THE DRUSCAN QUESTION

[MRCHENN 4741]

Sir Jon Derfey smirks Savoyardly.

[Islamadon 9158]

"I do not need an apology wubbu da zkah" comments Yasu-Tori Danzen who was included in an Imperial War Charter despite being a foreign man!

[Xayshi 49]

Boromir leans back in his chair, the candlelight flickering across the parchment. His jaw tightens, and his fingers drum against the armrest almost unconsciously. The names, the titles, the pomp--they all blur as one thought rises above the rest: Roger de Rouen. His chest tightens at the memory of Louis, twenty years gone but never forgotten.

 

Justice. Finally. After all these years. He murdered two men like dogs--and was pardoned after offering a hollow penance. But Boromir had always known the truth: that penance was nothing more than theater. It was evident when he waged war on Ivoria, driven not by duty or honor but by greed for land. And now… the evidence is undeniable.

 

He sees the path clearly. This is justice but also reckoning. Roger will answer. For Louis. For his family. For the pretense of mercy that hid ambition and cruelty.

 

He exhales, slow and measured. Twenty years of waiting, of holding himself in check-- and now the world has handed him the means to set things right.

[arxchn0ph0bia 62]

There stood the Nornish mali before the raging fires of a pit, huddled for warmth amongst a raging storm. A favorable turn of events, to the gathering he had witnessed in Grense. As the paper of the missive crinkled in his gloved hands, he only muttered, "So it would seem at least one of our own will see justice for what these bandits have done. Their punishment will be swift and brutal, I hope."

 

Then, it was discarded into the flames before him, embers jumping up and nipping at both air and fur of his attire, raging forth and spurred on to continue providing that piercing warmth that kept all safe in the blizzard.

[molly molly molly 1329]

These days, the "Avistran" Zilvira Nightblood often found herself giggling-- and giggling a lot. In fact, she often found herself dancing, skipping through the keep of Shadowstone.. her mood fluidly shifting between elation, mania, depraved bloodlust.

 

It was, of course, due to this missive. The fact that war was on the horizon. Drusco and Avistra wouldn't back down of course, which meant coin and blood were guaranteed to flow for the mercenary-- and THAT was something to be excited about. The sole source of her dark excitement, for soon, she'd be spilling blood and guts on the battlefield again.

 

"What exciting times! Who knew we'd be fighting alongside former enemies- Druscans! So much blood to spill! So. Much. This world doesn't know what it means to fear the name Nightblood. Not yet." 

 

".. through this war, I'll teach them."

 

 

And so she, and the rest of her warband made preparations for another bloody, exciting WAR. 

 

 

 

Spoiler

glhf everyone ^_^

 

 

[Boom_steel 538]

“Our might has reached such lengths that a coalition forms once more in the name of our fall.” The knight Renaud proclaims to his levymen. “A glorious war this will be…”

[Werew0lf 24179]

1 minute ago, Islamadon said:

"I do not need an apology wubbu da zkah" comments Yasu-Tori Danzen who was included in an Imperial War Charter despite being a foreign man!

 

"Fret not, silly Oyashiman," comments Crown Prince Hadrian Tiberias Horen who stared at the parchment of demands, not an imperial war charter. He watched as Yasu-Tori Danzen and Emperor Tiberias I had tea together!

 

He contemplated deeply on the fate of his old Druscan friends, staring out towards his father., the Emperor. "Another war, it seems. Should I start preparing the war charter draft and then await the terms?"

 

 

[wolfdwg 2677]

 

In the bustling valley of the lodenlands hosting the various daily tasks of Reinmaren, Albans, and Grensefolk, sat a Dragon Knight cladden in their black armor seated in a ornate chair. The figure sat there mulling over a tome of historical text depicting the history of the Schismatic War that had embroiled the realms of man in Athera. The knight would finally speak to a figure not too far off from him, "Tension brews, and the Druscans at the source. I had hoped cooler heads would prevail, but once more. Blood shall stain iron," came a stoic observation to the current events taking in the backdrop of the sundering of the continent they inhabited. "I can only pray Roger sees the odds are indeed, stacked against him..." The Grand Knight of the Imperium, Sir Arn Honeywine concluded before flipping a page.

@Heartesy
 
 

Meanwhile...

 

 

 

Outside a barn house in the midlands a lone halfling traverses a winding dirt path, departing southward and away from the Capital City of the Empire of Man, Grense. "Pfft.. glads I ain't got nuffin' to dew with that scrap. Ain't no stake ain't no point." Kaedwyn spoke in reference to the conversations he'd overheard in the tavern. "'sides, I's gots bettah things tah dew!" the halfling would gesture to his thumb, a spark of mageflame would conjure briefly before being dispersed. The purpose, perhaps to simply amuse the man on the long trek ahead.

