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HIS NAME WAS SIGISMUND


Xarkly
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(( Very well-written post. If everybody wrote things like these, the server would be far more in-detail. ))

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Emma Karenina, Queen of Haense, had never ridden a horse so quickly. When the messenger boy, red-faced and panting, had arrived; she just knew. His sunken eyes betrayed his following message, and he barely uttered the name of the King before Emma felt the world tilt with a lurch, and she heard herself calling for her steed. 

 

She pressed herself against its flank, ignoring the aches of hard riding, as Norlandic trees and foliage streaked by, soon blurring to the icecaps of Haense. Home. The name Sigismund spilled from her lips as she arrived to the Haeseni gates - and she was ushered to the Prikaz. Each passerby’s expression was mournful, each one pitying. She kept her chin lifted, mounting the steps to the Nikirala, ignoring the circling whispers. 

 

There, she sat quietly beside his body, holding one of his stiff hands as if squeezing it hard enough would encourage the colour to return to his cheeks. Walton had told her what had occurred as she entered. She had been struck silent. Emma leant forward to brush back a curl of Sigismund’s greying hair, before slumping back in her seat. Alone, and unheard, the Queen whispered to him. “Vy said vy wouldn’t. Vy said- vy…” She sucked in a wobbling breath, overcome with grief- yes, but guilt as well. She hadn’t been there, in his last precious moments. Hadn’t been there to try, to beg him, not to duel. Behind the hardened exterior, the beard and the grey, laying there Sigismund seemed more the boy-King she had known and loved, all those years ago. 

 

“Ea hope vy have found vyr peace.” She said, eventually, each word heavy as it rung out in the quiet room. “With all who we have loved.”

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Music played soundly in the background of the chatter of imperial courtiers in the de Rosius estate. Many young ladies - or debutantes as they called themselves - were dressed elegantly in white or other beautiful attire amidst the social season. The doors of the estate burst open. Guards of foreign attire were encircled around some smaller figure that couldn’t be seen. And when it was revealed by the shout of one particular guardsman, all huddled around him. “His Serene Highness, the Prince of Kusoraev!” Moliana and Anastasya stood by one another in subtle curiosity. 
 

“Cover me,” Moliana had said, and Anastasya did her best to do so as the girl behind her fired a button from her slingshot. Sigismund swung his head over in their direction. 
 

“Oh no,” the piously dressed child muttered. 
 

Yet the three would become acquaintances that night, not knowing what the world would one day bring them to be. A king. A mage. An empress; not knowing the pain they would cause one another as the time passed and they grew older; not truly knowing what affect they would have on the world around them. 
 

“God rest his soul,” muttered Empress Anastasia I from her own place of peace. “God rest King Sigismund III.”

Edited by Eryane
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"And vy said we should niet obsess over how we die" he let out a saddened chuckle as tears started pouring "Dravi, mea friend. Ea will meet again vy soon"

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A tremendous sigh left the lips of the decrepit raven beauty. The burden... oh so heavy fell on her shoulders, within her hovel, some backlit corner of haense she could hear the cries in the street, the wails that elicited through the night and then the silence
 

Like the reaper had come forth himself to collect the soul of their very own. The respect held in each puff where no one dared to even breathe. Wrinkled fingers grasped her ruby ring, clutching, “Anna...what would vy do?  The world is lining up. The extraordinary kings have declined. Vy have left us. What is there to look towards? That last sliver of turning back time?  We have no time.”

Her voice ragged as she lamented the nation, the people not by blood that helped her taught her so much more. 
May you finally rest. Your Legacy will be remembered.” 

 

 

 

——-

 

 

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The newly appointed officer of the BSK strokes his chin upon hearing the news.

"Certainly a shame, I was hoping to work with the man a little more..."

Hieran mutters, before taking his leave from the barracks.

