Sic Transit Gloria Mundi [PK]

[DuhPuhWuh 1282]

Spoiler

OOC:

So here we are George of Dover dead. I started this persona with the idea that he would not last as long as my previous one (thankfully he did not), however, as George, I am glad to say that I have been able to do some incredible things. Though he was mostly just a glorified Alban administrator, he had moments of really high quality RP. I am proud of myself for all I accomplished with George, and he received a very fitting end for the life he led.

 

I have already offered my thanks to everyone who joined me on the Dover/Aldersberg journey, but I would like to thank you all again. I will repeat what I said when I pinged you all, but each of you, no matter the interaction, have made playing George a dream. Having a strong line-up to represent his family has been a treasure. I really hope George played a prominent role in each of your persona’s stories and hopefully his name will live on. A particular thank you goes out to @Cubicita, Helaine and George were a hell of a pair, though they did not always get on they were a force to be reckoned with.

 

I want to give special thanks to @Mattiii & @ErosTea. Thank you for offering me such a prominent spot in Alba, George was one of my first personas to be in high government, and hopefully I put your trust in me to good use. Hopefully, I can continue to do good by Alba as I move onto the next thing. Best of luck to @Radzig and @celina as they take on Dover, keep her going from success to success!

 

 

𝕿he gleaming needle point of the scabbard glinted in the Earl’s dull eyes. Though one was slow to follow the other eye, soon his fate became viscerally apparent to him. There, slouched upon a stool in the ward of his castle seat of Highbury, he was at the whole mercy of his murderer. A forced breath escaped the feeble Aldersberg, so spent from his apoplexy he had naught chance of survival. He thought of the firmament, what was to come, because moments before he spoke of mercy and his wrongdoings, but the Earl was only man, flesh and blood, yet still apprehensive.

 

He had suffered low crooked courtesies and all manner of spaniel fawning, even, many had attempted to render his early demise without triumphing. The Earl had often pondered how he might meet the skies, the night that often missed his memory was that of his stroke and ensuing permanent disablement, that might have been it? Or another, he thought it might be some common men so embroiled with discontent they would have chosen to be done away with their Chancellor. 

 

Yet, as the pointed steel tip of the blade entered his gut, without trouble, he considered nothing but the adoration he had given his daughters, his flowers, his world. They had been his greatest accomplishments, though they might disagree. Knowing they were well was by far greater than any fine tuned act he ever ordered. 

 

George flumped forth, his weight pressed onto his killer, but he made no curses nor did he spurn his assassin. The dagger firmly planted remained and the Earl began to bleed. He had no more strength in him, he could not impel his assailer away nor pull out the dagger that had been buried into him. The Aldersberg’s features turned paler and paler as blood flowed from the wound, and down. His last thoughts were knowing that he did nothing without cause, not to be satisfied, but simply because.

The Earl’s murderer released him and he dropped to the ground, with a few breaths of life left in him. So soon he was left with none, the gravels and dust of the yard embraced him, and as he drained of blood all warmth left him. And soon he felt like emptiness, darkness came and so did his doom. The grand Lord Chancellor, who once served more dutifully than any other, who had brought his kin from prominence to preeminence, now lay lonesome and sullied by the gore of his butchering. 𝕲eorge of 𝕯over was dead.
 

---

 

We do wish thee health, and for those in tender service to the Archduchy, respect and honour.

𝕴n Dei Nomine Amen: proofs of and upon the making of the testament annexed to these presents having been admitted before our aide, who here writes these our final wishes, he scribes as our substitute.  

So we declare, lawfully supported by our loyal aide and the Lord our God, so I approve of and register this very testament, by make of our own will and legitimately proven, I,

𝕲eorge 𝕬rthur 𝕸arie 𝕮harles 𝕵ohn 𝕷eon 𝕽ichard 𝕬ldersberg,

Lord Chancellor of Alba and Earl of Dover, do so pronounce, decree and declare for the virtue and validity thereof, and with full faith in the Lord, by these presents commit the lordship of all the lands, properties, rights, privileges, cattle and chattels, which belonged to I, George Arthur Aldersberg of the Earldom of Dover and its subsequent lands, so command that upon the happening of our death, commit it all unto George Edward William James Prudence Clement Aldersberg. He shall be our sole executor, he having been sent to us by the Lord to be our singular heir, so is our right according to law. We render all these presents unto him and do so charge him to defend those of our noble line, all the people who might call us their masters, and to be done as he doth render all service to the Archduchy, its Prince and his lawful heirs.

