Chroniken der Fürstin [VOL I]

[Toffee 1111]

 

CHRONIKEN DER GROẞFÜRSTIN VON MINITZ

CHRONICLES OF THE GRAND PRINCESS OF MINITZ

Published by the Großfürstin Adalfriede von Hexenwald

in the year of our Lord 1963

 

 

 

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SÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON MINITZ,

 

 

I first learned of House Barclay standing in the throne room of the Hand of Horen. My brother pointed to the green and blue banner hanging proudly from the high arched ceiling and told me of this family’s proud heritage. Waldenian, like us, he said, but a subsect known as Reinmaren. 

 

Holding the Grand Principality of Minitz, House Barclay seemed untouchable, entry into its ranks unattainable for the daughter of a slain Count. Yet when I stepped foot in Kanunsberg for the first time, I found myself warmly greeted, the Grand Prince himself sitting and drinking with his fellow tribesmen in the tavern.

 

I am now blooded as a daughter of Reinmar and find myself with the privilege and duty of serving as the Grand Princess of Minitz. As I chronicle my experiences, I commit to memory the deeds and triumphs of our people.

 

AN HEIR IS BORN

 

In the year of our Lord 1961, I gave birth to Brandt Wulfhard Barclay. He is named for Brandt Cardinal Albarosa, former Grand Prince of Minitz and the current Grand Prince’s grandfather, and my late father Lord Wulfhard Rademacher, Count of Hexenwald. 

 

We also welcomed a daughter in 1963 named Rosalyn Klaire for Her Majesty, Queen Edith Klaire of Reinmar.

 

Both will be raised in the ways of the Reinmaren—taught to ride, to hawk and hunt, and to wield a spear as their forefathers did before them. We ask that you keep our children in your prayers so that they might grow tall and proud and serve our people well.

 

WEDDING FEAST DISRUPTED

 

One year following my marriage to Grand Prince Leon II, we gathered in the feast hall of Kanunsberg Castle to celebrate. Even before the food was brought out, a peasant entered the hall, wringing his hat between his hands and seeming ill at ease. Sit with us! my husband called, but the peasant declined, stating that he had only come to bring news of a cart outside the city.

 

The cart was laden with Frankish alcohol—a gift for the Grand Prince. Dread struck my heart and banished my appetite, for the same gift had been offered before, and it resulted in the tavern burning with my husband and other sons and daughters of Minitz trapped inside. Prince Leon bears the scars of that failed assassination to this day.

 

 Many in the feast hall voiced their distrust of such a gift, so His Serene Highness sent Sir Robert Stroheim and Theoderic von Minitz to examine the cart while everyone else enjoyed the feast. Venison steaks, fresh bread, buttered vegetables, and sugar-dusted confectioneries covered the long tables, but the energy in the feast hall was strained. Eyes went to doorways and windows, calculating the best course of action should the unthinkable happen and the Franks stormed the castle.

 

The feast ended shortly thereafter; a fortuitous turn of events, considering the so-called gift had indeed been a trap. Sir Robert was left with grievous injuries from the explosion, while the rest of Minitz worked as one to douse the flames using pails, vases, and even empty flagons from the nearby inn.

 

With the fire doused, many crowded into the infirmary to have their wounds tended to. With the ritters and warriors distracted, who should appear on the rooftops but the Roach himself? He cast an alchemical potion through the open window of the infirmary, rendering the space obscured by choking black smoke. We opened the windows and doors and I sent Isolde Sturmweber onto the rooftops, but the Roach was gone. Dissolved into thin air as swiftly as his alchemical smoke.

 

Such an act of aggression would not be allowed to go unpunished. 

 

ORCISH AGGRESSOR SLAIN

 

Shortly after the explosion, with an inordinate amount of people crammed into the small clinic, an orcish visitor found himself overcome with bloodlust. He was upset that Sir Robert had been wounded in the attack, having held the man in high regard, and refused to listen to the voices of reason saying that the perpetrator of the attempted assassination had been slain.

 

He drew his blade and began attacking those in the clinic before fighting his way out into the square. He threatened the Grand Prince’s younger sister, the Lady Gertrude, before being slain by Duke Alfred of Reinmar and Sir Varik Sturmweber. His Grace shaved off a portion of the orc’s tusks as a trophy while Sir Varik cut off the orc’s head and delivered it unto me. 

 

Skulls feature heavily in the iconography of House Rademacher, from which I hail. It is tradition to prepare the skulls of our enemies as trophies. As such, I took the orc’s skull and it now stands as a trophy in Kanunsberg Castle—the first of many. I promised my husband that when he kills the Roach, I will prepare his skull as a relic of Reinmaren victory over the Franks. 

 

Grand Prince Ferdinand’s memory will be avenged and a new era of peace will be ushered in across the Franklands.

 

A DREAM OF INDEPENDENCE

 

Barclays of Minitz and Reinmar flooded the Haeseni throne room in great number. Green and blue wreathed the left-hand side of the aisle, a thread of breathless anticipation shivering in the air.

