TH3GHOSTWAFFL3

((seriously impressive ))

Dietrich Van Jungingen looks on from the Skies. He moves himself to tears through his contemplation of the beauty and power of poetry, through his awe of the written and the spoken word. He is awed by Haense's new Great poet. He sighs deeply, and smiles an old, bittersweet smile.

DESIRING POEMS BY CECILYA SMIRNOVA 1859 | 412 ES — Love is a poor actor Always forgetting his lines, Tripping over himself, But anyone who has ever loved Cannot say that He does not plunge Headfirst into his role — The yearning of the heart Is the most deepest of desires. Anyone can be The object of my yearning. Each one is always special, But desiring in itself Is the most desirable thing of all. — Have you ever walked out Amongst the fenland And seen the pale pink Fingers of the sunset Gently reach across the sky, So you can almost feel Them stroke your cheek And have you gone down To the dark, glass surface, And felt the waters Lap gently at the edges of Your face and smiled, Feeling drops trickle down And collect around your lips And sat down on the ridgeline Sighing softly to the horizon As the swans fly across, Smelt snowdrops and jasmine, then Twisted them into a little ring Of delicate and pretty petals, And drank all this in with your gaze — I draw my finger across his face Gently tracing every contour Along his cheek and chin, I pull his jaw close to me; He is a sculpture. His Black, curly hair, velvet lashes, Green eyes. Is this not bliss? But nothing lasts and This too cannot. Though My hate simmers for her, The heart yet cannot lie, and Time polishes all desires and Now I dream such golden dreams Of him. — Enough wine and There is little distinction Between a common harlot And a noble lady Wine tears off all veils And the blemish Becomes the beauty-spot And the latter the former And the former the latter —

Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML (Naumarian: Diedrik van Jungingen) (1696 - 1787) was a Hansetian writer and poet who was Hanseti-Ruska’s ‘national poet’, in various official and unofficial capacities, from the middle of the reign of King Marius II (1707 - 1719) to that of King Josef I (1769 - Present). He was among the most famous writers of the time, most renowned for his patriotic and wartime poetry; he served in both the catastrophic War of the Two Emperors (1715 - 1721) and the even more horrific Rubern War (1740 - 1760), shaping an unflinchingly pro-Haense worldview and sense of the necessity of sacrifice by the individual for the collective. VAN JUNGINGEN: THE COMPLETE WORKS POEMS AND ESSAYS BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, KML COLLATED AND PUBLISHED BY KRISTOFF BRUNING, 1858 | 411 ES — Introduction By Kristoff Bruning Dietrich van Jungingen is a name synonymous with Haeseni poetry. He is one of the key figures of the Haeseni Poetic Renaissance which I would argue began roughly at the end of the reign of King Marius II (1707-1719), headed by van Jungingen, the romantic and moving Vorloin Baruch (known by his pen-name Vorloin Sturmholm) and the great statesman Feodor May. By the time of van Jungingen’s death in 1787, and Baruch’s death some years later, the flourishing had seen its best days. It would, however, be presumptuous to insist that great works of poetry are no longer published, or that Hanseti-Ruska is in a cultural dark age. Rather, the Poetic Renaissance was simply one of the first subsets of a wider rebirth in Haeseni culture and traditions which has since revitalised fashion, art, theatre and music (On the note of music, Feodor May, in fact, later composed several famous songs himself including Haense’s national anthem itself, Ve Lund I Ve Jard). The most accurate way to approach the Poetic Renaissance is as a time when Haeseni poetry was dominated by a few great figures who re-popularised the art form, both amongst the common folk and the nobility, and began to lay the groundwork for a new respect and appreciation. Van Jungingen was born in 1696 to an obscure Waldenian merchant family north of the city of Reza. They were known as having once been relatively prosperous major figures in local life, but were unknown beyond their region of residence. The records here are murky, as van Jungingen never spoke publicly of his early life. What we know for certain is that his father was abusive and physically violent, which is perhaps why he rarely mentioned his upbringing. We also know that the van Jungingen family was in a very poor state by the time of Dietrich’s birth. The family wealth had long been squandered by a succession of incompetent patriarchs, including Dietrich’s father. His father’s behaviour was so awful that the family lost ownership of their ancestral estate, Jungingen Hall, when Dietrich was eighteen. He and his mother went to live with his uncle - his mother’s brother - but he found the man completely insufferable. This was likely a combination of his uncle’s arrogance, and Dietrich’s combative personality; he was known all his life for his stubborn nature and short temper, likely a product of his upbringing. Also of note regarding van Jungingen’s childhood is that his treatment by his father most likely laid the grounds for his lack of romantic interest and emotional attachment in his later life. He has never been known to have been in love, and never wrote a romantic poem - a strange curiosity, for a poet to stay silent on one of the most compelling of subjects; he instead noticeably wrote an essentially anti-love poem, The Lupine Instinct. His childhood was not all misery, though; he spent much of his time absorbed in words, devouring the family’s modest library several times over. It might be tempting to say that this was an origin of his later fame, but he often boasted that Helena’s Walls, the poem that brought him to the attention of King Marius II, was the first poem he ever wrote. It is therefore likely that his love for books in his childhood and adolescence was more of an obsession for reading than an obsession for writing. When he was not reading, he took long walks in the countryside, which we may suppose laid the seeds for his furious love of the Haeseni lands. Van Jungingen left his uncle’s household when he turned nineteen, at the outbreak of the War of the Two Emperors. He travelled to the capital at the time - Reza - and almost immediately enlisted. He joined the army initially because he thought it would bring him higher status. We cannot discuss van Jungingen without remarking on one of his greatest flaws, his constant desire for recognition. The sullying of his family name was the cause of this desire, and he relentlessly pursued it all his life, even when it did him more harm than good. Regardless of his intentions, he found his time in the Royal Army simultaneously the best and worst years of his life. He enjoyed the discipline, and the camaraderie, but abhorred the horror of battle. Interestingly, this did not lead him to become a pacifist. Instead, he exalted fighting for one’s country as the greatest act a man could do - a kind of duty to serve, an obligation to willingly be prepared to sacrifice everything for nothing except love for the King and the nation. To van Jungingen, it was the terror of war which made it honourable to be a soldier. He regarded combat as being terrible, yes, but he always maintained that it is the terribleness of it which makes the soldier brave. He regarded the maintenance of the nation and the people as the highest duty of every Haenseman. We can therefore say with certainty that it was time in the army which made van Jungingen one of Haense’s staunchest nationalists. He was unyielding in his commitment, and never stopped speaking in terms of absolute duties and national obligations until the day of his death. It was his time in the army that also made him a poet. His experiences at the Siege of Helena in 1716, the first action he took part in as a soldier, spurred him to write the rallying Helena’s Walls. While it was a source of great pride for him, that his first published work attracted so much attention from the Marnantines and Renatians alike - the two factions of the War of the Two Emperors - he found the poem somewhat embarrassing in later years, once he had established himself, as the work of an amateur. Of clear note regarding this first work is the lack of subtlety. Now, van Jungingen was not exactly known for abstract, metaphysical prose, but the line ‘Joseph’s men fight for truth and liberation’ is perhaps one of his least artistic. Compare Helena’s Walls with his later reflections on this turbulent time, A Josephite Remembers. Both poems are direct, but the first is attempting to simply propagandise, whilst the other is emotive and moving. The direct manner of van Jungingen’s writings has always held a great appeal to Haensemen, who perhaps always have been more straightforward than, say, Orenians, in their manner of speech. He is easy to grasp, with approachable verse. Perhaps this is why he is often called the best-loved Haeseni poet - his rough simplicity is eternally readable and enjoyable. His master-work, Priveskiy, is so great a poem because it combines this signature simplicity with a beautiful exploration stylistically into contradiction, double-meaning and repetition. His experiences of the War of the Two Emperors shaped his outlook for the rest of his life. He fought in many of the major battles, from Helena to Leuven to Silversea, and only spoke of the horrors openly in taverns late in the evening, with fellow veterans, in hushed tones by a smoky fireplace. Considering that van Jungingen lived to the grand age of ninety-three, and fought in the War when he was barely turned twenty, he was probably one of the very last living human veterans of that conflict. His hatred for Renatians remained with him - publishing the highly controversial Renatus Defeated following the Renatian victory, which prompted an unprecedented outcry from Helena - and was the subject of many a public rant, sometimes actually directed towards Orenians whom he felt were too sneering or contemptuous. It coloured his perceptions of any kind of Empire even after great efforts were made to divorce Oren from its militant Renatian past, or at least to reconcile the men who had fought against each other. Of interesting note is that whilst he experienced a brief stint living in the poorest street in Reza, the Bread Burrows, as a ‘suffering artist’ following the end of the war, Renatus Defeated sold so well as a result of the minor scandal it created that he was able to move back into a middle-class residence. He never again experienced serious financial difficulties. He always had a complicated relationship with Oren, vacillating between support for the Empire, as seen in Sons of Horen and his political work On Curonia, Suffonia and the Empire, and outright hostility, as seen in Helena, the Frontier State and implied in his jubilant celebratory poem of Haeseni independence, The Nation Awakes. In his final writings, he denounces any pan-human sentiment he previously showed, saying that Sons of Horen was ‘written as a purely pragmatic piece, and furthermore has been falsely interpreted. Falsely interpreted, because the sole reason it was written was to raise morale for the Orenian forces, who naturally did not inherently possess the sheer spirit of brotherhood that every Haenseman does. Pragmatic, because I was willing to put on some show of pan-Imperial sentiment if it meant strengthening our coalition forces in the face of a bloody Norlandic purge.’ However, I don’t take van Jungingen at his word. He was not one to publish anything he did not believe in - I very much wonder that he simply later changed his mind regarding Oren, and felt a need to cover his tracks, as it were. We can see clearly that the point at which van Jungingen turned against the Orenian Empire was directly after Sons of Horen was published. In a very curious gesture, van Jungingen refused an invitation to the Novellon Palace for an audience with some of the most powerful men in the Imperial government, who wished to congratulate him not only on producing such a powerful song, but most probably also to bestow some kind of honour or patronage. I believe the explanation he gives for his failure to attend in his final tract was absolutely honest: ‘The Orenians knew nothing of my previous, superior work, because I was but a wild northman to them. They had only recognised the song which praised and uplifted themselves. The arrogance. The sheer, horrible arrogance of the entire business left a bitter taste in my mouth. [That is the] reason I did not follow up on the invitation to the Novellon.’ It seems that he saw rising Orenian influence over the Haeseni Kingdom as a threat to his people and their culture, and felt a kind of shame that as someone who had always prided himself as a great nationalist, he had once supported a pan-human Empire. Even if it is sometimes said that van Jungingen pursued recognition above all else, he was nothing if not a patriot. Truly, he was an exceptional Haenseman because he put the nation above all else, even when it conflicted with his deepest personal goals. Even the publication of Haense: the Frontier State aggrieved him, despite being a basically objectively correct account of Haeseni history and anthropology, because he felt it painted Haensemen as backwards in some way - hence his satirical response, Helena: The Frontier State; he was not satisfied with consulting any map which did not put Reza at the centre. Van Jungingen remained a proud Josephite after Marna’s defeat, joining the Josephite party following the introduction of a parliament to the Orenian Empire, when Haense had been made a constituent province. To touch further on his politics, he leaned towards Centralism. There are a few obvious reasons for this. The first is that he was a middle-class man, born into a new-money family. He therefore saw little to gain from Feudalism, which attempts to orient governance further towards the nobles. The second is his loyalty towards kings. He considered the presence of a strong nobility as potentially a competing power base to that of the king's. This is debatable - this humble writer would not dream of casting doubt on the loyalty of the noble flower of Haensemen - but nonetheless he took it as truth that a more absolutist government allowed a kingdom to flourish most harmoniously. We can see van Jungingen's absolutist philosophy expressed in his poem Is This Right, For I Do Not Know, in which he casts a critical eye over the signatories of the Valwyck Pact. However, he was not hostile towards the noble class, nor did he view lords with contempt; following the war, he even saw brief employment as a sergeant of the Baruch family retinue, the Grey Guard, training men. In addition, he wrote several poems on behalf of lords, the most famous of which is The Stallion, praising Wilheim Barclay. His friendship with the founder of House Barclay began during the War of the Two Emperors. The two Waldenians found it amusing that they were classic examples of a man of letters and a man of arms. At that time, Wilheim Barclay was still a commoner. It was following the conclusion of the War that he was raised to the status of noble and became patriarch of House Barclay. Barclay went on to be one of the most famous Lord Marshals in Haeseni history. Though the two men saw each other less and less as time passed - Barclay being increasingly kept busy by politics and the duties of lordship - their bond never completely broke. Van Jungingen was called to the side of Barclay's death-bed, and thus witnessed the rise from commoner, to knight, to lord and high marshal, to the Seven Skies of one of Haense's most beloved sons. Van Jungingen's friendship with that great general meant he was always more affectionate towards his House than all others. The two decades between the two great wars of his lifetime were a time of preparation for van Jungingen. I say this because he published no great works during this period, but wrote many during the Rubern War. By this time, he was still not yet considered a great man in literature. It was in the latter half of his life that he achieved true fame. Van Jungingen did a lot of travelling during these twenty years - a novelty, as he had never travelled any further beyond the city of Ves before (the closest neighbouring town to his home city, Reza). He spent a short time in Sutica, which he found distinctly unappealing - he found its inhabitants rude and uninviting - but spent around a year in Haelun’or. His time in the Silver City left him with a disdain for the high elves. They turned their noses up at him, and van Jungingen was too proud to attempt politeness in spite of them, to try to weather the initial remarks and eventually gain their respect. He was never a man to press on and attempt to build friendships with people who made a bad first impression on him. Why did he spend so long in a city he hated, essentially alone? In truth, a strong-willed man can spend any amount of time in the most unpleasant situations for something he desires. And van Jungingen desired above all else to enter the Eternal Library, to peruse the largest collection of writings in the entire world - he found the selection at the library in Reza to be considerably lacking when it came to international literature. The problem for the poet was gaining access. He was required to submit a work of his own, but spent months trying to perfect a masterwork, as he was unwilling to present anything less than the best as a representation of Haeseni literature. However, the unfortunate, unexpected death of his mother from an unknown illness brought him back to Reza, and he never gained access to the Eternal Library. His hopeless time at Haelun’or was the catalyst for An Ode to the Glorious Silver State, one of his more humorous poems. The piece is a collection of Haeseni folk sayings, strung together and lightly edited to create a savage attack on the high elves. Interestingly, van Jungingen gained a rival upon returning to Reza; a new citizen drew his ire during the 1730s, the writer Charle de Valence. De Valence’s poems have not survived in the general memory, as he was known for producing, and in large quantities, the kind of verse which is cheaply sold on street corners, as opposed to anything of especial literary merit. Van Jungingen found de Valence’s public claims to be a greater writer than he to be extremely obnoxious. The rudeness which de Valence showed him when the two men finally met in person only cemented his view that de Valence was thoroughly hostile to him. Van Jungingen began writing the only play he ever finished, Ser Ulric Tiberan and the Woman Dun, as a response to de Valence’s formidable literary output. He hoped that an emotional tragedy would be the breakthrough that would mark him as a higher breed of writer than the kind embodied by Charle de Valence. It was due to be performed by the newly-founded Crows’ Theatre Troupe, but fate had other plans. An unfortunate series of events robbed him of his actors at the very last moment, and the play was never performed. But he got his revenge on Charle de Valence in the end, albeit by the point of a sword as opposed to the nib of a pen. A group of deserters of the Haeseni army had fled to the Royaume of Auvergne for protection, and Haensemen were assembled by an officer to bring them to justice. Van Jungingen had retired from the army, but volunteered to assist because none other than de Valence was amongst the traitors. The small band had quickly captured the deserters and were passing through Rubern on the way back to Reza when a Norlandic patrol apprehended them. Violence soon broke out, and de Valence was killed in the fighting. Van Jungingen survived, miraculously - the Haensemen were severely outnumbered - but the clash was the spark for a war that would last two decades. This was the beginning of the Rubern War, in 1740. Van Jungingen was in his forties by this time, past his prime for fighting, so he mostly did his part by writing (Though despite his age, he still saw action. In fact, his proudest moment as a fighter occurred during this war. During the Siege of New Reza, he seized a Suffonian war banner from an officer. It was proudly hung on his wall and he never tired of showing it off to visitors). His rallying cry The Calling of the Will, published at the eve of hostilities, was enormously popular and brought him lasting fame in the wider Orenian Empire. It is perhaps the most simply structured poem of a poet inclined towards simplicity, and this made it a remarkably effective and memorable piece of propaganda. Van Jungingen's oeuvre of the Rubern conflict focuses on the horror of war, of human anxieties, fears and outrages, moral and patriotic indignance, and duty. Obviously, these are the themes most commonly associated with his name. It was during this time that his literary career finally began to flourish properly and he achieved widespread recognition. His ironically titled The Glories of Struggle condemns the savage pillage of the Empire by Duke Godric's hordes. The main focus of the poem, a description of a miserable creature of a person, bears many parallels to his earlier work The Imperial Peasant, with both poems offering not a glint of hope for the downtrodden. However, The Glories of Struggle perhaps paints the more tragic picture, for whilst the peasant has always been impoverished, the noblewoman has seen a real fall to this position. The enjambment in The Glories mirrors the scene the words invoke: an unending exercise by the Nordlings of misery and death, going on and on, with no apparent end. Justice is usually considered van Jungingen’s most emotive work. Like The Glories, it tells a narrative about the misery of a vulnerable figure to condemn the forces of Morsgrad; the poem presents the execution of a child (a not-uncommon event during the Rubern War) through the language of legal jargon to attack the arbitrary atrocities which always occur in wartime. Many of the lines end with periods, signifying the finality of the sentence, the foregone-conclusion of the ‘trial’. Raiders! takes on a less formal tone to present a perspective from an unreliable narrator. The deliberately broken ‘flow’ of the poem - read the third stanza aloud for the clearest example - perhaps relates to the uncertainty of the account we are given of the attack. Two Crows was also published at this time, but does not refer to the then-ongoing conflict at all. Van Jungingen sometimes referred to Two Crows as his most beautiful poem, or as his favourite. The ‘twin sisters’ are a clear reference to the historic division of Haense between the Kingdom of Hanseti and the Kingdom of Ruska. Though this arrangement by now lives on only in names and titles, with the Raev and Hanseti populations themselves largely intermixed by this point, van Jungingen always found something compelling in the idea of the united thrones. We may note that he consistently referred to himself as Hanseti, never referring to himself as a Waldenian despite this being the most accurate label for his ethnicity. He had a deeply romantic view of Haense, rooted in history and old tales. This romanticised outlook is illustrated most vividly in van Jungingen’s masterwork Priveskiy. Meaning ‘Our Oath’ in the common language, the poem explores the deep feeling of ordinary folk in Hanseti-Ruska for the liberties bestowed upon them by virtue of their Haeseni nationality - the ‘Jeremic Rights’. In his poem, van Jungingen outlines several Haeseni archetypes - the trapper, the serjeant, the farmer, and others - and binds them together under a single unflinching love for the nation with a repeated refrain. His intention was that the following generations of writers would add more stanzas touching on different social-types, expanding Priveskiy into a ‘national poem’, an ever-expanding testament to the Kingdom. Yet ever since its publication in 1773, there have been no such additions. I argue that the reason why was that van Jungingen was writing about a world that didn’t exist anymore, that few increasingly paid heed to. In his 1792 essay The Last Breath of Biharism, Osvald Barclay outlines the ‘death of Biharism’, arguing that during the reign of Marius II the Kingdom moved into a ‘Post-Biharist era’. The ideology of Biharism was based around the peasant class - around the farmholder, the woodsman, the free man subsisting in the countryside. But during the War of Two Emperors, Barclay argues, there occurred a shift, with a growing urban class becoming increasingly relevant. The result was that the very concept of Jeremic Rights became antiquated. A robust system of law, the growth of which was greatly influenced by the Orenian courts, made the Rights mostly obsolete - the Jeremic Rights are a cultural monolith, for sure, but no longer a cornerstone of daily life for the majority of people. As subsistence farming gave way to farming for profit, as communally held land gave way to private enterprise for profit, Biharism faded away into the past. Priveskiy was the last gasp of Biharist literature, written during van Jungingen’s old age. A beautiful work, a callback to a different time, a romantic testament to the Haense of van Jungingen’s youth. Van Jungingen was one of the few members of the exclusive yet prestigious Wailer Society, headed by Otto the Tarcharman. We can see his involvement with this group as being a major catalyst for the growth of his belief in Biharism; The Tarcharman was one of the ideology’s biggest proponents. After the Rubern war ended in 1740, van Jungingen largely withdrew from the hustle and bustle of life in the capital, moving out of New Reza into a small estate in the countryside and practically living the life of a hermit. He continued to write, but his output declined considerably. It did not help that his vision declined during these years, making him virtually blind by the time he died. He had to rely on a scribe, but hated the hassle of dictating. In 1769, van Jungingen was inducted into the newly-founded Order of Queen Maya and the Lily, one of Haense’s most prestigious knightly orders. Knighted by King Sigismund II, he became a kossar, Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML - an honour he was eternally proud of - and was granted the right to bear heraldic arms. Despite his advanced age, van Jungingen still made sure to keep up with the events of the day. A Letter to the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska is a furious denunciation of detractors of Haense. Its publication followed several scandals regarding anti-Haeseni sentiments from within the Orenian heartlands. The most serious was a slap-on-the-wrist document published by the Basrid ministry during the very funeral of the assassinated Queen-Mother, reminding the Haeseni government that action taken against the assassins needed to be within Imperial law. The backlash against this ill-timed reaction to the death of one of the most beloved public figures in Haense was resentful and formidable. The least serious was a proclamation from the Archbishop of Caeruleum denouncing the use of bird excrement in baptisms, an ancient Raev tradition in Siegmundic Canonism. We have already gone over the ire which van Jungingen steadily cultivated towards Oren and pan-humanism in general. But the publication of A Letter was the apex of his discontent. The steadily-piling incidents that sowed tensions between Hanseti-Ruska and Helena - we have not even mentioned such blunders as Orenian officials referring to Haensemen by the term ‘Haenser’ (a term with heavily derogatory undertones, almost a slur) or the racially aggravated attacks against Haensemen living in Helena, and many others - eventually led to such ill-will between the Empire and the province of Haense that the latter simply seceded peacefully in 1786, in a move both the vassal-state and the overlord agreed upon. Haeseni independence was the subject of van Jungingen’s last poem, the triumphant and jubilant Let The Nation Awake. Van Jungingen passed away a year later, in 1787, aged ninety-three. He had lived through the reigns of several kings, through freedom, subjugation and finally independence, leaving behind a rich literary record of what it was like to live through such turbulent and destructive times as he witnessed. He continues to inspire writers and delight (and even more so trouble!) readers to this day. What follows from here is, for the first time, a collection of every poem and song van Jungingen published, in addition to his essays, the never-before-published play Ulric Tiberan and the Woman Dun and the poem he wrote and finalised, yet did not publish before his death, The Wolf’s Milk. This is the definitive anthology of the man’s works. I hope that the reader will find much satisfaction from them. — The Complete Works The question of how to arrange a person’s writings is never one with a perfect answer. I have opted to do so in chronological order, so one can see the evolution in van Jungingen’s style and attitudes most clearly. The exact dates that most of his works were published are unknown - but where we may know for certain, they have been included in brackets alongside the title. — Helena’s Walls (1717) The Crow marches on, to Helena’s Walls, And righteousness follows after him, a noble struggle, Preceded by justice and glory, To remove Godfrey from his blood-stained halls. Haeseni brothers stand side by side, united, Against the perfidious Pertinaxi. Joseph’s men fight for truth and liberation; And despite grave wounds, fight with lion-like bravery, For it is their duty to serve their nation Against the false Dragon, to end Godfrey’s slavery Of the stolen throne of Renatus. The streets are filled to the brim with sorrow. Men are slashed and killed, Throats are cut where soldiers lay, Blood is gashed and spilled, And the wounded slaughtered on this day. In these times of pain and greed, Renatus cares not for a humane deed. The tide turns, the heroes are shattered Inside these perfidious palace halls. But there’s no time to weep as the Crow falls, And drips his blood down Helena’s Walls; No, the hateful false Dragon must be slain, By blood and by steel, it will pay for its crime, So avenge this defeat; Men of Arcas, rise! Stand up and fight, for now is your time! — On The Rights and Equality of Men (1720) In these times of war and conflict, it has become clear that a code of moral guidelines must be produced to stop undue suffering and slaughter. But, more than this, it is necessary to attack the vilest dogma any Church has ever produced. I, Dietrich van Jungingen, hereby present my thoughts on the rights and equality of humanity. By the Hellenic Council of 1718, the Renatian Church – which is what I will call the half of the Canonist Church previously ruled by Siegmund from here onwards, for the sake of clarity – put in place the flawed dogma that as their ideas are shared by many peoples, they must be divinely inspired and perfect. I embrace the concept that some things are detestable in the eyes of GOD as they transgress the divine laws set forth by the Scrolls. But the Divine Laws proposed by the Renatian Church included such drivel as it being only ‘natural’, and ‘divinely inspired’ to ‘cleanse with fire’ and publicly humiliate people who commit the simple and universal mistake of straying from the teachings of the Scrolls. Everybody strays from GOD’s path from time to time, and as such punishment is futile, cruel and unnecessary. Anything that causes undue harm and suffering to men simply cannot be ‘divinely inspired’ because it goes against the very nature of GOD. The gravest sin of the Renatian Church was proposing that one state, Renatus, is the state of the Church and of GOD and that all other peoples are ‘subhuman’, and must therefore wear ‘collars’, ‘tattoos’ and bracelets’ obtained from ‘The Society for Moral Health’, which was planned to haplessly discriminate foreigners in Renatus. This is doggerel on a grand scale. No state enjoys the sole blessings of GOD – the very idea is astonishing because when GOD created man, he didn’t invent the empire or the kingdom. Such things are of men therefore and like men – flawed and imperfect - and therefore below GOD and should be below any self-respecting Church. No Church should ever involve itself with politics because doing so undermines its very mission as being a spiritual institution for salvation, not a secular one for raw power and influence. The idea that a Church can call men ‘foreigners’ is ridiculous as all men are spiritually equal brothers in the eyes of GOD, not defined by nationality. This also makes it clear that the Church defines itself by a secular nation and is therefore obviously false and politically motivated. Describing the state of Renatus as ‘divine’ is foolish, no matter whether you serve that state or not: states are secular institutions run by men who serve only their own power – similar, ironically, to the Renatian Church which seemed to have abandoned its mission of religious guidance in favour of spouting foul dogma. The idea of men being ‘subhuman’ because they do not subscribe to a single, ‘correct’ secular state or nationality is not one that any man not blinded by ignorance, arrogance, nationalism or faith should follow and agree with. For are not all men spiritually equal in the eyes of GOD? Whether you are a loyal man of Renatus or not, the idea that men from Hanseti-Ruska, Ves, Sutica, Norland or Curonia should wear bracelets and brandings marking them out as ‘subhuman’ is frankly dangerous, disgusting and wrong, a vile attack against the rights of humanity which can only lead to greater injustices. It is a foolish idea that should be mocked by all right-thinking men and opposed vocally. The schism may have ended, but these filthy rulings remain in a grey area – it is up to the newly united Church to decide whether to embrace them or deny them. I do not address these words only to the great minds of Arcas - the philosophers, the writers, the priests, the theologians, William Jrent, Eidr Harraqa - but to all people: the farmers, the soldiers, the merchants, the kings, all must see Siegmund’s folly and be repulsed by his sickly implications. Most importantly, however, I address High Pontiff Daniel VI – you must declare the Hellenic Council of 1718 to have been illegitimate, annul its outcomes, and denounce its messages or you will surely face another schism; I also would like to implore you to halt the Church’s petty, irrelevant secular politicking. Religion aside, it is in times of warfare when the equality of men becomes threatened, as it is when states interact on a grand and destructive scale and their separate codes of law become incompatible and unenforceable, and the whims of the strong reign supreme - war is, ironically, also when the equality of men becomes notable to the eye as king and commoner alike are cut down. I therefore humbly propose a universal set of laws with eighteen points, to ideally be respected across the length and breadth Arcas by all humanity, lightly inspired by the three points originally raised by the pretender Joseph Marna: The Rights and Laws of Men I. No man may be punished, killed or attempted to be punished or killed on the sole basis of a difference in ideals or political or religious opinions and beliefs. II. Prisoners of war must never be executed or tortured and must be treated fairly. III. At the end of a war, no man who supported or fought for the opposing side must be killed for that simple reason alone. IV. No acts of vengeance should be carried out against a nation or people as a whole, or to individuals without basis. V. No man may commit undue violence, murder or acts of cruelty. VI. No man may abuse captured prisoners or people in any way. VII. No man may kill another who is unarmed or who does not otherwise pose a threat. VIII. No man may break a peace treaty or truce. IX. No man may be punished due to their nationality. X. No man may be punished for criticising a ruler, unless they openly suggest treason. XI. No man may be enslaved. XII. No publication, belief or idea should be censored for any reason. XIII. No man may be punished or killed without a fair trial or be held to be guilty unless proven innocent. XIV. No man may be denied medical aid, food, or water regardless of any disagreement or difference in any beliefs or allegiances. XV. No man may break an oath or promise. XVI. No man may be denied the Rights of Men or be held to be above it. XVII. It is the moral duty of man to oppose an oppressive government and to refuse injustice. XVIII. It is the moral duty of man to uphold the Rights of Men. It would be naïve and highly optimistic of me to assume that this list of laws will ever be held in significance in my lifetime or in anybody’s – I can but hope that they will be respected, and cement the rights and standards to which all men should be held accountable to, in the dream of a fairer world. — The Sea of Fate We stand before the sea of fate, Steering Hanseti-Ruska’s course; One way to ruin, the end of the state Glory the other, the end of remorse! For the way to triumph is beckoning, If the bold are ready to seize it The Crow is facing a reckoning; So call back our national spirit! Look back at our enemy, dissolved by decree, Dissolved by the war it supposedly won; And yet Haense still stands, in spirit free - We stand still glorious, so smile as the sun! So rally now, you loyal Haense-men, And spur the horse of your ambition Our kingdom shall be great then; A people with a vision! — The Imperial Peasant I walk often through these sodden fields And mine tired eyes do often see A weeded land with barren yields Where a poor man slaves in misery For meager pay, no real reward; A thankless job, for his thankless lord. No clothes upon his wretched back Save tattered rags, wet with fog And a cheap, filthy, worthless sack Shot with holes, not fit for a dog Let alone for a man made by GOD; Yet forced to suffer a strong birch rod. At his side he bears a mark of war And when he toils it creaks and groans For once to the Emperor he swore And fought, yet nobody even hears his moans For nobody cares for those like him; See how his body is bony and slim. His wife clings to his side in the rain A woman with nothing to her name And nothing but death to hope to gain For when he dies, there's nothing to claim And no money to pay for a marked grave; For this wretched man is paid as a slave. — Battle Song of The North I've walked amongst our lilies that are all the world's desire I've heard our crows that flock to sing the praises of our sire I've seen our beauteous forests that are growing ever higher We march to save our homes, We march to save our homes Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! When Sigismund took up his scroll this truth he did reveal The North shall last forevermore for Jove has blessed our steel So as we march for Koeng and Jove let none now doubt our zeal We march to serve our faith, We march to serve our faith Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! We're men of Ruska and of Haense we won’t back down in fright So draw your swords and seize your reins, we'll give the South their fight We'll charge them in the daytime and we'll raid them in the night We march to crush our foes, We march to crush our foes Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! We’ll die to save the North! — The Wheel Turns Nothing ever changes, the wheel keeps turning, Nothing new happens on this tired old world. Everything’s already come to pass before; intrigue’s burning, And humanity’s still not learning That a squabble then a war is not the only path. The wheel keeps turning, an Empire stands, it’ll crumble in time, The ninth Empire; a telling number. History’s annals will always be caked in the grime, Of the men and woman who in their prime, Did nothing but waste away their little lives. The wheel keeps turning. What are we petty men but dust? We are soon but fading memories, then soon forgotten. Our minds must be caked in a rotting rust For we cannot see that we must Live now because soon we will die. The wheel keeps turning – soon it will stop, for me and you For we are but candles in the rain Extinguished in an instant, to be replaced by the new And there’s nothing you or I can possibly do But cement our legacy now, before it’s too late. The wheel will not be turning for long, for us. Soon the wheel shall turn again and leave us behind. So heed what I say, for I say thus That we must do what we can now, to be remembered. You must think, write, you must compose, For a good cause fight, anything I suppose So long as in a hundred years men will about you say: ‘This man was great, a great man of his day.’ — The Stallion See the Stallion, this god of war, And gasp in terror and in fear As this knight lets out his battle-roar And smites his foes far and near; They fall before this being. Who is this saint of battle, who walks amongst mere men? He is the Northern saviour, whose never made a judgement wrong; Who is this clever mind of war, who's beyond mere mortal ken? He is a mighty soldier, who's praised in every tavern song; So I'll tell you who this is, dear friends For to the King his talent lends And for our Kingdom he has served And from his mission never curved; This is a man of duty and of honour. His victories roll from heralds' tongues; He is this Kingdom's warder And his loyal men make weak their lungs To cry 'Aye!' to every order: At Helena, Silversea, Leuven, he fought as a lion. He's at the front of every charge, The greatest general of our day, His feats are many, always large: The brave Ser Wilheim Barclay. — The Prikaz Ah, the gleaming Prikaz Palace; Where songs were sung, a king's ear was lent Where the finest Carrion Black filled every chalice; When I recall those time-worn years, I bitterly lament. I cry fond tears at your cruellest fate, At your disuse and your neglect. The last king to stay has left your gate; So I raise a glass of Carrion Black with old respect — Renatus Defeated Ah, you crumbled, dead, Renatian regime! Your legions are gone - good riddance to that; Your memory's ephemeral, like a forgotten bad dream; No more Kings on the Dragon’s throne are sat. Your own people rejoiced when you were dissolved And not by a heroic struggle, but by a mere decree! You who made Helena decadent and devolved: I remember your end with satisfied glee. — The Ship of State Sail on, you ship of state! Ship of northern Union great! Sail on, through cold ice plow Breezing on with eager bow; Sail on, where harsh storms blow Bringing lesser nations low; Sail on, through dange'rous seas Steering through both pain and ease Sail on, you ship of state! Ship of northern Duma great! All your good, loyal crew Look eager to a future new; To unwritten hopes and fears Of untold fates of future years; All await just past your sight; Sail on: times ahead shine bright! — The Tragedy of Ser Ulric Tiberan and the Woman Dun ACT I ACT I, SCENE I Enter Ljudimir LJUDIMIR: (To the audience): My name is Ljudimir ve Soivetsk, and I am the foremost knight In all of Hanseti-Ruska; the vast peasantry looks to mine arms To defend their lives from tyranny and beast alike. Let any man who doubts mine iron-clad will and sharpened justice, Instead face mine iron-clad body and sharpened blade; All comers, face me, if you doubt my bravery and gallant nature! I’ll mirror your petty insults and turn them to swords. Indeed, in the name of valour I go now to face the drake, Frysklund. But first, methinks that a meeting with a certain witch is in order first. Exeunt Ljudimir ACT I, SCENE II A cauldron is placed on stage. Enter the Enchantress, brooding over the cauldron and adding various magical ingredients as she speaks an incantation. ENCHANTRESS: O gods, my leal masters, bend thy gazes upon thine leal servant! I invoke thy powers – of the beasts, the winds and all that grows To serve upon mine aims, as a gift to I, who is most fervent. I call on that which the raven knows And the eye of the eagle observant; I call on the strength the lion shows And the – Enter Ljudimir LJUDIMIR: Stop your sinful racket, you woman Dun, you foul harridan, Sarai’s damned kith and kin! For despite your earthly beauty your soul is as tarnished as the drake I go to justly end. Your pagan ritual and Dun spells are a crime upon GOD’s world, you foul *****, You feckless ***** to power and handmaiden of Iblees! Now, I command you to grant me a boon, some spell or potion; And by Saint Kristoff’s holy arse, be quick about it! ENCHANTRESS: Ljudimir, thine goodly intentions are clouded By thine sickly fog of pride and righteousness. I will not grant even a mere trinket to thou! Thou art untrustworthy, as you have proved many a time, And inclined to breaking pacts and deals: What recompense for my boon I gave to slay the wolf of Markev? What recompense for my sword I gave to end the orcish menace? What recompense for my shield I gave to save thine sorry hide? I wish I had not wasted my time to bother, for thou art truly a man Whose valour is matched only by thy boorish and churlish manner. Thou, whose soul is tainted by vainglorious delusions: Begone! There’s nothing for thou here, so hurry back to thy hunt, And be quick about it, lest I turn thy vaulting fortune To bad luck of equal measure. LJUDIMIR: Very well, you heretical hag! But know that Your Dun powers are nothing more than fleeting blessings From fickle false gods; Mine nose of justice smells evil here, so I must leave this accursed, defiled place; But I swear by GOD, and let He be my witness, that I shall cause your ruinous downfall before this Malin’s Welcome is up! ENCHANTRESS: We’ll see, thou villainous, evil knight; I swear to thou, even from the grave, I’ll snuff thy might. Exeunt Ljudimir ENCHANTRESS: Oh, what ever happened to those good old days, When men were kind and came to me asking humbly for a blessing? Such days are gone, blown far from these lands like dust on a plain, extinguished as a candle in the wind, never to be let in the door again. The evil spirit of men defies any intentions of goodwill, and champions the dark before all else, seeking evil when possible. Aye, they’ll cut out a tongue for a misplaced word, They’ll burn a man for an insult; They’ll kill a child because their father fights on the wrong side. They’ll all obsessed with death and bloodshed, with self-righteous punishment and blind zealotry! Where’s the good of men? Gone, I say, gone! The peace of men, in those golden days at the dawn of time, is ended. Ah, I weep for the blackness of men’s hearts, for their insufferable arrogance and vaulting cruelty! Enter Mercator Varmir MERCATOR VARMIR: Ah, my servant! What troubles your mood? I smell your sorrow from my sacred grove And I have come to ease your suffering as best I can. ENCHANTRESS: Oh, my great god! You have heard my prayers! Hail to you, Mercator Varmir, patron of hunters, lord of the wilds, fickle father of fortune! But it is not possible, my lord! Only if I can have as husband a good man, will my bitter loneliness be assuaged; and that is not possible, for there are no good men left! MERCATOR VARMIR: Do not be foolish! They is always the last light of hope burning, somewhere; no matter if it is but the ephemeral light of a melting candle, there is hope. There is one good man left in this world; I have seen him in heroic battle. Await him by the rock by the river, he shall gladly be your husband. What man could resist your beauty? I shall prove to you that good men still walk this land! ENCHANTRESS: Thank you, master! I shall do as you say and praise you all the while! Exeunt the Enchantress MERCATOR VARMIR: (to the audience): Now, I shall do what I can; But fate is fickle… Exeunt Mercator Varmir ACT II ACT II, SCENE I Enter Ulric Tiberan ULRIC: Ah, what is this strange realm of dreams? For I know that I am asleep, but I know that I am acting and thinking in a place where I am not awake; Ah, by Saint Jude, bugger this unnatural business! Enter the Dream Enchantress. ULRIC: Who is this comely maiden…? Who are you, beauteous woman? Though I know that you are but a figment of my hopeful dreams, I wish to stay with you until the end of time, here; you are so lovely to look at, I would glad put out my vision right now so that your visage is burned into mine undeserving eyes forever. The voice of Mercator Varmir booms from offstage MERCATOR VARMIR: For that there’s no need; I shall give you this woman to be yours, for she suffers from a severe melancholy that only you may cure. ULRIC: No woman with such a face should suffer from melancholy; I thought that aenguls needed not fear any ills of the mind. Tell me, you transcendent voice of the dreaming night, how may I serve this lady? MERCATOR VARMIR: Take her as your wife! Throw away the pleasure of lesser women and love this lady until the end of days. ULRIC: Ah, even if I wished to decline your generous offer, I could not; my heart clouds all other instincts with a mighty flourish of desire. Where may I find this beauty? MERCATOR VARMIR: Go to the river and find her by the rock. She awaits you as we speak; now, awake! Destiny awaits you! Exeunt the Dream Enchantress and Ulric Tiberan ACT II, SCENE II Enter Ulric Tiberan ULRIC: (to the audience): I go now to find the woman of my dreams. Let nothing stand in my way, for I’ll conquer all obstacles with a keen sword or a keen mind! Enter Ljudimir LJUDIMIR: Ah, exalted hero, worthy friend! Hail, greatest hero of the Hanseti! Where are you going, good man? ULRIC: Ljudimir! My heart exalts to see a loyal friend at the same day I go to see a beautiful woman! LJUDIMIR: A woman? Tell me of her. ULRIC: Her hair is as glossy and black and a raven; her skin as white as alabaster, her lips cherry-red, her cheeks sculpted by GOD; her eyes are pools of – LJUDIMIR: Oh, stop your pining! You’re as generic as a bad poet! Give me something that hasn’t been said of any other striking maiden! ULRIC: Fine! Good friend, I’ll indulge you with something more specific. ‘Round her brow she wears a garland of holly and mistletoe, that suits her perfectly; And she wears a fine, white silken robe that matches her skin. LJUDIMIR: (to the audience): This woman, is the woman Dun! I’ll take my revenge on her now; she’ll cry and beg for death by the time I’m done with my machinations! GOD, avert your eyes – you won’t want to see the glorious vengeance I’ll wreak! LJUDIMIR: You’ve already met this woman, then? ULRIC: Nay, I saw a vision of her in my dreams, as lifelike as you or I. I go now to meet her, and be with her forever as a loving husband. LJUDIMIR: (to the audience): Ah, perfect! It is as if Iblees himself gave the affirmation for my plot! It is all too easy to craft a deception as this, though it pains me to do so to a friend... But you’ll see, all you doubters – my plots and plans will knock down the door of the path of happiness, such that I might do away with that witch! LJUDIMIR: My friend, I have dire news for you – I once had a dream, just as you had described, and saw a woman just as you described. Do not be deceived! For Iblees loves to tempt man and test the will of good Canonists. The woman I saw and desired was a daemon, and I was sorely disappointed when I found that her comely exterior betrayed her rotten core. So! Do not be deceived, and listen to me, my friend and loyal companion – you must scorn this woman no matter what, for it is a challenge to our faith, Sent by forces beyond our control to lead us astray – I say again, do not be deceived by mere beauty and cheap words! ULRIC: You are a good man, Ljudimir - but I refuse to believe this. She shall be my wife! LJUDIMIR: For the sake of our friendship, Ulric…! I will not see you tarnish your immortal soul over a damned dream! I would sooner come to blows with you to try to stop this, if only to save your life. ULRIC: Very well. Your heartfelt, impassioned words have swayed my previously imperfect judgements, my good friend. Your are right - my vices got the better of my clear thinking. I go now to refuse this daemon - may GOD be my witness, I will do what is right! Exeunt Ulric LJUDIMIR: (to the audience): Ah, the fickle stars must for once be right! I’ll get my revenge before the eve of this night! Exeunt Ljudimir ACT III ACT III, SCENE I Enter the Enchantress. She takes a seat upon a large rock ENCHANTRESS: (to the audience): Here is the place I must await my love - Oh, I hear him approaching already! Soon all my sorrows shall be washed away as tears in the rain, By a marriage foretold by a god! Enter Ulric ENCHANTRESS: Ah! Ulric Tiberan! Thy sudden appearance strikes me with awe, thou who art the mightiest and kindest of all Northern heroes! My love, now that we are together, we may usher in an era of happiness into our troubled lives! I weep with happiness at our joyous meeting! The Enchantress stands, and approaches Ulric as if to embrace him ULRIC: Begone, foul daemon! Ulric draws his sword and points it at the Enchantress ENCHANTRESS: My love, I - ULRIC: Silence! Stop your honeyed words, for you’ll only catch a weaker man in your sticky lies. Nay, I know all about the ways of those like you. I say again, begone! I’ll have nothing more to do with your repugnant ways! ENCHANTRESS: Please, listen but for a moment! Thou breakest my heart to say such things - how canst thou? If love alone will not conquer all, perhaps I can show my true intentions For I offer thou all the gifts that it is in my power to give, to win thy love. ULRIC: Go on, then! List your empty bribes! I’ll listen, if only to prove my steeled willpower that guards my faith! ENCHANTRESS: To thou I wish to give children of longevity! Who shall live but never feel the wail of age; And they will fill the great halls and cities of Hanseti-Ruska With any pain of theirs assuaged! To thouI wish to give the treasures of the world! That rival even the mines of the greatest of the dwed And great silks and rugs and furs unfurled Enshrined by gold and coated in richest silver! To thou I wish to give armor that will never crack! Able to hold even an orcish Rex’s mighty axe Able to stand stalwart from every attack And in courage you will not lack or find wanting! To thou I wish to give the long life of an elf! From the spirits - they shall fill thou with life’s fair kiss So you may hear thy children sing and praise their father And in our years our love will eternally reminisce! Oh Ser Tiberan! Prithee, take me as thy wife! I beg of thou, I would rather die than live without thou, my one and only love! ULRIC: Then go and die, then, for I shall not care - do whatever it is you rejected slaves to Iblees do. ENCHANTRESS: Oh, curse thy mean, scarring words! I was right - there’s no kindness or goodness left in the hearts of man. I cannot bear to spend another moment In the same world as those that hate me; In the same world as fickle spirits who betray me; In the same world as my love that scorned me; Oh, why, oh, why, oh, why! Curse thou, Ulric Tiberan, thou whomst I loved! The Enchantress throws herself onto Ulric’s sword and dies. ULRIC: Her last words were not those of Iblees… they were the words of a scorned lover. Enter Ljudimir LJUDIMIR: Ah, the woman Dun is dead! Good job, friend Ulric! (to the audience): Curse my slip of address! Ah, well, the crone’s dead now, anyway! Praise be to GOD almighty! ULRIC: The woman Dun…? You mean to say that she was...? Ah, curse you, Ljudimir! You who killed my love with slippery ways and treachery! I realise now my mistakes - my trust in you, my doubt in her And there’s nothing left that can now assuage my pain - I weep for my for my confiding in one whom I once called friend For my willingness to jump at a far-fetched conclusion For my own sword that killed a beautiful, innocent woman - Ah, there’s nothing left for me now but a life of pity. Nothing can assuage my wounds of the heart save the sweet release of death! Ulric falls on his sword and dies, lying next to the Enchantress in death. LJUDIMIR: Oh, foul and fickle fate! How you turn my plans to a true and tragic conclusion, How you turn a friend against me, How you kill a friend before me - Such shame I feel, now, for what I have done! Such heinous acts of skulduggery and abhorrent machinations - Oh, Ser Ulric Tiberan is dead! He lies in death next to the love I conspired to separate from him - Yet as she a heathen and he a Canonist, they will not be together even in the world after this - Oh, I weep for my vaulting arrogance and for my destruction of my soul! No amount of Carrion Black can drown my sorrow - But wait, here’s a river for that! Exeunt Ljudimir Finish — The Calling of the Will (1740) Our union's been slighted, here's a fight - When your Empire calls will you assist? Here comes war, to cowards' fright - For freedom's sake will you enlist? Here's your home, in the enemy's sight - When Morsgrad comes will you raise your fist? Here comes Godric, duke of blight - In foul tyranny's face will you resist? Here comes war, the long black night - We'll perish, if we do not persist! — On Curonia, Suffonia and the Empire The Holy Orenian Empire is the one true state of a united humanity. It is the ultimate expression of humanity’s nationhood – just as the high elves have Haelun’or, as the wood elves have Irrinor, as the dwarves have Urguan. It is therefore the duty of every man, woman and child to defend it, for by defending it, they defend humanity. The continued existence of Oren speaks to its almost transcendent longevity and incredible immortality – whenever it ceases to exist, there will always be those who succeed in ensuring it returns. The Empire is therefore worth fighting for; it is the ultimate symbol of humanity’s desire to create and maintain a strong union of peoples. Oren brings peace. Oren brings order. Oren brings prosperity. Serving the state is the highest honour required of any man. The state is more important than even familial bonds – nothing comes before it. Every citizen must be willing to lay down his life for the state; the state is more than a political construct. Rather, it is a gathering of similar peoples melded into an insoluble whole. The state is facing dark times; the Pax Orenia is currently threatened yet again. But it has been challenged before, and emerged maintained. If we stand together, nothing and no one can stand against us and hope to prevail, can hope to end the Pax Orenia for more than a moment, can hope to end the state. Now, I did not initially support The Empire – that is a simple truth that I shall not bother denying. But the unfaltering will and steadfast decisions of Petyr III have restored my faith in our mighty union. A lesser man may have abandoned Haense to stand alone – but the Emperor stood by us. He is truly a loving father and loyal brother to mankind. He believes in a united humanity. He believes in defending the territorial integrity of the one true state of our collective peoples. There are not all those who are so steadfast as our beloved Emperor, however. Cowardly, treacherous Curon has done what it does best – betray its allies and back out of promises and pledges at the first signs of danger, as it has done in the past. How Curonia can be respected by anybody at this point, is beyond me. It has foolishly scorned the loving Empire that supported it in times of strife, with no apparent reason aside from a baseless predilection for turn-coating. The only thing Curon is good at is betrayal and treachery. It’s worth citing the words of the esteemed Vivaca Rutledge, who I not only greatly admire, but who also summarises Curon’s situation with first-hand experience: ‘Curon is a failing kingdom … deception is at the heart of Curonia ... this cycle of betrayal is tired and old and must be put aside, once and for all. But knowing Curonia, that may never happen.’ Oh, and Suffonia is simply so irrelevant that I forgot it existed, and I am sure I am not alone in this sentiment – Suffonia, like Curon, simply does not matter in the grand scheme of anything, for it does not offer unique culture, especial military might or any brilliant minds to anyone, nor does it have any mighty monuments or especially famous heroes. It will not be able to survive on its own due to its tiny army and previous reliance on the Orenian Empire. No, when Suffonia, or the land it encompasses, is reabsorbed back into the Empire, no-one will have noticed that it ever left. I would spit vehemently on those spineless traitors, the pathetic Lord Regent of Curonia and the Lord Protector of Suffonia. However, in all honesty, I wonder if they are deserving of the effort, considering that those mouth-breathers are probably drooling such fluids all over themselves at all hours with spasmodic fits of brain-dead, undeserved self-congratulations of their ‘independence’. The only thing they are independent of is the relevance they so desperately crave. So, if any of you, my Haeseni brothers and my other Orenian friends, feel worried at the desertions of these two pathetic, failed states – don’t. If anything, their cowardice only strengthens our resolve and reinforces the awareness of our duties, the duties of loyal citizens, to our own state. The armies of Curon and Suffonia are very small – the viability of maintaining the Empire is not threatened by the lack of them. Nothing, really, has changed. The Holy Orenian Empire is the ultimate expression of a unified humanity. It is therefore the duty of every man, woman and child to defend it. — The Glories of Struggle I saw a woman, sat by the wayside Once a low noble, now starving and shaking I saw with dismay her tears as she cried Her poor, emaciated body's aching Her traumatised mind's close to shattering. She calls for her mother, killed in this war She calls for her lover, struck down in battle The poor thing begs for bread, or a bed of straw And begs for alms. She lives worse than cattle And soon she'll die, and pass tragically unmourned. This is war: indiscriminate sorrow. This is the 'struggle' of which sick Godric speaks In high, praising tones.This is the tomorrow He offers us. His misguided vengeance reeks Of vain, blind 'justice' for entire peoples. This is his 'struggle'; pointless destruction Driven by a proud whip of 'retribution' Smothered with fake humility's seduction And disguised as reason, war's solution: He's blind to the pointless deaths he causes. Godric, of course, wouldn't spare that woman's life. He looks past her cries and her ragged clothes For Godric can't risk that she'll be a wife For she's nothing but a 'future font of foes' So for her noble birth she must die, of course. — Two Crows (1742) Two crows fly overhead, over forest and field Their glossy feathers shining with many hues. They soar from Nenzing to the Rezan weald With a common unity no man can refuse. These twin sisters fly overhead, with one vision, With one heart and mind guiding them on they speak With a common wisdom in every decision. They have a common unity, ancient, unique. In their talons they grip the yellow-black banner Which unfurls, spreading, defiant in the skies. The flag both of one King and every tanner Of Highlander unity, that brilliant prize. — An Ode to Koeng Andrik III (1743) Hail to you, oh great Koeng Andrik the third! Awe-stricken history will record your deeds With amazement at feats never before heard, At how you planted for Haense success's seeds. Now, in feats of drinking you trump the best, And from ashes you've built our new city great. You can wield a sword like a man possessed, And it was your peace that saved your loyal state. So for that, you have Haense's gratitude; And with that, my humble ode now does conclude. — Justice The judge looms over the convicted, A wig of steel sat upon his solemn brow. He's ready to sentence, unrestricted. The criminal, she cowers in a bow. There's no jury, no risk of dissent. Defendants or subpoenas, a petition, The judge does not care, he does not relent. The judge demands complete submission. The small child, she cries, her eyes bleed tears. This is not a satisfactory defence. Her innocence and her eleven years Will not save her. Justice will now commence. The judge raises high his station's sign - The sword, where legitimacy arises. Between law and crime there's no real line; Death is a sentence that fits all sizes. — Raiders! Look south! A column of smoke rises, Far away, far off in the distance. They'll now be looting stolen prizes - Those raiders, I mean, squashing resistance. It's the second attack this fortday, The second poor farm to fall that is. Maybe the army'll make them pay - But those bandits, they'll be off in a whizz. Are they from Norland? Or Elves, or Orcs? There's no way of knowing right now. Perhaps we'll tell from the wounds of a corpse - Anyway, we always find out somehow. The horizon, see it cloud, dusty; Those men are moving off - surprising. These didn't stay long - these weren’t lusty - But look west! A column is rising! — Sons of Horen When the wars are looking bad And all our allies start to flee That's when I feel so truly glad For what Lord Barclay said to me: March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we lacked GOD's holy light - Which blesses even Oren's poorest field - If we lacked GOD's holy might - What heathen faith could be a shield? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we did not stand and fight - Which is of course our greatest moral duty - If we did not do what's right - What would become of Oren's beauty? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we had not hearts resolute - Which they are, they're brave enough for double - If we had not valour in dispute - Would Oren have weathered the troubles? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! — Is This Right, For I Do Not Know. (1755) The sons take up their father's role The family is broken. Is this right? Is this duty Or some treason? In northern climes The aggrieved gather round a table With an undefined authority. Bestowed by none. With unanimous clamours, Maybe intent to power, They proclaim to uphold the crown, But do they defy it? I forget what is right. Perhaps they are right. Morality’s glass steams with a thousand breaths. I know only the sanctity of law The neutral power of authority. I forget reason, as all do. I wait with bated breath For the clouds to clear. Or gather — A Final Death? (1760) The darkness is quiet tonight. Now, life seems instant and War's breath Comes fitful in the singular moment. The stars glance at man's folly And wait, eager to look upon a new world. The waning moon gleams on a bloody sword. And as he wipes the thirsting thing clean of gore The blades of grass seem to melt in the wind. He sheathes his blade, and finally The instrument of death is forgotten. There are no mourners, None for this wretched creature, This murderer and destroyer. He sits, dying in a blood soaked world, With the weight of thousands dead upon him. He throws off his armour, He casts down his spear, he feels His bloody and endless sweat Cool and disappear in a peaceful wind. His heavy eyelids close for the first time. Mankind is freed. For now — The Humble Chair Is a chair a humble thing? No pig ever made a chair. What crude beast ever sat upon a seat? It is a pleasure, a chair, pure civilisation, Imagined by mankind To please mankind. Why is a throne special? Man says it is a special place to sit. A chair that should bestow absolute authority. So you see, it is not chairs That are mundane, but rather Mankind's majesty is mundane. — Helena, the Frontier State Ah, Helena, the frontier city! With its strange, furless fashions - Oh how I feel for our senators with pity, Without carrion black or 'Haenser' passions. Pioneers of an age, trudging for pearls, Our young men venture up to the south. Bereft of maidens, they court exotic girls, Drawn deep into danger's smiling mouth; So, far from the pleasant heartlands, Far from their safe homes in the north, They're sucked into unknown quicksands Which only a frontier state brings forth. Ah Helena, what an odd place! So far from normal, civilised Haense! — The Lupine Instinct All others have an enigmatic passion - It is the lupine instinct, of the randy beast, The kind that urges man on, To ensure that mankind is plentiful, Or to enjoy himself in private. And yet, what is that feeling? I do not know - how can I know? I do not think I feel it, this urge This lusty and supposedly enjoyable urge. How can a man not know what he lacks? It is unknown to me, this primeval desire, As old as time and more frequent than rain. But is it unknown? It is definitely an enigma, or perhaps simply It is some riddle for me to unravel. I do not know my own self - I am on the unknown waters of the soul, Rowing towards a shadowed point - On lonely nights I think on all this, And it is a great trouble to my mind. — A Letter To the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska How long have We survived? How much have We outlived? Too long, and too much For any ordinary nation. She is a lasting state, A fair state, a strong state, She spreads her wings Over the Highlander traditions. So hear Us, and hear this, you who hate Us, you who fear Us, you miserable skuke-people, you who would see Our customs gone you who would try To influence Us: you are not different, you are not special, As all others, Haense will outlast you. your hubris amuses Us! you will soon be dead, But you cannot kill Us. Hanseti-Ruska is one. Gorm sees your defeat, though you cannot. We spit on you, you who are less than filth, We laugh at your whining, We take joy from your hate. you who stand against Us: Good luck to you, for why not? For neither luck nor skill can defeat Our nation, destined to last forever. We will never perish, Because We always persist. Siegmund's Kingdom is immortal. Our traditions are everlasting. And what are you? Poor misguided child, you are skravi — A Josephite Remembers My eyes see yours hung upon the wall, So do you see me and judge your servant? My emperor, for whom I bled and cried See these marks upon this mortal's flesh See them burn as grass and hurt with pride As the terrors within my mind grow fresh. My heart still burns for you! Man of letters, philosopher-emperor, I serve you still in ideals, with mind And I uphold your wisdom so sweet Though in times I weep, as man is blind I weep the most for your defeat. Do not judge harshly, I serve my best But I am but a man, and a man forgets. — Ode to The Glorious Silver State and its Inhabitants Oh how I love those brilliant elves And quite rightly they adore themselves! So respectful of us lesser races They even honour us 'valah', such graces! In the manoeuvre they're second to none; Though they can't recall a battle won, They're true masters of the retreat - Those elves, they've learned to trust their feet! And their delicate noses are nobly high Oh they love to snort that elven sky! Pointing skyward, so sharp, so straight - Hubris, in truth, is an appealing trait! Even the maids spend well their countless years: Checking their blood, from understandable fears, Lounging, idling, majestically reposing, And to any son of Horen: exposing. — Priveskiy (1773) A farmer walked a muddy track, Soon after dawn had broke While nobly shone the sun at his back, The stride of lordly folk. Then he stopped his hum for greeting, And with a smile of simple joy, Because for him no joy was fleeting, He spoke as honest as a boy: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A wise smith worked hard with gold, As the sun loosed still young rays, Foreseeing a beautiful vision bold He hammered on with praise. Moonlight gleamed on a lovely ring, It perfected his creation, He did not vainly obsess on the thing, But offered this dedication: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A farrier I met at noon, Before a flighty mare As he lead her on with his playful tune, And stroked her night-black hair. He exulted a truth of the north, While grinning his slyish grin, For this his wolfish tongue brought forth, And for once conceived not a sin: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty I came across a sergeant old, Upon that grizzled eve His countenance grey and yet mirrored gold, Though aged, he did not grieve. His eyes blazed with a veteran's glare, And marching off to bloody war, He met my gaze with a youthful stare, As he pronounced this timeless law: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A trapper out in woodlands white, I came upon by chance While the stars above on that frozen night, They crowned our lands with dance. These words he spoke with hunter's pride, And swore as one who is free, And clad all complete in rugged hide, That woodsman spoke and said to me: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty And as the dawn breaks yet again, Our fair maiden I behold - See her loving gaze, with a smile ordain Lands forever of our people old. Our Haeseni hearts strain to serve This vision, this dream made true With forever triumphant will and nerve She raises the black-gold banner anew: Until there’s no more days or nights, You must breathe each breath for me - Let no man deny your Jeremic rights! Let no man deny your liberty! — Let The Nation Awake (1787) Rejoice, my brothers, Your homeland is free. My sisters, do you feel her soul? Do you know that she is reborn? Do you sense it in your heart, Do you taste her words, See her burst from the break of dawn? She loudly proclaims - Go forth, my crows! Go forth, my children, I have scattered your foes! I have shorn off their fangs, I have vanquished your woes! Sigismund's nation, awake! — The Wolf's Milk It shoots through him Like force of thunder, Convulses and gnaws At his heart with Shocking fangs, And dissipates Through his punches His blood roars and Deafens him like wailing Winds in high valleys, And pulls his muscles Tight and ready to Kill or die. His whole body explodes He takes the wolf's milk In long gulping gasps, He churns it up And turns it over In his mouth. And at that moment, It tastes good. — The Nation Awakes (1787) First of all, you must forgive the meandering thoughts of this cluttered address. I am so very old now, and thus my mind does not go as straight to the point as it once did. You must also forgive this document on account of the nature of it, that being that it is transcribed; my eyes are not what they once were, and neither is the deftness of my fingers. I would firstly like to clarify, for posterity’s sake, my thoughts and beliefs regarding the relationship between Haense and Oren, as I am sure that these things are not only in the public eye now, but will also remain relevant in the foreseeable and unforeseeable futures. Perhaps unsurprisingly, I am totally jubilant, utterly ecstatic at the news of Haeseni independence. We are a proud, mighty people who deserve the right to self-determination, and we have fought to either seize or maintain that countless times. The terms negotiated between our great and proud King and the state of Oren are perfectly acceptable. No longer will we suffer the indignity of foreign laws, or the shame of being a subjugated people, for let us not forget that it was only by force that we were Imperialised, conquered by a Pertinaxi tyrant, conquered by an army whose officers would much rather have seen us wiped from the continent. Therefore any relationship between us and Helenians was destined to be marred by the stain of our overlords’ previous crimes. It is far better for us to be free yet less certain of the future of the Orenian-Haeseni relationship, than to live under the aftermath of such a sure dishonour. This initial suspicion and distaste of the Empire was amplified when the first official statement of the Basrid ministry, ostensibly discussing and displaying Orenian culture, failed to mention my work. It was unthinkable, and still amazes me even today. I, the greatest poet of the contemporary era, not only in Haense but in all of the Empire, in the entirety of Arcas. I was without mention - and not only that, but no man of Haense, no cultural work of Haense, nothing of Haense, was mentioned. How could the state with the richest, strongest, most lasting cultural legacy of all humanity go unrecognised when Adria and Kaedrin, petty and irrelevant backwaters, were celebrated? It disgusted me. But my disgust only grew after I published Sons of Horen. I shall not lie, so I shall clarify first: Sons of Horen (and The Calling of the Will for that matter), my only major work of the time not featured in my Troubles anthology, was written as a purely pragmatic piece, and furthermore has been falsely interpreted. Falsely interpreted, because the sole reason it was written to raise morale for the Orenian forces, who naturally did not inherently possess the sheer spirit of brotherhood that every Haenseman does. Pragmatic, because I was willing to put on some show of pan-Imperial sentiment if it meant strengthening our coalition forces in the face of a bloody Norlandic purge. The idea of a homogenous humanity makes me feel sick, to be especially blunt. It shows the arrogance of the Orenian aristocrats, that the only official praise I have ever received from them for my work was a single letter sent to me by the Imperial government. They praised the false ideals of Sons of Horen, of course, and made some show of analysis of themes and such, but I was left feeling insulted. The Orenians knew nothing of my previous, superior work, because I was but a wild northman to them. They had only recognised the song which praised and uplifted themselves. The arrogance. The sheer, horrible arrogance of the entire business left a bitter taste in my mouth. There is a reason I did not follow up on the invitation to the Novellon. They had insulted me, and I swore then never to write anything in honour of the Empire ever again. In the years that followed it seemed that Haense had been totally forgotten by the Orenian government, and as our traditions and customs came under renewed attack from all Imperial quarters - the racially aggravated attacks in Helena, the sustained attempts to homogenise our cultural heritage, the insulting nature with which our King was treated and the insistence by the very highest of Orenians to refer to us as ‘Haensers’ - I published my Letter to the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska. As I am sure we shall be attacked many more times by the weak, the jealous and the dishonest in the coming months and years, I would like to re-publish it here, with a new dedication. This comes in the wake of a certain document recently distributed by a supposedly civilised man of the Imperial Everardine College. [A Letter to the Foes of Hanseti-Ruska] I do not hate Oren, however; I hate the idea of pan-humanity, but I do not hate the idea of the state in Helena. I hate the way in which they have acted towards the Haeseni people, and I hate Godfery’s conquest of our nation, but there are also significant ways in which Oren have honoured us, by way of military aid, for example. My rhetoric towards them may previously, in this very text, have been harsh, but it is because I love Haense, and because I love to see her free, and because I hate to see the great light of freedom snuffed out. I am therefore immensely satisfied with the agreement negotiated by Josef the Liberator - I would be saddened to see all ties cut with Helena. The alliance pleases me greatly, as does the continued economic and social ties. We have once again taken back our freedom, but not only that, we have retained the greatest, most beneficial parts of our friendship with Oren. Let the Haeseni and the Orenian finally stand side by side in an equal partnership, forever, unsullied by the fetters of dependence or the useless hostility of a rivalry! We are entering a grand new age for the Haeseni people. All my life has been preparing for this - all my contributions to our culture, all my acts and my words, have been preparation for these last moments of my life, my brothers and my sisters, proud men and women of the North. We are the heirs to Exalted Sigismund himself, the inheritors of his vast and bountiful lands. At last, the manacles have been cast off, the vision of freedom I once saw in a distant time, long ago, has manifested. I present my final work. [Let The Nation Awake] My life is leaving me, I can feel it. I have led a varied and full life, I know that much: I have seen kings come and go, I have talked with some of the greatest Haensemen of this century and I have helped spur a glorious period of Haeseni culture. Though there has been tragedy, too: I have lived to see the deaths of almost every one of my few friends, I have seen poverty and hardships and I have endured so very many battles. I am one of the last veterans of The War of Two Emperors and my memories of it have never left me. When I became a man, I was expelled from my home, and left to wander in search of renown - , I am grateful to have served, not only because it directed me to the poetry by which I have earned so much fame (it could be said that the horrific Siege of Helena was the catalyst for my entire career), but because it gave me the opportunity to perform the most glorious patriotic duty: to tease one’s own life about the jaws of death for no reason other than national pride. It is a beautiful thing to endure the most terrible of hardships, not because of the act itself but because of the sheer force of will and the utter conviction of belief it necessitates. Is my life leaving too soon? Perhaps, as there are still anthologies and miscellaneous poems and works that remain as of yet unpublished, though it is my hope that they shall one day grace bookshelves, even if they are not quite as tweaked as I would have liked; but ultimately, my work aside, I feel that I have done enough, that I have lived a life to be proud of. For nearly a century have I unfailingly dedicated myself to Haense. I have never taken nor desired a wife - my homeland is enough for me! Nothing can tempt me away from serving Her. Though I be formed of flesh and bones, the flesh shall wither, and the bones too shall be ground to nothingness by time himself. What, then, shall remain as evidence that Sir Dietrich van Jungingen once walked and laughed and thought? The answer, my countrymen, is the power of the word, not just in ink but written on the hearts of men - the influence my poems have had, the joys and sorrows they have elicited. I shall act on the last words my friend the great Wilheim Barclay said to me, and say myself that I do indeed leave behind a legacy to be admired. Am I not a founding figure in this great resurgence of Haeseni culture? Am I not the father of modern Haeseni poetry? Am I not in fact the preeminent writer of poems of this age? And so that is how I shall be remembered. Armed with this knowledge I now prepare myself for my death. My beloved countrymen, from the most honest of the common folk to the Liberator himself - I salute you. May Hanseti-Ruska prosper until the end of days. Dravi. —