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Lady Death's Courier was there to greet Him when he ascends, stood stalwart behind his friends and family to observe from the shadows - if shadows even exist in the Seven Skies - and when his aged face appears it prompts the Dame to wonder where her letter to him lies after all those years. Her face darkens for a moment, though she breathes a quiet sigh of relief that he had made it so far after she left, and her lips begin to move in memory; echoing the words written long ago.

 

"...Lady Death is such a cruel mistress. She takes her pickings of those most undeserving and stamps upon them beneath her high-heeled boot..."

 

Her wizened eyes glance down to the plane below and spot the congregation of knights within the Throne Room, and it reminds her of another noble death.

 

"And you kneeled before Ser Cedric's body, as I have done so many times before you since that day, and as Reinhardt does at this moment..."

 

She reflects, then, as she watches Him greet his family and Petra, the girl who Lynette had watched grow up and grow old and die before her time. 

 

"A circlet upon the brow, dark Barbanov hair, bright expensive Royal garb... Seeing Royalty calls firmly upon the soul of a man. The soul of a Knight. You would die to scrounge a smile onto their face."

 

"You did it," She whispers then to herself, smiling at Him and all he's accomplished. "You made it." And all of the hours she guarded Him, watched Him, observed, protected, defended, aided, bowed, knelt, swore to. It was all worth it.

 

Only then do her eyes glance down to the material plane again, specifically landing on The Wall @ReveredOwl

"...And the curse of the Meyster continues."

 

 

Meanwhile, Adrianna Darkwood reflects on her work as papers pile higher and higher on her desk ~ this time they are the Koeng's morgue reports, most principally. She buries her head into the parchment depicting diagrams and writing and all sorts of Physician's exams. "Should Ich have-" She groans, though chiefly that overwhelming empty feeling that comes after losing a patient rests in the center of her chest - between her ribcage. "Maybe I-Ich should have taken ein longer look that first time.. Maybe surgery w-wast ein option und Ich didn't see it? Gotte.." And her forehead hits the desk again. "Ich thought du had more time, König, I'm so sorry..."

 

And poor Emma... What would she even do now? He was everything to her- "Und Ich couldn't give him more time.." Even though she worked tirelessly - often without break - to tend to the ailing King in his last month or so, nothing she did had seemed to work. All she could do was lessen the pain, and even then it was often ineffective. Never had a patient been so... Hopeful that she could heal them, and yet nothing worked. 

 

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

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Spoiler

 

 

Walton got up early in the morning in anticipation of a rather busy day and boy he was in for a ride. He rode, from his humble abode in Reinmar, to the Prikaz where many relatives and close friends of the King lingered waiting to speak with him. Standing vigil by his King’s door throughout the entire day as many well wishers come and go, his only reprieve being a cup of tea brought to him by the future queen. Finally, after nobody else remained in line to speak with Sigismund, he was called in alongside Reinhardt and Mariya. It was then that the King confirmed his final act to his daughter, Klara. He knew his liege did not want to die a slow and painful death lying in his bed but with a sword in hand, all of his Knights table knew this but who would he pick to place this heavy burden upon?

 

“Walton would vy honor my selfish request?” The sickly King rasped to The Wall. It felt as if a dagger had been plunged into his stomach, was this real, was this actually happening? He had hoped that he would not be the one to be chosen to end his life. Alas, he had promised that should he be chosen, he would oblige. Through teary eyes he quietly affirmed that his request would be fulfilled. The trio of Knights then left the room for his family to say their goodbyes and then finally for Maya to perform his last rites.

 

Was this actually happening? Would he be the one that kills his own liege? These questions raced through his mind and it was all too evident to Reinhardt who tried to comfort him for the regicide he was soon to commit. Would, by fulfilling his oath to honor his liege’s request, also break his oath at the same time? He knew not. 

 

And soon the moment he silently dreaded was closing in, the King's nimble and gaunt form making its final route through the Prikaz and out into the city square where many well wishers prayed for the health of their beloved King. The Knight was pale and his eyes bloodshot from the tears he had shed though with a shaky hand he hid this behind his helmet's visor; none would see his face whilst he took their beloved King away from them forever.

