Haseroth

"Three of the princes that signed, forgot they owe their crown and right to rule, to god and church." 'Sigmar' stated as he read through the missive. A sigh escaped his lips, finally he set the pontiff's missive into a stack besides a shelf. "I pray for the souls of the children of Horen." He stated in mutter, settled within his deskroom.

"I suppose now that they no longer need the pontiff's legitimacy to genocide the middelman, they can spit in the face of the canon laws." A 'Sigmar' muttered to himself as he read the declaration, tossing it into a fire shortly there after.

A publication was spread through the cities and settlements of Canondom A CALL FOR PURITY To the peoples of Canondom, For many decades now, the realms and settlements of Horen’s children have bickered, fought and bled over the lands which they currently inhabit. Ultimately a sizable amount of difficulties and contradictions have led to much of the suffering. However, I shall bring attention to who ultimately gains from this endless bloodshed. To find the answer to that, one must simply look at who inhabits the royal courts of the human nobles in this era, half elves.. Elves, voidal mages, some even Darkspawns. In the end, humanity’s wars only tear it further apart while its natural sworn enemies grow stronger and stronger by each swing of the blade upon one another. The institutions which were designed to uphold unity and purity within the lands of the greatest peoples of this earth, have failed in their sacred duties. Voidal mages run rampant, devil horned women parading in the streets of our cities, elves occupying positions of high power. Secular monarchs picking their voidal friends over that of the salvation of their souls and the HUMAN blood which runs through them. The constant blatant acts of hypocrisy which many of the secular leaders eagerly partake in, are enough to make our common ancestors spin in their graves due to the shame. While they had bitterly fought against the spread of the void, their descendants now openly cherish it and admonish the few remaining faithful who actively attempt to fight its spread. Our race, is hurling itself towards the abyss. At first it lured us in with sweet promises of power, many had admonished such and seen it for what it was, elven trickery. But over the centuries fewer and fewer of our leaders have called it out. And so it came to be, that such practices became common within the realms of man. Faith abandoned for coin and profit. Race abandoned for friendship with fiends and darkspawns, and soon comes freedom which shall be abandoned for the promise of safety from those who now influence the many courts of canondom. I call upon all true sons of Horen to stop the madness before we are entirely raced off the cliff into the abyss of degeneracy and heathenry, recall the triumphs of unity and fatherland which the past virtuous and powerful leaders had brought upon us, put aside your differences for all humans ultimately have the same foe to face. IN NOMINE DEI Sigmar The Pious

"Sounds like elven slander, we ought to burn that city down it takes too much damn space anyways." A herzlandi youth commented from his deskroom as he filed through a pile of missives, trying to make sense of the shitstorm of the past year.

The Damning hands of Fate II The light of the candle flared and flickered, soon enough it faded. The room within which the orphan slept in, was covered in a peaceful darkness. As he slumbered, his mind was overcome with dreams. Twisted patterns, lights and voices echoed within the edges of the dream as it visualized itself within his mind. A child walks upon a snow blanketed field of vineyards and trees. An usual climate for this land. He pushes himself up the field, away from that which happened behind him. Passing by the frozen statues of civilians which had attempted to escape the calamity. Eventually, the youth reaches the shade of a tree, away from the falling ‘snow’. He turns, and looks upon the landscape he had fled from. A large city, tall stone walls, standards flying in the wind. Spikes of ice jutt outward from its center, splitting walls, houses and all that stood in its way. The snow continues to fall, and it never stops falling for this, blanketing the once verdant hills of the heartlands into a hellscape brought about by thanic madness. The youth rests for some time, crossing the field, a path lays undisturbed amidst the snow and corpses. He follows his guts, and heads north. A pull, invisible and powerful, perhaps fate, drives him towards that direction. The Orphan wakes as the thunder roars across his window. He rises slightly, leaning over the windowsill to look outside. All he can see is pitch black darkness, a void which is occasionally illuminated by distant streaks of lightning. Hunger begins to gnaw at his stomach as he rises from bed, he descends the stairs, “Miss Agnes?” He calls out, no response.. But the hearth is still roaring, this he can tell from looking at the flickering of the firelight which dances across the wall. A streak of crimson ichor is the first thing he can see upon the floor. He descends further, arching a brow in confusion. The youth turns the corner to witness a hellish scene. The caretaker lays on the ground physically gored into the shape of a bloody, blooming flower. His mind is much too young to understand what it is he is seeing. “How pretty..” He remarks, confusing his own soul further. An old man stands behind him now. He wraps a hand over his eyes. “It is not safe for you to be here!” He cried out. The youth recognized the voice of the tavern preacher. Led away from the house, the only thing he can hear is the flickering of the fire growing louder. Then, the smell of smoke and flesh soon follows. Away, and away.. He is taken, until he too crosses a field towards a path.

