THE BORDER PRINCE | LOWLAND GRANT

[AntiSociety 710]

Maliketh nods, thinking on what has come to this point.. What journey was required.

[Hedonism 254]

A peasant of Beleth yees and haws at the news of the grant.

[trinn 5146]

The woods of Rosental were painted, barks of trees depicting various faces of raccoons upon them. The painter of Rosental, a short and elusive creature recently hired by August Valentin, was surely spreading some sort of raccoon agenda. There would be no visitors to the region who could easily elude seeing the painted depictions of the little critters.

 

". . ." Silently, she picked up her buckets and paints to go continue her work upon the newly claimed lands.

[amongus 816]

"Bless," spoke Veluc, who cheered on his new allies.

[Coronate 5528]

"This is BIG, Rexkhan!"

"I know..." Said the Khan

"Roflcopter."

[Malta 2811]

The namesake of the Lowland Prince smiles, voice echoing loudly throughout the seven skies.

"We're from the bay." Says one Valentin.

[christman 3559]

 

Cardinal Mattia prays for them to be good Canonists.

[Orphvius 482]

JENNÈT OF TEPÉS raised a glass of approval for the couple. "Well said!" For, those with great fabrics win battles..

@Fie
@Halt

Edited August 22, 2024 by Orphvius

[Masouri 2735]

Ser Belisar took a needed break from his heavy bag and glossed over the missive, “This August must be a shit boxer.” He commented from afar, perhaps this new Prince needed a few boxing lessons?

[annabanana1014 2084]

Juliya of Reinmar would applaud her hands together, "Beautiful, beautiful. And their garments- stunning, truly!" 

[Aeus 2653]

On 8/22/2024 at 12:43 AM, Malta said:

The namesake of the Lowland Prince smiles, voice echoing loudly throughout the seven skies.

"We're from the bay." Says one Valentin.

 

"That they are brother, that they are." Says Emilio, watching with him

[Sarven 2619]

Spoiler

that figura in the last picture goes incredibly hard

 

[Axelu 4333]

[!] A young girl, of foreign origin, received the missive at the flank of the Margrave and Margravine of Beleth, the latter’s fingers sifting dotingly through her chestnut hair. “This is a wonderful thing for you both,” the child described, through a slate-grey eye. “I am overjoyed for you. Dragons are soaring. I dreamt it so. Did I not tell you?” Then, she continued to pen into her journal, ever so often eyeing a stuffed dragon that loomed on her tabletop. 

[Esterlen 4499]

 

14th of Sigismund’s End, 1991

At a roadside tavern in the hinterlands of Beleth

 

“Is your husband gravely ill, madam?”

 

The landlady winced as her husband groaned agonizingly in the next room. 

 

Her interlocutor, this strange Baron de Wett, stroked his jaw contemplatively, pencil-thin mustachios twitching as he posed the question. There was nothing about the foreign nobleman that the proprietress liked. He was thoroughly northern in his mannerisms, his cold formality alien to the back-slapping customs of the southern jungles. But since the elimination of duties on trade between the Republic of Lurin and the Heartlander kingdoms, Lurinese merchants had discovered that it was better business to send their caravans west, rather than south to Portoregne. The landlady’s roadhouse, which straddled the trade route between Balian and the Serene Republic, had formerly lodged those caravaneers - now, customers were few and far between. Whatever this aristocrat was, she needed the money, and so she hesitantly answered from behind the bar.

 

“He has moments of lucidity, but most of the time he has the capacity of an infant.” Since her husband’s accident, all upkeep of the roadhouse had fallen to her, in addition to the new burdens of his care. It was a hardscrabble life on the perilous frontier, but until recently, she had made enough of a living for the both of them. Inevitably, the changing circumstances would leave them penniless - but the landlady would not sell up, no matter how much she was offered. Her sister had a homely dwelling in Chambery-sur-Petra, with ample space for two more, but she had rejected those entreaties. She would rather die a pauper in this roadhouse than give in to the depredations of the venture companies.

 

“I see,” nodded the Baron de Wett, peering searchingly at her from atop his barstool. “And what do the doctors say about it, madam?” The stranger swirled his tumbler of rum, an unsettlingly curious expression writ upon his face.  

 

“They say that nothing can be done for him,” she retorted, quietly uneased at this probing. The usual guests were rarely this conversational, and never before had one commented on the animalistic sounds that emanated from her husband’s room. They would drink, lodge, pay and leave. The Baron possessed a disturbing, predatory quality, an over-white grin flashing with the thirst to know more. As if to punctuate her distracted thoughts, the landlady’s husband howled in the background. 

 

“You may be interested to know that I am a sort of doctor myself,” the aristocrat explained unctuously.

 

“Of what kind?” queried the landlady, her eyes narrowed in suspicion. 

 

“Of minerals, not of men,” spoke the Baron, his lilting, high-born accent oozing through the roadhouse. “I am a geologist, madam. I'm on my way to the Margravate for a conference, of sorts. Perhaps you’ve heard of one of my… publications.”

 

“Perhaps,” she shrugged. 

 

“Carbarum Theory?” he asked, expectantly.

 

“No,” she answered.

 

“Treatise on Metallurgy?” leered the Baron. 

 

“Afraid not.”

 

“Thanhium Proliferation?”

 

“Not that I recall.”

 

“Imperial Usage of Mineral Fuels?”

 

“Doesn’t ring a bell.”

 

“Meteorite Weaponry?”

 

“No.”

 

“Second Treatise on Metallurgy?”

 

“Afraid not.”

 

“Netherrite Extraction?”

 

This last question had destroyed the last of the landlady’s patience. “Are you lodging here tonight, sir?” Her voice was full of venom, raised and shrill, at this foreigner’s interrogation.

 

A flash of a frown came across the Baron’s face, but it was quickly banished, his unsettling smile returning forthwith. “What are your rates?” 

 

“Two florins a night.”

 

The Baron de Wett considered that for a moment, before promptly changing the subject. “In addition to my academic work in the science of minerals, I am also an alchemist,” he retorted.

 

“Then you shouldn’t have any problem paying,” 

 

The Baron de Wett paused for a moment, contemplating the landlady’s wit. “I would lodge tonight for free, if I may cure your husband of his malady.” It was an instruction, much more than it was a proposition. 

 

“It’s no good. Countless alchemists have tried.”

 

“But not with my substances...”