 

The Knights of the Golden Crow formed a circle around the knight and his liege to ensure nobody would try to intervene or prevent what was to come. After a brief clash between Walton and Sigismund, the Wall’s blade skewered through the King’s torso. Walton had caught a brief smile that Sigismund had flashed at him, he knew this was what he wanted and that gave him some comfort. He had committed the unthinkable and struck down his own King, holding him in an embrace to ensure his limp form would not drop to the cold hard stone in an undignified heap. Whilst close he heard a whisper, he knew his King was proud and was finally at peace but why did he feel like this?

 

Soon after Walton, alongside his fellow knights, moved the body of the slain King back into the Prikaz where his family could mourn in private. As he explained to the Queen what had transpired he could not bear to look her in the eyes. The Knight would remain by his King’s side until he was laid to rest. He stood vigil over the King, his tabard stained crimson from the King which he had sworn to defend, he would not leave his liege until he was buried. 

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He'd beat him to it. As the funeral procession carried the body of Sigismund to the palace, the late King's old mentor looked on from the sidelines, clenching his cane for support. The old May stared forward solemnly, with baggy eyes and quivering hands. There was the body of the boy who'd once been his student, the body of a man who had once been a teen eager to discuss history, politics and art, there was the body of a child he'd seen grow into a man worth looking up to, a father who fostered a family, the body of a ruler, the body of a King, the body of a man he'd followed into battle and whom he'd soon follow again. Feodor had never married, never had kids, but there was the body of his son.

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Maric would hold back his tears as the news reaches him "Vy were a good lad, and vy will be missed for sure" he said as prayed for the man, knowing he'll be in the seven skies

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Ser Ailred greeted the King in the seven-skies, tapping the top of a full flagon with a finger. "What a way to go, eh?"

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In the mortal plain, Patriarch Klaus stood within the confines of the Basilica, his ears assaulted by the prayers of the nearby priests and bishops of the Patriarchate. Though he uttered no prayers himself, not that he didn't wish to, but because his mind was elsewhere. His thoughts constantly returned to those confessions Sigismund confessed to him in confidence. Never before had he been so tempted to dig deeper into a confession; it wasn't everyday a King confessed. Eventually, however, those thoughts were locked away, to eventually be forgotten by the man, as he finally returned to prayer. It was the least he could do for his fallen liege.

 

In the Seven Skies, Sigismund would spot a bottle of Ilya red wine thrown his way. Whether he caught it or not, he'd hear the laughs of Fionn Castaway shortly after "Tú did tell me that was túr favourite behind Carrion, Túr Majesty, so I've stored some of the piss for tú!" he then offered the King a shit-eating grin before returning to his opened bottle of Carrion.

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[!] As the galloping of hooves were masked by the cries of Krusae Zwy Kongzem, the Prince Sergei galloped north, in the direction of the Rimeveld.

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The young squire Jakob Dimitrey kneels one final time as the Kings body falls on the cold stone ground in the square of Haense. Leaning upon his bastard sword and mumbling a few quiet words. "Klara will be save, I will honor my promise."

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It was strange seeing Molia sitting at the head of the table, reclining in the throne-like chair as though she were the Queen. Strange, and yet, it suited her. The easy way she smiled and laughed with King Sigismund across the feast laid out between them, how she navigated the dinner with deft steps, slipping and weaving through the threads of conversation with the silken ease of a noblewoman born into this life. Josephine sat with her mother on one side of the table, opposite Princess Anastasya and Prince Marus. A great slab of mahogany separated them, yet Josephine heard the princess' voice as clear as day as she whispered to her brother that Josephine was an Imperial *****. Molia's voice was icy, her eyes like stone, but it was nothing compared to the thunder on the King's face. Anastasya, outside. For her insult, the princess was forbidden from speaking until her wedding day.

 

This was the King of Haense Josephine had known; firm and just, expecting from his family the highest magnitude of duty and honour. The realm would be a wilder place without his guiding hand.

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