Idk what any of this stuff means but i will support whatever my good friend Jentos does, including genociding elves.

A herzlandi youth sat at a cozy desk chair, a candle light besides him as he read the missive. A tall old man stood behind him, reading over his shoulders. The youth smiled towards the bottom then spoke "They're right about at least one thing." Finally, the youth tossed the missive aside, focusing on an increasingly large list of names. The youth began to continue inscribing names unto it while the old man watched.

would not be the first time it happened

A Herzlandi youth consults his cabinet of definitely not aevos warcriminals. He sets aside a few documents, tossing some into the fire besides the meeting table. "Gentlemen we must Make Adria Great Again, and to do such there is certain policies which are paramount." The room fills with the chatter of eager politicians.

"Amen brother!" A Herzlandi farmer calls out from his wage job in the veletzi refugee camp.

Good, add activity requirements and make them severe enough to axe half of the current realms.

"Hang on, so he's sayin the reason why the church cannot investigate Haense, is because they wont allow them to..? Yeah that's definitely not suspicious at all." The man gave a nod to his friend as he shared a drink while reading the fresh piece of eclesiastical drama.

Alarich VON FELSEN. Stares at the notice, he reads it carefully then smiles. "Oh see i told ya." He gestured towards some unknown figure in the back. "If th' Pontiff wants to spend his days nappin', he can resign and go nap all e' wants!" The veteran then turned to face the unknown figure with a smile, though the smile and expression faded into a grim and somber gaze. He muttered "Wir sind verloren...."

"Save the soul of humanity, burn Hokhmat to the ground!" A Herzlander youth decried with zeal as he stared at the poster which had no doubt found itself into his own corner of the world.

"Lose my soul to damnation? Not Interested!" A Herzlander youth declared as he threw an egg at the poster nearest to his home! Splat, the egg slid along the bottom.

(Sean is the PRO of the vassal region, so he technically can)

The Heartlander youth peered as Sir Radmir read the missive. "We have surrendered our homes to demon worshippers?" The youth asked, now his fury had reached a boiling point!

"This is the king who called us.. An accursed culture?" A Heartlander youth asked from the comfort of his tavern work within Numenost. He seemed angered more than amused by the news of the allegations!

this

keep the lock outside of cities but remove it in cities, you address both side's concerns this way.

A heartlander youth had picked up missives after missives in his travels, eventually he returned home and sat before an old desk unfurling them. He began to read through them one by one. Once the youth got to the one he had found about the holy order's crimes, he scratched his head. "They let that creature live? Truly the order has grown soft." He commented simply before tossing the missive into the fire, moving unto the next one.

The Final Watch In the somber grandeur of the royal court, Augustus stood rigid amongst his peers, his callused hands betraying the only sign of his inner turmoil. The Duke Markus, robed in the gravity of his office, recited the terms of Adria's surrender. Each word from the Duke echoed like a dirge in the hollow chamber of Augustus' heart. The old soldier's eyes, which had seen the unflinching truth of war, now beheld the end of an era. With a spirit fractured by disbelief, Augustus returned to his home, the silence of his heavy steps in stark contrast with the chaos that reigned in his mind. He entered the quiet abode, the laughter and warmth of days past haunting the empty spaces. Under the soft glow of the moonlight, he watched his grandson sleep - a young boy blissfully unaware of the shattered dreams of the nation he might one day inherit. Augustus took a quill and, with a hand steadied by resolve, composed his final missive, a letter drenched in love and sorrow. Carefully, he placed the parchment beneath the pillow of the innocent child, a silent hope that one day he would understand. With the first rays of dawn casting a pale light upon the scene, Augustus donned his armor, each piece a chapter of his storied past. Without fanfare, the old guardian of the fatherland embarked on his final journey. Northward he trekked, into the unforgiving embrace of the snowy wastes. The whispers of the wind carried away the tale of his valor, the cold his silent companion. Augustus, the steadfast soldier of a now-subdued Fatherland, walked until the snow and sky merged into an endless white. There, where the world seemed untouched by the follies of men, he vanished, his legacy interwoven with the land he cherished. Never again would tales of Augustus grace the ears of those he left behind, his final march a testament to an unyielding spirit that could not bear the surrender of his beloved homeland. In the northern wilderness, he sought the peace of soul, a means to calm the raging dragon within his heart. No rest would find the soldier however, not until he collapsed.