THE SUBLIME GRANDEUR BY FELISKEY CZYAZY 396 ES -1- Let it be, then, with a flash of light The world was at once in motion In terms of being it was nothing It was nothing because it was a movement of becoming The eternal becoming came over the world Godan's love smothered it all. -2- Your fantasies of being Cast them off You live in a twilight sleep, illusory, of unchanging stoicity For where are the flows The flows are the matter of the becoming To think of a worse existence than monotonous solitudinous being Godan could not be so cruel. -3- The seeping of things, repetition, the reordering of things The becoming of the world a constant freshness A freshness of idea broken by intermittent repetition The intermittent Prophets, the Empire, the Wild Ones, the rise and fall, in short the shattered-becoming The shattered-becoming envelops the world like a dragon. -4- The shattered-becoming is the order Within change, the flows are yet directed Regarding the nature of the shattered-becoming It is becoming within a certain spiralling beauty The becoming is broken by the intermittent-returning The intermittent-returning is the aforementioned shattering of the becoming. -5- Godan is the righteous breaker of his laws Godan's majesty and grandeur is timeless For what more could Godan become Godan is the becoming sublimated into a perfection The perfection is not being, it is finished-becoming Godan is finished-becoming, He is then timeless, finished-becoming before time. -6- Look at your own life My good fellow you see that you cannot A quiet moment, a piece of reflection, a still thought entangled in time Shatter these idols, the moment is nothingness The becoming was the past, is the future The still moment is beyond comprehension if we may even speak of present as such. -7- Time moves in its unknown ways A snail's shell of intermittent-returning Uncrushed by the constraints of philosophy or science Time as a piece of string, yes But to pull each end and make it straight, a great illusion and delusion of man's making We have said there is no being, so there is no present. -8- The string it curls it curls it curls The becoming shatters as it moves within the same circle as it follows the spiral The string it retreads old ground it is enveloped, it intermittently-returns By itself and in doing we see the sublime beauty and simplicity Of the shattered-becoming The sublime grandeur of time. -9- Study the string, look closely Look carefully and consider - if you try to point to a single point on this length You may describe only in terms of length For the intertwining of the threads leads every 'point' along the length to mix into the whole length in a becoming And in this way is time a becoming And where is the present but as an illusion enveloped by past and future. -10- I shatter the present, I shatter being A calm and blissful radiance descends On the radical embrace of becoming A radiance of truth I must not be the first- all ideas are born and die and are reborn according to shattered-becoming We may say therefore all is beautifully enslaved to the intermittent-returning. -11- Through becoming, one will always rediscover sublime truths.