[Frostdrop1 1843]

Reinhard huffed at the stray missive, snatched from its barreling in the winds. "This ist the new world order, ich suppose. War here, war there. People didn't fight hard enough for peace when they had the chance." His hand lowered the ink away, as ash-flecked features peered out to the sun that sank below the distant waves. Some part of him still longed for the success of his heitage; yet, it was a far-away dream now - all of it.

[Marthia 273]

Sascha Glennmaer scanned the missive, halting only upon her father's signature. Clad in the armor of the nation to which blood, birthright, and soon oath bound her, the Heiress allowed herself a quiet smile. Her father had lent his hand to the cause of rightful justice. Too, would she do the same.

 

Edited August 19, 2025 by Marthia

[Maiyun 362]

Ardirnien stared down at the paper, the contents of which held memories of the decades previous.

Ever the source of her hatred, that bastard Druscan. She had seen little of him, in truth, since it occurred. You did not need to see a man such as that to despise him. In fact, there were certainly other people in the world who hated the man, people who had never met him at all.

 

But she met him on several occasions. 

 

Decades of sleepless nights, scrawled in a piece of parchment.

She crumpled the missive, tossing it to the side. Someone was talking to her, certainly, and she made every effort to appear as though nothing had occurred. Carrying on a conversation to make up for the lack of any real thought to commit it to memory.

Stamped, signed, and sealed. She would need to get another copy, a lamented glance to the now crumpled initial.

 

And her thoughts flew, once more, to the young woman she had met only twice. She recalled the shattering of a glass jar upon the ground, staring with something akin to venom in her eyes at the bride sat across from her. Guilt tugged in brief at her heart, in knowing that there was a very real world in which she might be widowed, as she had. Guilt never lasted very long, however . .

 

Beneath it all,

that deep, deep well of grief. She smoothed down the front of her dress, as though trying to usher calm once more in soothing motion. Someone asked her then about blades, and her eyes caught the flicker of the glass-like sword belted at her hip. Ardirnien might have laughed in amusement at the thought of herself actually using the fairly ornamental weapon.

 

There stood the man, once more, in the back of her mind. Blood dripping to cold, northern floorboards. A murder in broad daylight. The weight of her limbs as she somehow kept upright in the face of terror. Useless, heavy limbs. The burden of it sat upon her chest in the dark, her eyes held to the distant ceiling, the taste of alchemical tea on her tongue. 

A warrior, her? What a laugh. 

 

Someone offered her a prayer, and she dipped her head. Ardirnien regarded the pyre, the crackling of the hearth. Her mind pulled previously to a memory in the tavern of the capital, to the less grand but equally as admirable hearth there. A younger her in blue silks, a beautiful dress she had been terribly fond of, pointing out the shape of the incisors in the preserved head of a minotaur. Standing up upon a stool, gesturing her beloved adventurer to direct his gaze to the sharpened ivory specimens. 

 

She recalled the dip of his smile, and the way it tugged at the scars on his face. Her fingers tapped absently to the silver ink scrawled across her forehead.

 

The crackle of the hearth persisted, drawing her focus once more. The light cast her into strange pallor, and she drew her hands together- and she prayed. Silvered, nearly colorless hair fell over her shoulder, having tugged itself free of the plait it bore. She prayed,

 

She prayed,

   

                                                                 And prayed some more.    

 

 

The hearth crackled, a branch splitting. 

 

[ratlordmagic 1484]

"Wait. Last I recall, there WAS no High Pontiff Leviticus- having been removed from Office by the council and all that. Any order issued in Callahan's name is non-binding." Remarked Miroslaw Jazlowiecki.

[Baccaaa 490]

"Heh..." Konstanze observed the missive thoroughly. "I clearly see a Pontiff Leviticus I here!" she pointed at the name on the missive in front of yet another denier.

[Laeonathan 5889]

1 hour ago, ratlordmagic said:

"Wait. Last I recall, there WAS no High Pontiff Leviticus- having been removed from Office by the council and all that. Any order issued in Callahan's name is non-binding." Remarked Miroslaw Jazlowiecki.

An elder Cardinal begins beating Miroslaw with a newspaper. "Check again, silly!"

[MrMojoMordor 2413]

"You know." The goblin mentions to a random passerby in Numendil. "For all da grief mankind gives to Uruks for flattin' their brother - They sure like to flat each other."