was the ideal. However, now lay a world too far from the past to clutch onto it. Even the Age of Heroes was a chapter in a history book to most. What world had this become? Or was this a transition to something else? Philip would leave that matter for another day. All he knew was that this was a world where old friends became new enemies, and old enemies became new friends. The world would live to fight another day.

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

"Let us die for something greater than ourselves," Charlotte would echo the line as she read over the one of many public denouncements that flew onto her desk, "I quite like that."

[High_On_Math 449]

The missive brings a tear to Luthriel's eye.   "Our friends died defending southbridge and the innocent people who live there. . . we lost . . . and now we must spit on their memory, welcoming the dwarves and ferrymen in.  By ceasing war now . . . it feels like spitting on their memory."  She put her head on the table, "Why not just come out and say it?  Oren's weak.  We have no pride. . . only then can we begin to mourn our dead soldiers and continually acknowledge that we do not consent to the ferrymen and dwarves killing our families.  While we maintain this facade of pride and respect . . . while we play the good sportsman and shake the hand of the enemy that defeated us . . . we forget what they did to us.  We must never forget . . . we must seethe and we must mourn.  Never must a true Orenian shake hands with an Ireheart or Ferryman.  If we must submit . . . to keep more of our children, our mothers, our elderly alive . . . then we must submit.  But we must never tell ourselves that we willingly partner with the enemy.  We must never tell ourselves that we chose to befriend them.  We must never share a drink with them.

Oren is defeated, but it must never be befriended.  Forever we must mourn."