Given at Castle Highbury under the seal of our aforesaid Dover, on the eighth day of the month of Sun’s Smile in the Year of our Lord 2073.

Spoiler

Full Transcript:

☠︎︎

𝕿he gleaming needle point of the scabbard glinted in the Earl’s dull eyes. Though one was slow to follow the other eye, soon his fate became viscerally apparent to him. There, slouched upon a stool in the ward of his castle seat of Highbury, he was at the whole mercy of his murderer. A forced breath escaped the feeble Aldersberg, so spent with apoplexy he had naught chance of survival. He thought of the firmament, what was to come, because moments before he spoke of mercy and his wrongdoings, but the Earl was only man, flesh and blood, yet still apprehensive.

 

He had suffered low crooked courtesies and all manner of spaniel fawning, even, many had attempted to render his early demise without triumphing. The Earl had often pondered how he might meet the skies, the night that often missed his memory was that of his stroke and ensuing permanent disablement, that might have been it? Or another, he thought it might be some common men so embroiled with discontent they would have chosen to be done away with their Chancellor. 

 

Yet, as the pointed steel tip of the blade entered his gut, without trouble, he considered nothing but the adoration he had given his daughters, his flowers, his world. They had been his greatest accomplishments, though they might disagree. Knowing they were well was by far greater than any fine tuned act he ever ordered. 

 

George flumped forth, his weight pressed onto his killer, but he made no curses nor did he spurn his assassin. The dagger firmly planted remained and the Earl began to bleed. He had no more strength in him, he could not impel his assailer away nor pull out the dagger that was buried into him. The Aldersberg’s features turned paler and paler as blood flowed from the wound and down. His last thoughts were knowing that he did nothing without cause, not to be satisfied, but simply because.

 

The Earl’s murderer released him and he dropped to the ground, with few breaths of life left in him. So soon he left with none, the gravels and dust of the yard embraced him and as he drained of blood all warmth left him. And soon he felt like emptiness, darkness came and so did his doom. The grand Lord Chancellor, who once served more dutifully than any other, who had brought his kin from prominence to preeminence, now lay lonesome and sullied by the gore of his butchering. 𝕲eorge of 𝕯over was dead. 

Sic Transit Gloria Mundi

---

To the most excellent Lords of Alba, gentryfolk of the Archducal Realm and other faithful ſubjects of His Serene Highneſs, to whom we bring mournful news: Greetings.

We do wish thee health, and for those in tender service to the Archduchy, respect and honour.

Last Prayers

Remember, O’ Lord, the God of Spirits and of all Men, 

Those whom we have remembered and those whom we have not remembered, men of the true faith.

Give Thy servant George Arthur Aldersberg rest in Thy kingdom, we pray, 

The delight of Paradisus, from whence pain and sorrow and sighing have fled away, 

Where the light of Thy countenance visiteth him and always shineth upon him - Amen.

 

Final Desires

𝕴n Dei Nomine Amen: proofs of and upon the making of the testament annexed to these presents having been admitted before our aide, who here writes these our final wishes, he scribes as our substitute.  

So we declare, lawfully supported by our loyal aide and the Lord our God, so I approve of and register this very testament, by make of our own will and legitimately proven, I,

𝕲eorge 𝕬rthur 𝕸arie 𝕮harles 𝕵ohn 𝕷eon 𝕽ichard 𝕬ldersberg,

☠︎︎

Lord Chancellor of Alba and Earl of Dover, do so pronounce, decree and declare for the virtue and validity thereof, and with full faith in the Lord, by these presents commit the lordship of all the lands, properties, rights, privileges, cattle and chattels, which belonged to I, George Arthur Aldersberg of the Earldom of Dover and its subsequent lands, so command that upon the happening of our death, commit it all unto George Edward William James Prudence Clement Aldersberg. He shall be our sole executor, he having been sent to us by the Lord to be our singular heir, so is our right according to law. We render all these presents unto him and do so charge him to defend those of our noble line, all the people who might call us their masters, and to be done as he doth render all service to the Archduchy, its Prince and his lawful heirs.

