A CHIEFTAIN'S LAMENT

[Timer 1978]

 

• 
• 
• ISSUED BY THE PRINCE IN REINMAR 
• In the year of our Lord, 2023
•  
• Lo, grace unto you and peace upon all—men of Haense and Balian, of Petra and Hyspia, of Reinmar and the Canonist lands. And to you also, men of Numendil and Midland, of Ravenmire and the Elven realms, who do array yourselves beneath the Church’s banner. I set down these words not in jest nor deceit, but with the weight of a man bound to oaths, and yet troubled in spirit. I speak as one who sees the hand of fate writ upon the world, and it is not a steady hand, but one that trembles. I write not in defiance, nor in meekness, but as one who seeks to speak truth before the day of reckoning comes upon us all. For the storm is yet unfurled, and its ending is unknown. In my forefathers' day, the soldier bore virtue, and the blade in his hand was not freely given to any wretch who came knocking. When a man took up arms for Haense, or for Reinmar, or for any kingdom of the sons of Horen, he became one of them, bound to their law, their custom, their cause. He was not a sellsword who might drift with the wind, nor a palace-schemer who kissed the hand that fed him one day and turned it over to the knife the next. But see now the path of men—how all borders are thrown open, and those who cross them swear no true fealty! They take from the table of princes but do not guard the house. They clamor for silver, for rank, for glory, yet speak not the tongue of their lords, nor kneel in earnest, nor hold the land as their own. I see my allies open their gates to such men, place a sword in their hands, and weigh them down with gifts. And what then? They vanish ere the morning, taking their hoard with them to the next realm that would pamper them so. It is said that virtue is the root of a nation. Where then is the root of our own? If one may simply abandon his kingdom when hardship comes upon it, if one may wield the sword in the morning for one cause and turn it upon his former brothers by nightfall, then is there any true people left among us? Or are we merely a collection of those who happen to share a cause for the briefest of seasons? I speak not in idle sorrow, nor as a man who is ignorant of the ways of war. It has ever been the way of mankind to shift, to gather, to migrate. Yet in days past, when one came to a kingdom, he was shaped by it. He learned its tongue, its laws, its customs. He was not simply a wanderer seeking coin. He was a man who wished to belong. This, I say, is the bond that has been severed in our age. The people of today do not belong. They merely pass through. And our kings, our lords, our generals—do they seek to shape men into something greater? No. They seek only to harness them for a time, to use them, to promise them wealth, and then to forget them when they depart. I will speak plainly: this is the road to ruin.
•  
• I lament also that I raise my sword against those who stood beside my forebears. The High Pontiff Harrentzedek was a friend to Saint Caius, and he walked beside him in the halls of the righteous. And yet honor bids me keep my word to the Covenant, though it is a hard road to walk. I do not say that the Church is blameless, nor do I deny the charge of worldly ambition among its clerics. That is plain to see. There are men among them who seek to wield the crozier as a scepter, who would sooner punish a prince than a heretic, who see the wealth of the world as their inheritance. But I will not say that this is the whole of them. For even as I ride against the Pontiff’s men, I cannot scorn all who stand beneath his banner. They fight with a unity that I find lacking among my own. They do not squabble over silver or land. They do not break rank because a greater bribe was offered. They do not treat their cause as a passing fancy. I see in them—aye, in the very ranks of my foes—that same soldier’s virtue which my allies have cast aside. They do not fight for coin, nor for the favor of nobles. They fight because they believe. And though I curse their hands that raise steel against my own, I cannot deny that this belief girds them with strength. And here is a bitter truth, one which I am loath to utter: at times, I see more of the virtue of my forebears among my enemies than among those who stand beside me. I would that we, the sons of Horen, had such resolve among our own!
   
