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TO THE MORON CHURCH

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Werew0lf

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"The Emperor has the right o' it. Many think us former Haeseni vassals ignorant o' it but unity is the goal. Owynist, Jorenic, or otherwise. As Joren followed Owyn by choice because o' his worthiness for it, I'll follow Hadrian." Duncan, the younger one, explained to the good folk in the Bear Trap tavern having now stopped laughing at the absurd situation and having finished his porridge. 

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Duncan the Elder smoked on a cigar from the comfort of his Jorenic castle of Barden.

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Cardinal-Emeritus Nerium rested in the frozen slumber of his cryo-crypt, bodily functions suspended to their most minimal forces as the tides of time washed away. Yet even in that diminishment, he did indeed fart in his his own sarcophagus, beginning to cough in anguish as the tears wept from his resting eyes.

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Sir Lothar d'Amaury, a proud Canonist, smirked Savoyardly :

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Holy Ser Mîrithiel, Knight and Priestess to the peoples of Angrenost, knelt by the reflection pool outside her home. Meditation had oft been something which suited her, and especially now she took to it in solitude. The Rite of Canonism she penned lay finished, on the desk inside, and yet- Eyes still were not granted to its surface. She sucked in a shallow breath, and spoke.

" Aeradar, GOD on High, bless the Faithful, and hold True the Forlorn. Come what may, let the Faith prevail, in the Hearts of those who Believe. "

Further, in the Crownlands, Phoebe de Senna rolled her eyes as she ran her hand across her sternum, mind cast to the soul she had become hyper-aware of in recent years. She snorted. There was nothing to say.

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A former L̶͍̪̞̥̠̀̏Ě̸̡͎̭̪̉̈́̈́̚C̵̲̲̃T̸̛̜̫͕̭̈́̈Ȍ̴̡̰͍̠͍̥̭̽͘Ŗ̵̼͍̫̂́͒ frowns, reflecting upon the days when Owynism was rebranded to be a hip and niche third-world heresy, rather than a far-reaching minge faith. Perhaps Hadrian would do well to complete the cycle by mantling the good Godfreyist, and obliterate the Owyn remnants for a Caesaropapist state. After all, the L̴̨̢̃̾͋̍͜͝ͅË̶̗͖̫͓́̅̊̍͆̌͝C̷͔̞͙̼̽̒͐̋̓̋̉Ţ̸̰̣͓̟̼̤͎̦̟͔̉̉̽̏̀͝R̷̨̮͆̌́ͅS̷̬̙̻͕͚̘̾̾͜ let go some two Saint's years ago . . .

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Noiye framed this up amongst scores of older Imperial missives and LANDSKAR posters on her wall, and sat down to admire it from afar over qahwe, which was enjoyed from a cup that had a 'NUMBER #1 EMPEROR FAN' print on it.

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An old wizard grinned wickedly in whatever sense of patriotism he had left.

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Father Drusco smirks savoyardly.

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A Jorenic Korvacz peered at the news, "Eh? Can Y finally pray in a church again?" This was a welcome change, for sure.

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Sitting with her husband Bron at home, idly listening as he mentions the drama betwixt Church and State, all Solveig can hope is that the two organizations manage to completely blow each other up in the process.

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Sebastien Jean-Chastel allowed a faint, knowing smile to touch his lips as he dipped his head in acknowledgment.

 
 
 
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Jan Radovanic hopes the virgin who griefed his Sigismund sign is next. He knew who he was.

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“GOD bless His Imperial Majesty! GOD bless His Imperial Highness! GOD bless the Empire of Man!”

 

Cesare exclaims loudly from within his private accommodations alongside his few colleagues, clearly denouncing the current church administration in total.

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