((its so incredibly amazing that we have Haeseni music now, I think we have at least one of example of every one of the arts now))

PEASANT EPIGRAMS AND RHYMES BY ALEKSEY THE YOUNGER 384 ES | 35 S.A. What follows is a short selection of rhymes, epigrams, sayings, and so on and so forth, collected from Haeseni peasants in the northernmost lands. I spent several months at a time amongst them, staying in their villages in barns or the rare inn, learning their way of life, but what struck me above their simple lifestyles and muddy fields was the peasant’s love of dance, of songs, and of poetry. I quickly began to note down the most amusing, or witty, or delightful of their sayings. The oral tradition is very strong indeed in rural Haense and I suspect many of these rhymes are very old, though some are obviously much more recent inventions, a testament to the creativity at the heart of the simple soul. Dravi. --- Frederick thought he'd need a snack So beneath his hair he slipped a fig But seeing he needed a larger stack Decided to invent the wig --- Josefa was a skillful s--- She slept around with ease But she pleasured herself into a rut And now she's riddled with disease --- Elven maids spend well their countless years: Inspecting their blood, from rational fears, Lounging, idling, majestically reposing, And to any son of Horen: exposing. --- The converted philosopher complained, for the priest Had chosen to baptise with bird-sh-- again. ‘Could you not have used water at least?’ ‘Ah, but this stuff mirrors your brain!’ --- Elven noses are raised so nobly high Oh they love to snort that elven sky! Pointing skyward, so sharp, so straight - Hubris, in truth, is an appealing trait! --- Young Otto had a warty d--- So he called upon his lover young And she gave each wart a tender lick And now she has a warty tongue --- Godfrey boasted he'd won every fight Said the future belonged to him But wise old Marna, he could write, So the oppressors' future looked grim --- Oh the shining, pure, silver state! Where knowledge's damn holds a mighty flood But in war they have a worried hate Of spilling a single, pure, drop of blood --- I frolic amongst the flowers, And I dance in every field, I let slip such hours and hours, And forget the sword and shield. --- In the manoeuvre Elves are second to none; For though they can't recall a battle won, They're true masters of the retreat - Those elves, they've learned to trust their feet! --- The Orenian traveller pointed to his guide, 'My God! Compared to the stories, that Haenseman has such little hair!' The guide turned without breaking his stride, 'My lord, that is a bear.' --- The Ruskan rightly kills the fox When it steals of the bush the berry, Yet lets alone his neighbour's ox For neighbours must be merry. --- ‘Did you hear? Mr Napier’s screwed an orc! Spawning half-breed children, that’s never kindness!’ ‘Screwed an orc? I don’t care about this half-breed talk, I hope he finds a treatment for his blindness!’ --- Two scholars were engaged with the question Of how to tell apart the Nordling from the dog Until one found the answer with this suggestion: ‘The dog has manners, the other is more like a hog.’ ---

Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML (Naumarian: Diedrik van Jungingen) (1696 - 1787) was a Hansetian writer and poet who was Hanseti-Ruska’s ‘national poet’, in various official and unofficial capacities, from the middle of the reign of King Marius II (1707 - 1719) to that of King Josef I (1769 - Present). He was among the most famous writers of the time, most renowned for his patriotic and wartime poetry; he served in both the catastrophic War of the Two Emperors (1715 - 1721) and the even more horrific Rubern War (1740 - 1760), shaping unflinchingly pro-Haense worldview and sense of the necessity of sacrifice by the individual for the collective. THE MISCELLANIES BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, KML COLLATED AND PUBLISHED BY JOSEF KARYNOV 351 ES | 2 S.A. Above: The Siege of Helena (1716) was the bloodiest episode of the genocidal War of the Two Emperors. An estimated 33,000 men were killed or wounded, and Josephite dreams of a quick victory were crushed - the war dragged on for five more years and ultimately resulted in a Renatian victory. --- HELENA'S WALLS The Crow marches on, to Helena’s Walls, And righteousness follows after him, a noble struggle, Preceded by justice and glory, To remove Godfrey from his blood-stained halls. Haeseni brothers stand side by side, united, Against the perfidious Pertinaxi. Joseph’s men fight for truth and liberation; And despite grave wounds, fight with lion-like bravery, For it is their duty to serve their nation Against the false Dragon, to end Godfrey’s slavery Of the stolen throne of Renatus. The streets are filled to the brim with sorrow. Men are slashed and killed, Throats are cut where soldiers lay, Blood is gashed and spilled, And the wounded slaughtered on this day. In these times of pain and greed, Renatus cares not for a humane deed. The tide turns, the heroes are shattered Inside these perfidious palace halls. But there’s no time to weep as the Crow falls, And drips his blood down Helena’s Walls; No, the hateful false Dragon must be slain, By blood and by steel, it will pay for its crime, So avenge this defeat; Men of Arcas, rise! Stand up and fight, for now is your time! --- THE WHEEL TURNS Nothing ever changes, the wheel keeps turning, Nothing new happens on this tired old world. Everything’s already come to pass before; intrigue’s burning, And humanity’s still not learning That a squabble then a war is not the only path. The wheel keeps turning, an Empire stands, it’ll crumble in time, The ninth Empire; a telling number. History’s annals will always be caked in the grime, Of the men and woman who in their prime, Did nothing but waste away their little lives. The wheel keeps turning. What are we petty men but dust? We are soon but fading memories, then soon forgotten. Our minds must be caked in a rotting rust For we cannot see that we must Live now because soon we will die. The wheel keeps turning – soon it will stop, for me and you For we are but candles in the rain Extinguished in an instant, to be replaced by the new And there’s nothing you or I can possibly do But cement our legacy now, before it’s too late. The wheel will not be turning for long, for us. Soon the wheel shall turn again and leave us behind. So heed what I say, for I say thus That we must do what we can now, to be remembered. You must think, write, you must compose, For a good cause fight, anything I suppose So long as in a hundred years men will about you say: ‘This man was great, a great man of his day.’ --- THE STALLION See the Stallion, this god of war, And gasp in terror and in fear As this knight lets out his battle-roar And smites his foes far and near; They fall before this being. Who is this saint of battle, who walks amongst mere men? He is the Northern saviour, whose never made a judgement wrong; Who is this clever mind of war, who's beyond mere mortal ken? He is a mighty soldier, who's praised in every tavern song; So I'll tell you who this is, dear friends For to the King his talent lends And for our Kingdom he has served And from his mission never curved; This is a man of duty and of honour. His victories roll from heralds' tongues; He is this Kingdom's warder And his loyal men make weak their lungs To cry 'Aye!' to every order: At Helena, Silversea, Leuven, he fought as a lion. He's at the front of every charge, The greatest general of our day, His feats are many, always large: The brave Ser Wilheim Barclay. --- RENATUS DEFEATED Ah, you crumbled, dead, Renatian regime! Your legions are gone - good riddance to that; Your memory's ephemeral, like a forgotten bad dream; No more Kings on the Dragon’s throne are sat. Your own people rejoiced when you were dissolved And not by a heroic struggle, but by a mere decree! You who made Helena decadent and devolved: I remember your end with satisfied glee. --- SONS OF HOREN When the wars are looking bad And all our allies start to flee That's when I feel so truly glad For what Lord Barclay said to me: March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we lacked GOD's holy light - Which blesses even Oren's poorest field - If we lacked GOD's holy might - What heathen faith could be a shield? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we did not stand and fight - Which is of course our greatest moral duty - If we did not do what's right - What would become of Oren's beauty? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! If we had not hearts resolute - Which they are, they're brave enough for double - If we had not valour in dispute - Would Oren have weathered the troubles? March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! March, march and raise the shout! Hear the call, all men of Oren! Front the charge and start the rout, Fight for man, proud sons of Horen! --- IS THIS RIGHT, FOR I DO NOT KNOW The sons take up their father's role The family is broken. Is this right? Is this duty Or some treason? In northern climes The aggrieved gather round a table With an undefined authority. Bestowed by none. With unanimous clamours, Maybe intent to power, They proclaim to uphold the crown, But do they defy it? I forget what is right. Perhaps they are right. Morality’s glass steams with a thousand breaths. I know only the sanctity of law The neutral power of authority. I forget reason, as all do. I wait with bated breath For the clouds to clear. Or gather --- THE HUMBLE CHAIR Is a chair a humble thing? No pig ever made a chair. What crude beast ever sat upon a seat? It is a pleasure, a chair, pure civilisation, Imagined by mankind To please mankind. Why is a throne special? Man says it is a special place to sit. A chair that should bestow absolute authority. So you see, it is not chairs That are mundane, but rather Mankind's majesty is mundane. --- HELENA, THE FRONTIER STATE Ah, Helena, the frontier city! With its strange, furless fashions - Oh how I feel for our senators with pity, Without carrion black or 'Haenser' passions. Pioneers of an age, trudging for pearls, Our young men venture up to the south. Bereft of maidens, they court exotic girls, Drawn deep into danger's smiling mouth; So, far from the pleasant heartlands, Far from their safe homes in the north, They're sucked into unknown quicksands Which only a frontier state brings forth. Ah Helena, what an odd place! So far from normal, civilised Haense! --- THE LUPINE INSTINCT All others have an enigmatic passion - It is the lupine instinct, of the randy beast, The kind that urges man on, To ensure that mankind is plentiful, Or to enjoy himself in private. And yet, what is that feeling? I do not know - how can I know? I do not think I feel it, this urge This lusty and supposedly enjoyable urge. How can a man not know what he lacks? It is unknown to me, this primeval desire, As old as time and more frequent than rain. But is it unknown? It is definitely an enigma, or perhaps simply It is some riddle for me to unravel. I do not know my own self - I am on the unknown waters of the soul, Rowing towards a shadowed point - On lonely nights I think on all this, And it is a great trouble to my mind. --- A JOSEPHITE REMEMBERS My eyes see yours hung upon the wall, So do you see me and judge your servant? My emperor, for whom I bled and cried See these marks upon this mortal's flesh See them burn as grass and hurt with pride As the terrors within my mind grow fresh. My heart still burns for you! Man of letters, philosopher-emperor, I serve you still in ideals, with mind And I uphold your wisdom so sweet Though in times I weep, as man is blind I weep the most for your defeat. Do not judge harshly, I serve my best But I am but a man, and a man forgets. --- ODE TO THE GLORIOUS SILVER STATE AND ITS INHABITANTS Oh how I love those brilliant elves And quite rightly they adore themselves! So respectful of us lesser races They even honour us 'valah', such graces! In the manoeuvre they're second to none; Though they can't recall a battle won, They're true masters of the retreat - Those elves, they've learned to trust their feet! And their delicate noses are nobly high Oh they love to snort that elven sky! Pointing skyward, so sharp, so straight - Hubris, in truth, is an appealing trait! Even the maids spend well their countless years: Checking their blood, from understandable fears, Lounging, idling, majestically reposing, And to any son of Horen: exposing. ---

Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML (Naumarian: Diedrik van Jungingen) (1696 - 1787) was a Hansetian writer and poet who was Hanseti-Ruska’s ‘national poet’, in various official and unofficial capacities, from the middle of the reign of King Marius II (1707 - 1719) to that of King Josef I (1769 - Present). He was among the most famous writers of the time, most renowned for his patriotic and wartime poetry; he served in both the catastrophic War of the Two Emperors (1715 - 1721) and the even more horrific Rubern War (1740 - 1760), shaping unflinchingly pro-Haense worldview and sense of the necessity of sacrifice by the individual for the collective. SIGISMUND’S KINGDOM BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, KML COLLATED AND PUBLISHED BY JOSEF KARYNOV 351 ES | 2 S.A. Above: A view of Reza, capital of Hanseti-Ruska on Arcas prior to its destruction in a great fire that engulfed the city. The city of New Reza was built in its place. --- THE SEA OF FATE We stand before the sea of fate, Steering Hanseti-Ruska’s course; One way to ruin, the end of the state Glory the other, the end of remorse! For the way to triumph is beckoning, If the bold are ready to seize it The Crow is facing a reckoning; So call back our national spirit! Look back at our enemy, dissolved by decree, Dissolved by the war it supposedly won; And yet Haense still stands, in spirit free - We stand still glorious, so smile as the sun! So rally now, you loyal Haense-men, And spur the horse of your ambition Our kingdom shall be great then; A people with a vision! --- BATTLE SONG OF THE NORTH I've walked amongst our lilies that are all the world's desire I've heard our crows that flock to sing the praises of our sire I've seen our beauteous forests that are growing ever higher We march to save our homes, We march to save our homes Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! When Sigismund took up his scroll this truth he did reveal The North shall last forevermore for Jove has blessed our steel So as we march for Koeng and Jove let none now doubt our zeal We march to serve our faith, We march to serve our faith Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! We're men of Ruska and of Haense we won’t back down in fright So draw your swords and seize your reins, we'll give the South their fight We'll charge them in the daytime and we'll raid them in the night We march to crush our foes, We march to crush our foes Ave now to the Koeng! Long live the Koeng! We'll die to save the North! We’ll die to save the North! --- TWO CROWS Two crows fly overhead, over forest and field Their glossy feathers shining with many hues. They soar from Nenzing to the Rezan weald With a common unity no man can refuse. These twin sisters fly overhead, with one vision, With one heart and mind guiding them on they speak With a common wisdom in every decision. They have a common unity, ancient, unique. In their talons they grip the yellow-black banner Which unfurls, spreading, defiant in the skies. The flag both of one King and every tanner Of Highlander unity, that brilliant prize. --- AN ODE TO KOENG ANDRIK III Hail to you, oh great Koeng Andrik the third! Awe-stricken history will record your deeds With amazement at feats never before heard, At how you planted for Haense success's seeds. Now, in feats of drinking you trump the best, And from ashes you've built our new city great. You can wield a sword like a man possessed, And it was your peace that saved your loyal state. So for that, you have Haense's gratitude; And with that, my humble ode now does conclude. --- THE PRIKAZ Ah, the gleaming Prikaz Palace; Where songs were sung, a king's ear was lent Where the finest Carrion Black filled every chalice; When I recall those time-worn years, I bitterly lament. I cry fond tears at your cruelest fate, At your disuse and your neglect. The last king to stay has left your gate; So I raise a glass of Carrion Black with old respect --- LET THE NATION AWAKE Rejoice, my brothers, Your homeland is free. My sisters, do you feel her soul? Do you know that she is reborn? Do you sense it in your heart, Do you taste her words, See her burst from the break of dawn? She loudly proclaims - Go forth, my crows! Go forth, my children, I have scattered your foes! I have shorn off their fangs, I have vanquished your woes! Sigismund's nation, awake! ---