• But what do I see also among the ranks of my foes? Not only those who fight for belief, not only those who stand with the Church out of duty or conviction—but also men of a baser sort, men who lift the sword for no cause but their own gain. Who revel in war not as a means to an end, but as an end unto itself. Who do not ask why they fight, only that they are paid. There are those among them who clothe themselves in righteousness, yet they are little more than marauders. They plunder under the guise of piety, not for any holy cause, but because war fills their purses. These are not the defenders of Canon who stood with my forebears. These are men who, if offered a higher wage, would just as soon burn the churches they now claim to defend. If war is to be waged, let it be waged for something higher than mere bloodlust, or wealth, or fleeting station. If a kingdom is to rise, let it be built on something stronger than the promises of men who would abandon it at the first hardship. And let those who claim the mantle of virtue look well upon their own ranks—for a man’s cause is only as strong as the hands that wield it. This war is not yet done. Its outcome is not yet known. But I say this: the end of a war is not the end of struggle. There will come a day when swords are lowered, when banners are folded, when men must decide what world they will build from the ashes. I do not know who shall stand victorious, nor who shall be brought low. But I know this: if mankind does not return to virtue, if it does not cast off the ways of transient loyalty and self-serving ambition, then it shall not matter who wins. I name no man in this letter, nor do I call any to betrayal, nor to change sides. That is not my charge. But let it be said plainly—if this path of stagnation continues, if the virtue of the soldier is not restored, if men continue to drift rootless as the chaff in the wind, then let none weep when the sons of Horen fall to ruin. There will be many after this war who claim they fought for virtue, that they alone held fast to the old ways, that they alone were righteous. I will not speak for others, nor defend myself with empty words. I say only this: honor is the burden of men who keep their word, even when it pains them. He who leads a nation inherits its past. He who carries the blade must know its weight. He who swears an oath must not falter in its keeping.
•  
• And so, my foes shall call me a poet, a writer—one of the “men of letters” who fashion words instead of striking blows. They shall say that the Covenant is filled with poets, as was said in wars before by Gaspard, that we fashion musings and rebukes while the field is lost beneath our feet. There are those among your ranks, no doubt, who already scoff at these words, who will raise the old cry that battle is won with steel, not with ink. And perhaps some of the very sons of Gaspard will count themselves among those mocking, blind to the bitter humor of their own echo. Yet there is folly in this. If you are to win, if you are to build a kingdom—nay, an empire—shall you rule by the sword alone? Shall you build your world upon the edge of a blade, as though steel were eternal and bloodshed a foundation upon which men may rest? If the pen is weak, why then does your own Pontiff write more than any prince? Why does the Church not rule by the blade alone, but by decree, by canon, by word and law? I shall tell you why: because grievances must be set in order, for if they are not, then the lowliest brigand may claim the mantle of High Pontiff, and a kingdom shall be no different from a den of thieves. Look, then, upon Harrentzedek, whom I do not revile. He is no bandit, but a theologian. He does not raise his crozier without cause, nor wield his ink without purpose. And if you are to count yourselves as his righteous warriors, as men of the faith, then I bid you answer me this: is your war merely one of swords, or is it a war of faith, of justice, of order? And if it is the latter, then will you mock the written word when the Church itself has built its dominion upon it? If a man may not speak, if a man may not rebuke, if a man may not set down his words for judgment, then what remains of law? Of canon? Of justice? Shall all things be settled with axe and fire, without thought or reason? Then let us cease with our titles and thrones, let us throw down our crowns and miters, and give way to the strongest brute among us. But you would not do so, for you know—as I know, as all men know—that no kingdom endures upon violence alone. So scoff, if you will. Call me a poet, a scribe, a sonnetmaker. But remember this: long after swords are rusted and battlefields have gone to grass, it is words that remain. And if you mean to win, not for a day, not for a year, but for an age, then your victory must be more than steel. It must be truth. And truth, whether you like it or not, is carried by the written hand. 
•  
• Let those with ears hear.

[Morphine 823]

Young Siegfried read his father's missive closely. Having listened to his self-deliberations from down the hall of the palace a month earlier, it made him quite proud to see it was all not in vain.

[Sarven 2619]

Theodemar looked on upon the Furst's missive, it spoke clearly and true, a blading slicing through the mirage,

turning to his son he'd bear a stoic expression.

