Royal Letters for the County of Kositz | 145 B.A.

[Andustar 4143]

 

R O Y A L  L E T T E R S  F O R  T H E  

C O U N T Y  O F  K O S I T Z

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ISSUED BY

THE CROWN OF BALIAN

-

5th of Sun’s Smile

145 B.A.

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TO OUR BELOVED SUBJECTS,

 

In recent years, and after due consideration, it has become abundantly clear that the stewardship of the Duchy of Reutov is an unsustainable task for the distinguished House of Ruthern. Thus, following a consultation with the family’s patriarch, Lord Heinrik var Ruthern, it has been determined that the title shall return unto the Crown of Balian. 

 

Thus, the House of Ruthern shall be demoted to the status of a Comital House. Henceforth, we recognise Lord Heinrik var Ruthern to bear the title Count of Kositz, held in service to the Crown and the Kingdom. 

AD GLORIAM DEI

HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, JOHN II, by the Grace of God,

King of Balian, Prince of Providence, Duke of Helena, Lorraine and Reutov, Count of Pompourelia, Viscount of Eflen and Anatis, Baron of Renzfeld, Brucca, Valens, Malenos, Montcoure and Ciavola, Lord of Portoregne, Atrus and Monterosa, Warden of La Costa Rubinissima, Protector of the Heartlanders and the South, etcetera.

 

 

 

[KidKrinkles 2043]

Somewhere, distantly in the woods of the Eryn-in-Aryn, the ranger-knight did read the missive. He'd turn towards the East and yell--

 

"BOOOOOO." He'd shake his fist.

 

"T'AT BLOWS!" He'd kick at the dirt.

 

Just distant words on the wind.

[GMRO 6186]

Alric Ruthern squinted hard at the missive. “A meeting with this new count may be good to see what may be done to help.” He said, passing it to his brother Dmitry. @Masouri

[STBNL 250]

Despite to such news being a likely set back. Wilfriche gleamed with thrill in support for his brother within a days visit, bringing some souvenirs. "Look at vy Heinrik. Mamej jest utterly proud, Y want vy to know that." 

[andydreww 107]

Again did the scratched, splintered dockside panels and the sparkling sea waters welcome one of their most interesting fishers. The cedar wood announced his return as usual, for the fisher’s boots weren’t made of leather sewn haphazardly, of patchwork that even a tanner would lift their nose up against. Not such a case. These leather boots befitted a nobleman, not a fisher. How they have their own shine and luster in the brilliant sunlight from keen yet delicate polishing. How the laced threads still looked tidy even from being out in the humid air. Perhaps in another life, the sea was his home, and he was one of the countless kinds of inhabitants that lived inside of its mysterious, reclusive realm. Soon enough, Heinrik found his aged fishing rod and, with the casting technique from his haunchpapej, sent the fishing hook into the cerulean waves.

 

His stormy eyes had raced down the letter with a sharp stare that could pierce right through the parchment. Yet it was a shame his eyes were stormy. A storm brings forth chaos, rainfall that crashes against dirt, rock, wood, brick, even fellow rivers and streams. His eyes derived from descendants that did such. Crashing their influence into the realm and to hunger for more that they could touch, more that they could control and conquer. More that they could grow and lead from. A shame his eyes were stormy, for they were of a different storm than of his ancestors. One of less destruction in its wake, rather instead calm and stillness. To envelop in its embrace instead of retreat from its ferocity. 

 

He struck the letter against one of his walls with a knife, right in the middle of the top golden flower’s bulb.