__Stal27

this u bro? https://youtu.be/Cj3ENSVogTo?si=SCQj2KgB1Mwdh_oZ

With a gentle outward breath, did the silence of the southern balcony break around Lothar, giving way and revealing a whole host of emotions that continued to fester, loss after loss, what seemed to be gained, was lost elsewhere, much more dearly, simply was he seated, speechless and aloof, whilst one upon a time such emotions were bottled, were not on display, appearing as the man finally MOURNED.

A Halioi stands upon the edge of the world, where the land meets the sea, capturing a glimpse of a Saintly Star. “Long has our promised rebirth been forced to stand on the precipice, waiting in eternal hopefulness to be brought into the fold. Yet now, by the glory of the maker and the guidance of the light of stars, is the path revealed to us, the humble servants. From ash, the strong rise. The sands stir once more.” Halioi (Demonym): A native or inhabitant. (Sing.: Halion & Plural: Halioi). Halionic (Adjective): Relating to the culture, governance, or lands, excluding its people (e.g., Halionic customs, Halionic architecture). Thalassian (Noun): Relating to the language of the Halioi (Formal.: Glossa Halionika). The Halioi is as much a child of the shore as he is a master of it. Where the sea meets the stone and the winds carry the song of forgotten ages, their kind first opened their eyes to the world. The tides, ever-turning, sang of what was and whispered of what may yet be; and so the Halioi came to dwell in the space between. A space between memory and becoming, between the known and the still-unseen. To live thus is to live in the now, yet with eyes turned both to the past and to the horizon ahead. They are keepers of remembrance, holding fast to the tales and wisdom of their forebears. And yet they are not bound by what was, for in their speech, in their songs, there is always room for hope. In the forge of waves and wind they were shaped: learning not only the craft of the blade, but also the deeper strength of the spoken word. But time, like the sea, moves ever onward. What is now shall soon be memory, and what is to come shall take its place. Thus it was that the Halioi, once a people of salt and sand turned their gaze inland from the ash and dust of a broken kingdom, to the high plateaus where the sky is vast and the winds speak with a different tongue. There they set their feet upon harsher land, yet not as strangers, nor as exiles. For though they have left the shore, the sea lives still within them. So they seek anew to build, not to forget, but to preserve; not to escape, but to endure. In all things, they strive for balance. That the past be honoured, the present embraced and the future prepared for - To have existed, to exist, and to be becoming still. This balance is not but a virtue, it is a foundation. A truth as enduring as the sea-rocks that first bore their steps. Fierce, yet tempered; devout, yet discerning, loyal, yet just. Such are the Halioic. Held in harmony, shaped by the sea and sand, and hewn by the long hand of the world’s making. We are taught to carry the milk of the cosmos. The Holy Light of the Skies. This means we must act with wisdom, logic, and restraint. And should use our duty and gifts for all. Being of Heartlandic, Farfolk and Rhenyari descent, the Halioi bear mixed traits of both their heritages. While skin tones vary, especially amongst families, it is common for the Halioi to have tanned skin, especially from their time in the South, earning them the saying of ‘children of the south’. Their features tend to be broader and more pronounced, especially facial structures such as the nose or face shape. Eye colors are often lighter in hue, and range across various shades of blue, gray, and green. Hazel, while not unheard of, is much more uncommon. Similarly, hair color varies greatly, but some of the most common seen among the Halioi people are various shades of red, brown, and black. Hair textures, while also broad in range, are very commonly curly or wavy. …my mother taught me wisdom and restraint. Her handmaidens were clever in letters and kind to a young prince. My sister showed me majesty and justice. She sat me by her side while she ruled in our father’s stead. My brother gave me honesty and love of life. He garbed me in peasant’s clothes and took me down among the people. UMMAH VASILIKON: Within the Halioi consciousness, there exists a binding principle, one not written in charter or carved in stone, but held in the marrow of its people. The Ummah Vasilikón, or “Royal Community,” is the ideal that all Halioi, noble or common, faithful or fallen, are joined together in a single body under a banner. A communion of fate, duty, and mutual devotion, formed in the exodus of the southern Tribe's diaspora, has caused them to adopt a stance that to be Halioi is to be more than a subject, it is to be a living vessel of covenant. Just as the body cannot thrive without its heart, so too can no prince reign rightly without his people, nor the people flourish without their prince. Loyalty thus flows not only upward toward the throne, but laterally, between neighbors, between families, between generations. From this value emerges the belief that every act, whether humble or