THE BARROWMOUNT'S DEMISE

[GMRO 6187]

 

 

 

Issued by the

HOUSE OF RUTHERN

On the 13th day of Joma ag Umund of 570 E.S

 

---

 

SANGKRUV I RUTHER,

 

The House of Ruthern with great commiseration announces the passing of Duke Dmitry of Vidaus at the age of thirty. To some, he was ‘The Hammer’ for his strength, for others he was ‘The Hammered’ for well; you know. Dmitry was a skilled warrior, passing before his true mettle could be tested on the field. An excellent pugilist, his fists were said to be like that of steel. During his reign as duke, the name of House Ruthern was one of strength and dread. A known brawler and drinker, Dmitry often found himself in quarrels like that of his forebears.

 

Duke Dmitry of Vidaus’ death remains a mystery that the house of Ruthern is fervently investigating. Whilst enjoying one of his favorite pastimes of a hunt in the wilderness, he was found with a dagger plunged into his back alongside a heavy knapsack of wine. The House of Ruthern remains vigilant against those who he considered his enemies for such a plot, with a reward tendered for any information forthcoming regarding his death.

 

In the next few Saints days, a funeral shall be held to honour him in the Castle of Morteskvan alongside a boxing match as he would have wanted. 

 

 

---

SIGNED,

 

His Grace, Alric II var Ruthern, Duke of Vidaus, Count of Metterden, Baron of Rostig, Lord of Morteskvan, Lord of Barrows, Protector of the South

 

Spoiler

FRIDAY 3 PM EST AT CASTLE MORTESKVAN

 

Thanks to Madone for the little signature seal

 

[ContestedSnow 1435]

Aleksandr was no great stranger to death; in fact, in life the Crow was much closer to it than many believers could claim. The 'gift' that all Oracles of his homeland lay claim to made certain of such and... though the confusion and fear of boyhood had given way instead to stress, to voices and to anxiety, and... though the Oracle thought themself increasingly disconnected from peers and kin:

 

Some bonds simply do not pass nor weaken with time.

Some deaths do not become easy to hear.

 

The Bihar had long expected that his cousin's violent escapades and discriminating nature would eventually lead to a bloody end; something so quiet he did not foresee. Never was there a chance to find Dmitry's father for him, nor to repay the hand extended to the shy and sullen first child of Josef Sigmar, nor time to thank him for the companionship shown to Aleksandr's dear brother. 

 

"Woe, to the slain. In Horen's embrace, under Sigismund's eye and wing! Oh, his great eye! Shimmering, red floes of ichor. Sunset shall bring what it shall bring.

 

God rest his soul."

 

Beneath hushed breaths came murmered words, and the Oracle resigned himself to drink, until the sun set, and past. Strange, that the tears did not seem to come.

[Deskyr 2]

Boris Barrow fell to his knees 

 

“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO”

[Toffee 2843]

Once upon a time, Erika had diagnosed Dmitry with an excess of yellow bile. This resulted in a choleric demeanour, so she prescribed a thorough leeching and regular doses of lavender-infused tea. Of course, as she grew older and more learned, she realised that what he truly needed was an emetic to induce vomiting and purge all the yellow bile from his system. Perhaps that would render him more phlegmatic and less angry all the time. His terrible smoking habit did not help.

 

“All your teeth will fall out,” Erika clucked disapprovingly, nodding to the cigarette drooping from the duke’s lips.

 

He pulled it away slowly, blowing out a long stream of smoke. Frowning down at it between his fingers, he sucked in a thoughtful breath through his teeth before flicking it onto the tavern floor and dashing it out with the heel of his boot.

 

“And will you not age as well? You will lose your beauty.” He looked up at her, folding his arms across his chest. A broad chest, and strong, but his eyes were so flinty, the set to his mouth hard and cruel. “For your sake, and my own, I hope we end up with somebody who loves us for who we are.”

 

Had he ever found someone to love him as he was, or did he die angry and bitter at the softhearted people who had never had to endure the harshness of the world? Erika gazed up at the snow blowing white off the mountains behind Morteskvan.

 

Soft and sheltered as she was, she was the one still alive to feel the wind's chill.