Given at Castle Highbury under the seal of our aforesaid Dover, on the eighth day of the month of Sun’s Smile in the Year of our Lord 2073. With God's grace, whom I beseech to send , to all whom read this, the accomplishment of thy most goodest desires. With grace,

Anno Domini, 8th of Sun's Smile, two-thousand 'n seventy-three.

Signed, Comes Doveriae,

 

[Cheese 8874]

Constantina had never been known for her compassion.

 

When did it start? She couldn’t quite say. All she knew is that she saw her Father and Mother during one of their familial dinners: how Helaine reached out and attempted to connect with George; how she tried to love him. And how, in turn, she was met with scorn. There was no love in Highbury, and one day something within Constantina drained. It ached. It was that day she promised herself that she would never become her Mother. She would never beg for love, and so she would never love at all.

 

She remembered her sisters’ weddings—how each of them wept, how they begged her to run. And how Constantina knew she was next to meet the fate of all Aldersberg women. It was her Father’s will for his daughters to be Ladies of prestige and renown, and each one of the Dover girls became just that. They would all find their own misery as wives and consorts, just as their Mother had. Constantina, though, continually assured herself that she would never find such despair in admiration unrequited. She would not fall victim to the plight of love.

 

In Valwyck, she had finally found solace, and reprieve. She found some semblance of family. And when her Father-in-law passed, Constantina recalled wondering why such a good man like Duncan had to be taken, when she had just begun to consider him her Father.

 

Now, her true Father was dead. Something shifted—Constantina wasn’t sure what. Emotions came rarely before, but now, a multitude of feelings overwhelmed her. In some of the following days she wept and screamed in hysteria; some days were spent taking long mindless hikes; some days were spent in bed without food or movement; and still some were spent entirely restless. Whispers spread throughout Barden, about the never before seen mania of the Duchess.

The servants urged her to move. To seek her companions and family, to eat, to dress. But every time Constantina was met with the mirror, she stared back at the image of George. His eyes, his hair, and the twisted beliefs of apathy and lovelessness he instilled in her.

 

"I could have been anything," No, Constantina Aldersberg was nothing like her Mother, the fate she dreaded so much. But to her horror, she had become something much worse: her Father's daughter.  "So why did I have to become so much like you?"

Spoiler

George was an incredible character, and I loved all my interactions with him. Thank you for letting me play your daughter and good luck to whatever character you take next 🩷🩷

 

[Mattiii 1663]

Before the hearth at Castle Highbury knelt that Archduke of Alba, tending to its flame. Once, there had been no need for such labours. For there had been his closest friend and confidant, Georgie, who would stand just over his shoulder. In council, in quiet, in the long hours where no word passed, there had been a warmth more felt than any fire, which had made the weight of the Coronet sit lighter upon him. 

 

Edward could not recall when it had begun. It had been so, and thus it remained. 

 

Yet there was a small and constant thing, so often repeated it had gone unmarked in its time. Whenever George did rise to part, whether from chamber or field, he would pause, and incline himself but slightly. “My liege . . . by thy leave.” 

 

And ever was it given, as easily as breath that did escape the Archduke, without thought, without reckoning. 

 

Now, the fire did burn, yet shed no warmth in his time of need. 

 

And the place just over his shoulder stood empty. 

 

When the night did inevitably fall over the Greveslands, as it ever must, Edward would rise and pass from hearth to bed. There, upon it, beneath the shroud, lay that George of Dover, set as one in rest, yet in a sleep which no dawn would stir. Long did Edward stand beside him, saying naught at first, but at last he inclined slightly and softly asked, “When were thou granted leave to part, Georgie?”