grand, contributes to the wellbeing of the greater body. The farmer tills not just for his supper, but for the sanctity of the harvest; the soldier bleeds not only for victory, but to preserve the sacred flesh of the community; and the ruler bears the weight of all. NOSTOS & PIETA - THE GREAT DUALITY: Great importance within the Halioi culture is placed on the values of ‘nostos’, meaning homecoming, and ‘pietas’, meaning devotion to one’s duties. Both values originate from their fall and have carried on into new cultures. Nostos comes from the importance of home. When their old home was destroyed, nostos was the value that called them to ‘return home’. The result was the creation of a new home for them to return to. As a result, the value of home and belonging is of extreme importance to many Halioi - not only home in the physical sense, but in the sense of community. Pietas embodies duty, devotion, and loyalty. Pietas drove them when they chose to stand for their home, despite the odds they faced. This loyalty is what kept the community together as they found their new home. Any visitor to the lands will stand witness to the duty the Halioi feel to each other, their home, and their allies. THE PRINCE’S BURDEN: Born into positions of leadership and guidance, the peoples of Halioi descent have borrowed or come to adopt the value of which they have come to coin as ‘Ishkhanikos Ethos’ - Known also as “The way of the Ruler”. With these ideals, it is often said that the nobility or any who are raised into positions of leadership within the culture are not done so for luxury despite what vanity they may enjoy, but rather for vigilance that they must observe. A duke or prince must be learned as much as he is devout, as ready as he is to kneel before God, his exalted and his Saints, so too must he be ready to draw the sword. COVENANT OF THE SHORES: Whether they be Prince or Peasant, every Halioi is taught from young that their peoples are descendants and themselves people of the shores, as though they are ever on the boundary between the land and the sea, the past and the future or the sword or the word. As such balance is an expectancy of all Halioi, a balance that makes them fierce, but tempered; devout, but wise; loyal, but just and all other things. PROMISE OF THE TIDE: A sacred value born from their nature as a sea-faring nation. To the Halioi, survival has become dependent on the flow of goods, alliances, and promises. Making negotiation an invaluable skill to all people of the south, and one that they practice religiously. As such, one’s words carry the weight of the sea itself, and breaking an oath is considered one of the worst sins one could commit. Though the Tide of Exchange Halioi would understand that all life is built on the bonds of man. Winds that blow in new directions herald change. Change invites new opportunities to spread beyond the wings of comfort. Only then do the truly sage find their calling. The Halioi tongue is a dialect that has come to be known as Thalassian - Glossa Halionika, in formal environments. The tongue is rustic and agrarian in its own right; birthed by the mingling of the dialects in the plains and valleys by farmers and commoners alike and by the various interminglings of other prominent southern dialects, with time, the dialect has expanded, becoming a staple in Halioi society since its widespread use. Thalassian is still spoken in rites, poetry, and oaths. While Common is used in daily speech, many of the Halioi still learn Thalassian from an early age as a mark of piety and pride. Dialectal differences exist between the coastal and inland regions, with older phrases surviving in folk songs and religious devotions. For the sake of ease and simplicity, Thalassian is inspired by Koine Greek with Late Latin structure. For practically, use Greek (ancient or modern) via Google Translate, or lightly Hellenized/Latinized phrasing. If a stranger or beggar wishes to wear a sash but has none, The priest will tear a strip from his own robe. If a lover has no hands for weaving, their family will weave one. The Halioi believe that names are sacred and important designations of an individual, echoing something that is distant yet close. For these peoples, names are often chosen with deep care and often drawn upon; virtues, deified concepts, ancestors of heroic figures or omens at birth amongst other ideals. Upon birth, often in a temple or during a naming write, a newborn is often afforded a given name based either upon theophoric or compound styles. In addition to this, whilst not being universal, formal naming of the Halioi might also hold Patronymic/Matronymic styles to symbolise parents of the individual. -ides: Isandros Helionides = Isandros, son of Helion -an or -anios: Cassia Dravanios = Cassia, daughter of Dravan Oftentimes, the Halioi names are not very strict, though it is highly advised that those who wish to make an Halioi and play one with themselves should try seeking a Greco-Roman flavouring in order to feel the complete Halioii aesthetic. Here are some recommended name generators: Byzantine, Ancient Greek, Greek, Latin ART: Pinterest Formatting: @Ryanark Written By: @__Stal27, @PoliteEquation7, @Montgomery Cobra, @Dairsad, @Cheese, @tcs_tonsils_