THE LAY OF TUVYA AND VIKTOR BY ALEKSEY THE YOUNGER 351 ES | 2 S.A. A true and timeless story of a heroic yet tragic duel between brother knights --- Written on behalf of the true, noble and generous patronage of the ever honourable Count Maric II of Metterden --- The House Ruthern in turmoil Glorious Vidaus had been taken, For Viktor had been tardy in his toil Oh, by the king the mighty house had shaken! Tuvya, the fiercer, proudly was he brash He left Haense in the fraternal war, And now returned for another clash, A brothers' fight for honour's score At the festival of the Golden Crow Did Tuvya shout his knightly demand 'You have laid us down, foul Viktor low! I shall be count! This I command!' 'Never shall I bow, to such a futile stunt!' Came Viktor's cry, as much as a knight As the revenant who offered affront And then was dimmed meek peace's light By bones and by barrows, Tuvya unsheathed, And forced his brother's hand The wind of strife on the candle breathed, No more did peace dwell in this land With fury they parried, a struggle of sharks, Who know not what pain they suffer- And each on the other laid gashing marks, And each forgot he had a brother There came a peace then in the fight, When each man stared the other- They circled both then, close and tight, And both stil ravished strife's smother Unabated, the twins did struggle anew, Great gushing wounds spilling a single blood, And the knightly valour of those heroes two Was as one married in Haeseni mud Then the avenger's arm was strong and bold, And he delivered a fatal strike; Viktor's life grew a furious cold, Though the brothers' wills still blazed alike Then Viktor raised up Ruther's pride, The unrelenting struggle still spent them both- And then did the clashing wills collide And the twins fulfilled their mutual oath The hammer came as a dragon's storm, How it rent a crack in proud Tuvya's life! Yet still it lived, that stubborn form, And with it their mutual strife Tuvya's eyes turned to the heavens great, Oh how chivalric, how noble the duel! And the blood that flowed like a dreadful spate Ran red as honour's finest jewel Stoic Viktor then relinquished his fight; It would be mended then, the brother's bond He begged his brother forgiveness despite His own soul leaking in a torrent beyond The enmity then between the pair, By the noble tears in both mens' eyes, Was dashed upon the worldly air That heralds a joint demise See the noble two walk side by side, Honoured by Godan's own light of fate On steeds of silver they proudly ride And as one they pass the golden gate. --- Let it be known that I, Aleksey the Younger, am proud to have been granted the honour of adding to the already prestigious glory of the great House Ruthern And let it also be known that any knights, nobles or distinguished persons would only do me honour by showing me their patronage and thereby furthering their own prestige.

Who's your favourite character someone else has played? Who's your favourite haense king? And who's your favourite real historical figure?

PRIVESKIY ‘OUR OATH’ BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN, KML 326 ES | 1773 AH PREFACE – BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN KML This song is for you, my fellow crows, sons of Sigismund - Karovians, Alimanians, Leuvians, we are Haensemen all. This song is for every man, woman and child who toils to make our people great. Let the children learn this - let them know their rights. Let them know that their liberty shall never end so long as there is a King of Hanseti-Ruska. This is our oath as proud Haensemen - we shall never give up the Jeremic Rights or fail to see that they are enforced. For the poets that shall come after me - my brothers, we all share but the one spirit in these matters. And so with each successive generation, let another add his verses to mine, for this is not my poem, this is ours. I take credit simply for penning the fire that blazes in every Haeseni heart - and thus, not for the inspiration, because that is from you, my dear Haeseni reader. It is of me in some minor way, and yet it is more than that, this poem belongs to all of us. And thus, let this great work reflect our nation. Let it grow in length and power and meaning as the years pass - in a hundred years this shall not be a thing of an earlier age, it shall yet be a living testament to the continuity and will of our people. Now, I have rambled long enough. This is priveskiy. Our oath. Dravi. --- A farmer walked a muddy track, Soon after dawn had broke While nobly shone the sun at his back, The stride of lordly folk. Then he stopped his hum for greeting, And with a smile of simple joy, Because for him no joy was fleeting, He spoke as honest as a boy: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A wise smith worked hard with gold, As the sun loosed still young rays, Foreseeing a beautiful vision bold He hammered on with praise. Moonlight gleamed on a lovely ring, It perfected his creation, He did not vainly obsess on the thing, But offered this dedication: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A farrier I met at noon, Before a flighty mare As he lead her on with his playful tune, And stroked her night-black hair. He exulted a truth of the north, While grinning his slyish grin, For this his wolfish tongue brought forth, And for once conceived not a sin: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty I came across a sergeant old, Upon that grizzled eve His countenance grey and yet mirrored gold, Though aged, he did not grieve. His eyes blazed with a veteran's glare, And marching off to bloody war, He met my gaze with a youthful stare, As he pronounced this timeless law: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty A trapper out in woodlands white, I came upon by chance While the stars above on that frozen night, They crowned our lands with dance. These words he spoke with hunter's pride, And swore as one who is free, And clad all complete in rugged hide, That woodsman spoke and said to me: Until there's no more days or nights So long as there is breath in me No man may deny my Jeremic rights No man may deny my liberty And as the dawn breaks yet again, Our fair maiden I behold - See her loving gaze, with a smile ordain Lands forever of our people old. Our Haeseni hearts strain to serve This vision, this dream made true With forever triumphant will and nerve She raises the black-gold banner anew: Until there’s no more days or nights, You must breathe each breath for me - Let no man deny your Jeremic rights! Let no man deny your liberty! OOC:

I feel like a lot of people need to see this post. It’s fairly excellent.

Sir Dietrich van Jungingen KML (Naumarian: Diedrik van Jungingen) (1696 - 1787) was a Hansetian writer and poet who was Hanseti-Ruska’s ‘national poet’, in various official and unofficial capacities, from the middle of the reign of King Marius II (1707 - 1719) to that of King Josef I (1769 - Present). He was among the most famous writers of the time, most renowned for his patriotic and wartime poetry; he served in both the catastrophic War of the Two Emperors (1715 - 1721) and the even more horrific Rubern War (1740 - 1760), shaping unflinchingly pro-Haense worldview and sense of the necessity of sacrifice by the individual for the collective. THE TROUBLES BY SIR DIETRICH VAN JUNGINGEN KML 322 ES | 1769 AH --- PREFACE I am not one to write a lengthy introduction for my own works, as I know that it will simply bore any reader - but if I do not, I will not be satisfied, for I am conscious that these poems cannot stand simply bundled together with a title. Here, then, is your preface: the works contained herein were written during the bloodsoaked, lawless years of the Troubles. They encapsulate the spirit of the age - the raw horror and violence, the murders of children and the ruthless, domineering cruelty of power-hungry men. Read, then, and recoil. Above: A scene from the Rubern War, depicting the cruelty of the men of Morsgrad. --- THE IMPERIAL PEASANT I walk often through these sodden fields And mine tired eyes do often see A weeded land with barren yields Where a poor man slaves in misery For meager pay, no real reward; A thankless job, for his thankless lord. No clothes upon his wretched back Save tattered rags, wet with fog And a cheap, filthy, worthless sack Shot with holes, not fit for a dog Let alone for a man made by God; Yet forced to suffer a strong birch rod. At his side he bears a mark of war And when he toils it creaks and groans For once to the Emperor he swore And fought, yet nobody even hears his moans For nobody cares for those like him; See how his body is bony and slim. His wife clings to his side in the rain A woman with nothing to her name And nothing but death to hope to gain For when he dies, there's nothing to claim And no money to pay for a marked grave; For this wretched man is paid as a slave. --- THE CALLING OF THE WILL Our union's been slighted, here's a fight - When your Empire calls will you assist? Here comes war, to cowards' fright - For freedom's sake will you enlist? Here's your home, in the enemy's sight - When Morsgrad comes will you raise your fist? Here comes Godric, duke of blight - In foul tyranny's face will you resist? Here comes war, the long black night - We'll perish, if we do not persist! --- THE GLORIES OF STRUGGLE I saw a woman, sat by the wayside Once a low noble, now starving and shaking I saw with dismay her tears as she cried Her poor, emaciated body's aching Her traumatised mind's close to shattering. She calls for her mother, killed in this war She calls for her lover, struck down in battle The poor thing begs for bread, or a bed of straw And begs for alms. She lives worse than cattle And soon she'll die, and pass tragically unmourned. This is war: indiscriminate sorrow. This is the 'struggle' of which sick Godric speaks In high, praising tones.This is the tomorrow He offers us. His misguided vengeance reeks Of vain, blind 'justice' for entire peoples. This is his 'struggle'; pointless destruction Driven by a proud whip of 'retribution' Smothered with fake humility's seduction And disguised as reason, war's solution: He's blind to the pointless deaths he causes. Godric, of course, wouldn't spare that woman's life. He looks past her cries and her ragged clothes For Godric can't risk that she'll be a wife For she's nothing but a 'future font of foes' So for her noble birth she must die, of course. --- RAIDERS! Look south! A column of smoke rises, Far away, far off in the distance. They'll now be looting stolen prizes - Those raiders, I mean, squashing resistance. It's the second attack this fortday, The second poor farm to fall that is. Maybe the army'll make them pay - But those bandits, they'll be off in a whizz. Are they from Norland? Or Elves, or Orcs? There's no way of knowing right now. Perhaps we'll tell from the wounds of a corpse - Anyway, we always find out somehow. The horizon, see it cloud, dusty; Those men are moving off - surprising. These didn't stay long - these weren’t lusty - But look west! A column is rising! --- JUSTICE The judge looms over the convicted, A wig of steel sat upon his solemn brow. He's ready to sentence, unrestricted. The criminal, she cowers in a bow. There's no jury, no risk of dissent. Defendants or subpoenas, a petition, The judge does not care, he does not relent. The judge demands complete submission. The small child, she cries, her eyes bleed tears. This is not a satisfactory defence. Her innocence and her eleven years Will not save her. Justice will now commence. The judge raises high his station's sign - The sword, where legitimacy arises. Between law and crime there's no real line; Death is a sentence that fits all sizes. --- A FINAL DEATH? The darkness is quiet tonight. Now, life seems instant and War's breath Comes fitful in the singular moment. The stars glance at man's folly And wait, eager to look upon a new world. The waning moon gleams on a bloody sword. And as he wipes the thirsting thing clean of gore The blades of grass seem to melt in the wind. He sheathes his blade, and finally The instrument of death is forgotten. There are no mourners, None for this wretched creature, This murderer and destroyer. He sits, dying in a blood soaked world, With the weight of thousands dead upon him. He throws off his armour, He casts down his spear, he feels His bloody and endless sweat Cool and disappear in a peaceful wind. His heavy eyelids close for the first time. Mankind is freed. For now

Yes. Personally, I'll probably never use a firearm in roleplay, I much prefer pretending to be a guy with a sword. But one of the servers largest playerbases very strongly wants firearms. Why shouldn't they have them? Because other communities dont like them? Ha, those communities need to realise that someone else's fun doesnt need to infringe on their own. I myself had to come to that realisation. So introduce firearms. The people who like them will use them, the people who don't, won't. And I'm very sure that the firearm yes and the firearm no crowds will be very strongly based around community lines; I'm sure that whilst there will be commonplace firearms in Oren and amongst the dwarves, there will be very rarely or never firearms amongst the elves for example. This is based on conjecture, but probably true, and means that the people who dont like firearms most likely will rarely, if ever, see them irp. So introduce firearms and let people enjoy themselves, the yes/no split is roughly 50/50 anyway.