"Heed closely my sohn, for these are the wisdoms that ought be learned."

@Dr Random K.

 

[Cheese 8892]

Spoiler

Don't really have any real response to this except your writing gave me chills bro. Phenomenal job

 

[sergisala 3451]

Father Marc would take up his ink and quill to compose the following letter to the Prince of Reinmar:

 

"Your Highness,

 

You speak of steel and scripture, of power and principle, and I shall give you a response, not as a prince or king, but as a mere priest, a shepherd of faith, and a servant of the Church. 

 

No kingdom endures upon violence alone, nor do we wield the sword merely for conquest. We fight not for petty crowns, nor for the fleeting glories of men, but for something far greater.

 

We fight for the Holy Mother Church, not simply because we believe in her, but because through her, we forge a future greater than any kingdom, greater than any single nation. Our cause is not bound by borders, nor by the ambitions of rulers—it is a project for all mankind. It is the vision of an order where faith, justice, and law stand above the chaos of ambition and greed. It is not the dominion of a single race, nor the triumph of a single people, but the fulfillment of a purpose that encompasses all men, without exception.

 

The Covenant to which you bind yourself is but an agreement between lords, a promise made between men whose aims shift with the tides. But the Church is no mere kingdom; it is no passing ruler’s ambition. It has withstood the rise and fall of empires, not through strength of arms, but through the strength of its vision. And so we fight—not just to win battles, not just to claim thrones, but to shape a world that will stand long after we are gone. A world where justice is not dictated by the strongest brute, but by the written law, by faith, by order.

 

You ask if our war is one of swords alone, or if it is a war of faith, of justice, of order. I tell you now: it is all of these. The blade serves, but it does not rule; it protects, but it does not guide. The true foundation of a lasting world is not steel, but faith. Without faith, without law, without the sacred word to shape the will of men, all that we build will crumble into dust. The Church does not rule by the blade alone because it understands this truth. It has survived, not by conquest, but by decree, by canon, by word and law.

 

Thus, I ask you: consider where this path leads. Not in the span of a battle or a year, but in the course of history. Withdraw from the Covenant. Set aside the burdens of an alliance bound by circumstance rather than by truth. You need not stand against us when you could stand with us, for the work we do is not for ourselves alone, but for the order upon which all men rely.

 

The doors of the Holy Mother Church are not closed to those who seek the path of righteousness. There is yet a place for you in this great work. Consider well, Your Highness.

 

Sincerely, Father Marc Galbraith."

 

[Tide1 4535]

I have ended the reign of many a King and would be Sorcerer-Lord, and the outcome is oft the same—the diaspora of their flock and the end of their legacy. You bear witness to, in this war, the consequences of the very same actions once levied upon my flock. Know that I intend not to make the mistakes of our forebears.

 

The pen is mightier than the sword when it is wielded by a warrior, and I trust that I have proven to you our skill within the hour of the sword. Now, let us spare time for words. The Lemonhill is always open to you.

 

Tiberias van Aert, Duke of Burgundy, Captain-General of the Holy League

 

[BrightLights 18]

Spoiler

MY CHIEFTAN CANNOT BE THIS KINO!!!

 

[Apricette 717]

 

A warmth, gently bid, to sleep-addled lips, as a certain Dame, stood amidst the gentle depositions of pyre-light, under the shade, of the Hollowed Grounds, of the Aldtree; decided, unflinching, with each beat, of her heart's beat.

 

" I nary doubt, they circle hence his dearest Highness now - lost of the meaning of his word, and the virtue, that yet beats, eternal, in his heart. "

 

" If only he wasn't among the only ones.. "

 

A gaze would bid aloft, unto the Sevens above, unto the firmament on high; recollections of Belvedere - and thence, would thoughts drift, unto the Father.

 

" It might naught be quite as many as we hoped, Father - but it seems, at least, another, yet hears, your cries.. "

 

The words hushed, faded unto sleepless, unwavering love, for the e'er heart, of our Lord God's willing flock; a servant of God, relieved to have yet, the steel, of another.