 

The Stallion Decree had been published in 1960, vowing to release the Duchy of Reinmar from their oaths of fealty following the War for the Heartlands. With the war now over, King Aleksandr II formally released Duke Alfred to join with us in Minitz in preparation for our own departure into the hinterlands.

 

The cry of Wer Rastet, Der Rostet rang in my ears for the entire journey eastwards, the snow and evergreens of Haense giving way to the rolling fields and orchards of Minitz.

 

He who rests, rusts.

 

AN OFFICER CAPTURED

 

Wer Rastet, Der Rostet could not be more apt a saying on the day we entered the mountains and captured a Frankish officer.

 

That morning, my maid buckled me into my armour in the privacy of my chambers in Kanunsberg Castle. I had never worn leather gambeson before, nor mail protecting my arms and legs. The weight was difficult, but not unmanageable. My maid draped the green tribesman’s cape over my shoulders, but I told her no, I am not yet blooded. She responded that my husband, the Grand Prince, would not mind, and so I found myself in the town square dressed as a tribeswoman, preparing for our strike against the Roach.

 

The Grand Prince’s younger brother, Lord Albert, led a party on foot up the mountain. As we passed the first copse of trees, mounted Frankmen watched us from the treeline, silent and unmoving. We continued forwards until we reached the solid stone walls of Velen, where we waited for hours. Around us, the trees were still and silent; no bird calls, no insects. No Franks.

 

When our Frankish quarry did not make themselves known, Lord Albert and Johanna Stroheim made their way further into the forest while myself, Isolde Sturmweber, and an outlander named Ælfred waited by the walls. Again, naught but silence. By that point, the muscles of my legs had gone stiff and cramped, yearning to be stretched.

 

At Lord Albert’s hand signal, the rest of us slowly approached, Ælfred and I armed with bows, Isolde with a spear. Up ahead, the forest suddenly came alive with the sound of arrows striking against plate armour and sinking into flesh. We broke into a run, all pretence at silence forgotten. I ran along the rocky ridge while Isolde and Ælfred engaged the Franks in battle between the trees.

 

A devastating scene unfolded before me. An injured Albert, dragging himself towards the cliffs, pursued by Franks. Johanna, five or more arrows protruding from her, clinging to the edges of consciousness, two Frankish warriors descending upon her with axes, intent on slashing her to pieces while I watched. I had a choice. Loose my arrow and kill one of her attackers, or incapacitate the Frankish officer standing at the treeline, stoically watching over the events.

 

We had scaled the mountain with a purpose. I could not lose sight of our greater goal. So, with a silent prayer for Johanna’s soul, I turned my arrow upon the Frankish officer and fired, catching him in the thigh. He screamed and turned to flee, limping further into the forest, while the battle raged behind him. Ælfred felled a Frankish warrior with an arrow to the throat, Isolde fended off multiple attackers with her shield and spear. Fighting together, the Franks began to dwindle in number, but I could see from the corner of my eye that their strength waned.

 

Thundering hoofbeats echoed through the trees, the long, mournful call of a war horn shivering through the mountain range.

 

The cavalry had arrived.

 

I loosed another arrow at the retreating officer. It embedded in his other leg and he went down hard, sprawling into the dirt. Duke Alfred and Sir Varik arrived on horseback and rendered the man unconscious, carrying him off to the dungeons for questioning, and I rode back to Minitz behind my husband.

 

To the Roach, if you are reading this: we have your man. And soon, we will have you.

 

 

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WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

 

 

HER SERENE HIGHNESS, Adalfriede of  Hexenwald, Grand Princess of Minitz

 

 

 
 

Spoiler

Coats of Arms made by Kipps!

 

[ViewerDiscretion_ 111]

Sir Varik Sturmweber smiles as he reads the published chronicles, which shine a rather flattering light on his own recent exploits. He beams with pride, having earned the attention of the Princess, and all those who read this missive.

 

Pictured, Sturmweber Pride:

[ibiou 1575]

Round and curious brown eyes read the publishings of the Grand Princess with as much excitement as she could muster. JADWIGA MARIA JAZLOWIECKI, after entertaining Her Serene Highness only a saint's day ago with her puppet show, had a large admiration for the woman that seeped now into her reading hour. Jadwiga told herself that supporting the Chroniken der Fürstin was the least she could do for all of the encouragement, and so the young girl went on her way to fetch some writing parchment.

 

"To Her Serene Highness, Adalfriede of Hexenwald..."

 

Jadwiga pondered briefly whether or not she ought to tell Queen Amelya of Middelan about her new diplomatic affairs, bonding over puppetry.

 

[juliaINC 46]

Isolde Sturmweber's lips curled into a smile, as she flipped through the pages, and as her eyes scanned through each word of the published chronicles. The woman nodded her head in contetnment and pride of being a good enough warrior to gain the recognition of Her Serene Highness. Her smile grew even wider, as she thought back to the proposition which the Grand Princess gave her, just last saint's day.