 

 

[ErosTea 1084]

Henri Halcourt was eight when he had returned back to the old City of Elizabeth which had built herself well upon the labors of Alba's forefathers. To one end of the city sat the forgettable home of his forgetful father, and on the other end of the city, which bustled with the hum of bourgeoise and clergymen, the high seat of Aldersberg, Newcastle, did seem to consume all that it watched over.
 

Upon his first venture to that pompous place did he make greeting with the now late Earl, who was to him another blonde boy with clear eyes and an upturned nose. Few words were exchanged and more passes of judgement were given instead. "Ever eager to be offended, the little lord is. Mais pourquoi avoir une telle attitude?" Henri called out to George from the pumpkin pastures that littered the Frankland countryside, wagging his pinky finger to the young heir dressed from head to toe in pink.

The whims and jests of childhood did not last for Henri, nor did it last for George either as the whole of Alba had remembered well when the former Earl of Dover lost his head in the woods beyond Elizabeth. It was then, Henri thought in retrospect, that George did shed the little remnants of his childhood and by extension perhaps his happiness. They were never friends, the pair, but Henri had come to a fond sense of respect for the dutiful lord. Whatever circumstance had awkwardly arisen for their family was quickly brushed off by the steadfastness of their Patriarch. The thought only then crossed his mind, upon reading the news of George's death, that he had never expressed his own admiration for the man. But apologies were largely lost to the Baron d'Artois and what use, he wondered, would the dead have for words uttered too late? Instead Henri would fold the letter he had concluded reading, exhale once or twice, and return back to the work he had committed himself to... something George might have done, he thought assuredly, swallowing whatever grief lingered in his mouth.

[mojanghunter 566]

r

[Lortime 1153]

Indeed, the Lord-Chancellor and his Exchequerial colleague had occasionally bickered. Though both were sophisticated men, the former valued decorum, procedure, civility and courtesy far more than the latter-- the more economic, liberal minded treasurer. Still, the Margrave of Schwyz wept for his beloved and treasured comrade-in-governance. He shed a tear for the loss of such a devoted and excellent bureaucrat and leal servant of the lands of Alba.

 

"Poor George, Gott rest his wayward soul. We shall steward what you can no longer, we shall bear witness to the years you left us behind. We shall excel where you excelled before, and we shall, most of all, bear the pain and shame of such an unmistakable tragedy."

[MunaZaldrizoti 8037]

Susanna Augusta shrouded herself once more in mournful black, now plunged again into grief as a result of her father's murder. From the earliest days of childhood within the stony walls of Newcastle, she had peered over the brim of his desk as he took upon his able shoulders the business of their Alban state. As time had rolled on, she had been assured that she was his true successor, in mind and ability. It had been his nurturing of her gifts that had formed the foundations for her shrewish pride, an armor as much as an outward manifestation of all George had instilled within his youngest daughter.

 

In the days that followed, Susanna threw herself into her letters and meetings both. As she had done such with her son, so too was her grief reshaped into tireless work as a worthy distraction. Lady Chancellor, she was called now, by the Archduke's own word. But it had been his wish too - her father's last wish for her.

 

For all the frustrations passed between them, he had kept her close and tended to her future. In that knowing, she realized, he yet still lived on...within her.

[Dyvynarth 68]

Somewhere within the winding caverns of Wynlomere, or amidst the ceaseless bustle of Alba, or perhaps along the quiet, refined avenues of Iduna..
Penelope found herself suspended between places, anchored to none, yet belonging, in some small way, to all of them.
With her daughter now grown enough to no longer need her constant presence, the nearly thirty-five-year-old woman had once more surrendered herself to the road, returning to the one constant that had ever truly felt like her own: Traveling.

It was in the midst of such wandering that she heard of her uncle’s death from a close friend. Passed along in the careless drift of conversation, as though it were nothing more than a minor occurrence. Her own uncle. And yet, rather than grief, rather than even mild sorrow, she felt only a strange and hollow stillness.

Numbness.

 

“Sorrows, sorrows… Prayers.”

She could still recall the words as they left her lips to her friend next to her. 

