OUT TO PASTURE

[critter 2540]

6th of Wzuvar ag Byvca | 499 ES

 

The fields of Jerovitz, 475ES.

 

---

 

Spoiler

 

 

---

 

 

As of this dawn, I have held the post of Grand Lord for twenty-three years and one day; precisely one day more than I have lived without it. 

 

Tomorrow balances the scales.

 

No ink or paper could capture all I have become in the Halls of the Palaces. In the distant, fallen courts of Esfir of Jerovitz, I first learned to be a courtier. In the traveling, settling retinue of Sofia of Hyspia, I learned to be a shepherd. In building Amaya of Venzia’s hearth I, at last, learned to be a Northman. The Courts of Hanseti-Ruska stoked in me a spirit I did not know I possessed – taught me, in every sense, the importance of our traditions and the wonders of our people. It was my first sketch of a chart which is now mirrored throughout the Courts of Humanity; a system honed at the right hand of the brilliant women I have served and which now thrives in our Ember Palace. I will only admit to faltering in my duty these last, most recent years, and only for the treasonous inclinations of my ailing health. Not once has my loyalty wavered, and not once has my passion waned; still, who better than a gardener to know when a wilting vine must be pulled?

 

It is the Queen’s will that, after me, Lady Marian Blackwood Weiss shall rise to Grand Lady: my daughter, though not in blood, in all other regards. If there are better hands into which to place the Rose Bulava, I do not know of them. The Viscountess is wise beyond her years; Haeseni to her very soul; and, if I might indulge in a bit of arrogance, spectacularly well-educated. The hearth of the homeland shall be in the best of care.

 

As for the rest. May all who keep these courts have patience; compassion; a stern will and a gentle hand. May they wake each day inspired by the wealth of wonders which bloom in the loveliness of Haenseti-Ruska, and tend to each hallowed tradition with joy and pride. The Courts are the very beating heart of our Kingdoms, the torch with which our Queen guides us. Their shepherding is not to be taken lightly, and to be in Her service is a distinction above most others. 

 

I retire to the post of governor; to the rearing of my children, nieces, and nephews; and to my own garden, which I must admit has grown as wild as the younglings in these last years. I give my thanks to all who I have served alongside – those who reared our great courts from their very roots. My colleagues, my friends, my kin – you are seen. You are known. You are loved.

 

Above all I thank Her Royal Majesty, Amaya of Venzia, whom I shall always love as if my sister and serve as my rightful Queen. Every moment has been a privilege. Burn always, Regalie.

 

With duty, comes honor. 

 

SIGNÉE PAR,

His Supposed Excellency, Fabian Otto d’Arkent-Kortrevich, Very Much Retired Grand Lord of Hanseti-Ruska, For GODAN’S Sake, Don’t Let Me Take It Back, My Wife Will Never Let Me Hear The End Of It, Regent of Koravia

 

A culmination of Fabian’s portraits throughout his court service.

 

P.S.

There are approximately a half-dozen ‘whoopie cushions’ scattered throughout the Prikaz.

 

Best of luck!

 

[Cheese 2580]

Liridona Amador hopes that Fabian enjoys retirement!

[ibiou 1717]

Alyona Godunov rose a glass of Carrion Black that evening in honour of dear Fabian Kortrevich, who like her was whisked off into the Council at such a young age. Reminded was she of the late nights in the clinic and the dozens of macarons scoffed. Perhaps now, more than ever, the Baroness Verskaya found a kindred spirit; the Children of the Bulava put to bed to rest, one by one.

[erictafoya 2330]

Leonid cheers in relief as finally, for the first time in his now sixteen years of existing, he can spend even MORE time with his father. "But truly, I may have time to spend time with my papej, but he has been this court's daddy for decades."

[crazedpudding 2222]

Irena Kortrevich sneezes before she tucks the missive away in her pocket. The one that doesn't contain the mink and the weasel.

[marslol 710]

In a realm not like the material, low blows the echoing screams of the mourning and pained, something stirs ever-so-slightly in it's pitch-black prison - clawing and tearing at the ink and shroud that pulled with tendrils pulling at the mind and soul.

 

It wakes. It will be freed.