Had she meant them? Or had she merely fulfilled the quiet obligations of civility, offering sentiment where it was due, rather than where it was felt? Penelope didn't know.. It was not as though she had never tried. In her own way perhaps, and  despite the distance he placed between them, through the coldness that seemed to cling to him like a second skin, she had cared, or at least, she had believed she did. 
 

Yet unbeknownst to her, and without ever intending to, she had begun to mirror him. Perchance not in gesture and restraint, yet in that same careful withholding of warmth. A thought her late godfather had once spoken of in warning. And now, standing at the edge of that realization, Penelope could not help but wonder whether the numbness she felt was truly her own..

Or something she had inherited.

 

[Cubicita 640]

Helaine stills as the words reach her, as though the world itself has forgotten how to move. For a fleeting moment, she does not understand them and perhaps simply cannot understand them. Her gaze lingers upon the messenger, searching his face for some crack in the truth, some sign of error, of jest, of anything but this.

“No…”

 

The word leaves her lips as little more than breath, fragile and disbelieving. Her hands tremble where they rest, her fingers curling tightly into the fabric of her skirts as if grounding herself might undo what has been said. George... her George... was not meant to fall to silence. Though he brought much pain into her days, he also brought certainty. 

 

Their marriage had not been one of love. Not truly. It had been duty, respect, expectation...two lives bound together by necessity rather than longing. He had been kind, in his way. Steady. Dependable. And she had honored him for it. But her heart had never quite belonged to him… and she had always known it.

 

A breath leaves her then, softer this time.

 

“You’re certain…?” she asks, her voice wavering, though not in denial alone. There is a strange calm beneath it, an understanding she cannot quite name.

 

He is gone.

 

A soft, broken breath escapes her, and she brings a trembling hand to her mouth, not to stifle grief entirely, but to hold together the flood of feelings that were surfacing.. Memories were brought to life only then..His laughter, the dreadful pompous attitude, the quiet moments they belonged only to them. Though they ache, these memories bring the faintest, bittersweet smile to her lips. 

 

 

“May he find the peace he was owed.”

 

But as she turns away, there is a faint, almost imperceptible breath that escapes her. It was not quite relief, not quite sorrow, but something in between. And for the first time in a long while, Helaine Aldersberg feels the weight of her life shift… into something that might, at last, belong to her. Yet as the quiet settles around her, another thought creeps in. This one is slower, heavier. Time, once abundant, now feels terribly finite. She has lived so many years bound by duty, by expectation, by a marriage that never quite held her heart… and now, at the nearing end of her life, she cannot help but wonder what has been lost to it.

 

Had she wasted her chance?

 

The question lingers within her head alone. Love. True love. . . had always felt just beyond her reach, something glimpsed and perhaps tasted and yet never fully developed.. And now, with age weighing upon her and the years ahead uncertain, she feels the sharp, aching fear that she may never know it at all.

 

Her hand presses lightly to her chest, not in grief alone, but in longing.

 

“Will there be time…?” she whispers to no one.

 

And as that thought settles, her mind drifts elsewhere to somewhere warmer, gentler. To her daughter. A faint breath leaves her, almost a sigh.

 

 

"Constantina..."

 

The name rests on her lips with a tenderness she does not often allow herself. There, perhaps, she might find comfort. Familiarity. Something untouched by the years of quiet longing she has carried. Yes… she will go to her. For now, that is enough.

 

Spoiler

Helaine has been one of my most favorite personas of all time and that is because of the dynamic between herself and George. I absolutely loved your persona and the rp we shared! I hope that your next characters and beyond are just as fun! You deserve this!!! 

 

[Radzig 747]

George hauled the porcelain vessel through the mud of the road, his boots sinking into the tracks his father’s carriage had once smoothed over. He felt small beneath the towering oaks of the estate, a pale shadow following the ghost of a giant. He reached the family crypt and set the urn upon the cold stone plinth.  Now, even in death, the old man seemed to loom over him from the ashes. George stood in the damp silence of the tomb, his hands stained with the grit of the road, knowing that while he had brought the Chancellor home, he would never truly fill the void his death left behind.