"The Eternal king of Balian. The forever Novellen. . . a king made from hardships, who rests among the ruins of his lands. . ." The former eldest Novellen murmured, lamenting as the final vessels departed the docks of Portoregne, leaving behind a city of ash and soot. "It is a fitting end for a king, to rest amongst his kingdom, a fair king, a good king. We will honour him."

MC Name: __Stal27 RP Name: Åsmund Age: 17 Area of Interest: Any and all Skill Level: Learned Hunter

Lothar Casimir, peering ahead as the keep of d'Arkent crumbled under the weight of the canons offered a simple nod to the de Lyons. "We march unto the next. . ." @tcs_tonsils_ Whilst dressed in a robe of purple, the Teletubby of Monterosa wept as his purple form was cut and he was left. . . "Over the hills and far away. . ."

As the missive of the populace did its rounds across the southern kingdom, the man who often found himself without expression these days allowed a smile to appear upon his features, assured and measured, he soon declared. "Here I am. . . Here I remain, Here I fight, with my people."

The wine sat untouched. It was poured with trembling hands, the deep crimson ichor that was crafted by the Savoyard himself sloshed over the rim of the goblet as the bottle was fumbled. It was never meant for the one who poured, it was meant for him. For a reunion, a conversation between two, a jest with the weight of the world left outside locked doors. But there was no one to listen, no one to talk to, and no one to drink the Savoyards wine. His breath came soft and shallow, his fingertips tightening around the edges of the letter, its parchment creased where his fingers dug in, crumpling the very letter who's contents only he and Isidora were privy too. He had read it too many times since it was delivered to him atop the city's walls, the words branded into his mind, but still, he thought some flicker of doubt that would tell him this had all been a mistake. That Owyn would come stumbling through the door any moment now, rolling his eyes at his own dramatics, calling Lothar a fool for believing it, declaring it as his audition of being apart of his inner-circles. But now it would not come, now there was nothing. He exhaled sharply, pressing his knuckles against his temple as if that could silence the thoughts. He wanted to be angry. He should have been angry. But anger could not find purchase in the hollow ache carved into his chest. Only grief remained. Instead, as he rose from his very seat, his hands clenched against the edge of the table as he tried to steady himself. His limbs felt cumbersome, as though the very grief had settled into his bones. He eyes to the open window, where the sky had darkened, where the stars shone into existence against the backdrop of the setting sun. He spoke then, "Perhaps you were always the setting sun. . . brilliant. . . but never meant to stay."

Atop a warhorse sat the Prince of Monterosa, his hands secured against the reigns of his steed as he gazed at the stretched lands of Balian from atop an empty hill, he mused on the choice they were given, they choice he made. "The weight of our Kingdom be ours to burden, the choice is made."

1. 2. 3.

"Instead of releasing this missive before, they chose to raid Hyspia and fight alongside the same ones who sought to bring destruction upon Hyspia?" Questioned, Lothar. "In which her own husband participated. He was captured and then freed and yet, have the gall to release something such as this? Thus far in this war, there has been one consistency, there has only been aggression from the supposed true members of the FAITH, who raid and pillage." He posed, panning towards Isidora as he made such a statement. "Is that Net the facts?" @Lirinya

──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── The sky, once bathed in the golden warmth of day, now dulled into the soft hues of dusk, streaks of amber bled into the deepening blue, various avifauna took to flight in the darkening skies of the Balianese countryside. The wind carried a deep seated scent of the earth - dampened soil, waving grass, and the distant fragrance of olive groves alongside many of the present flora swayed upon the valley floor. For the first time since it all began, there was momentary peace. The two riders approached the crest of a lonely hill, never settled, never occupied, it was left alone in this corner of the world, swaying as the winds of the continent came, unknowing of all that was happening, it was spared from war. They came separately, yet they’re destination was the very same.. They wore garments of two opposing sides, banners of two peoples who were at war. Yet they came face to face. Not out of hostility or caution. It was understanding. Lothar was the first to slow his steed. The warhorse from the grass ladened Balianese-plains, weary from the journey, exhaling heavily, faint wisps from its breath formed in the cooling air. Miguel, astride and upon his own steed, mirroring the sentiment and the motion - a silent agreement between the two to halt upon the top of the hill, where the world stretched out before them, endlessly. ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── It took mere instants for Miguel to recognise who the other rider was. The detailed armor, golden-and-purple, lined with intricate ornaments and sashes that indicated the man’s station. Miguel clutched the reins of his horse, his right stump tied firmly to the other set in order to better control the rowdy animal. There was peace. There was understanding. Beneath it all, a gut-wrenching feeling that threatened to slowly take over. Miguel was the first to speak, too. “Fate works in a funny way, doesn’t it, my brother?” He felt as if his words could barely leave his throat. It felt hoarse, the words felt heavy, his heart slowly sinking into his chest as the pressure of realisation began to cloud his senses. It was a war. He was in front of the enemy. Those thoughts were quickly brushed aside. No war could extinguish a friendship. No conflict of faith could wipe out brotherhood found in bonds and trust. And yet… Miguel reined in the horse, untying it from his right stump. He got off it, his hand raised up to his head, sliding out the black-and-purple feathered helmet, setting it on the horse. A glove was taken off, and then the wristguards. He walked to the crest of the hill, and with a grunt of exhaustion, he sat down, leaning back on his hands, staring off into the horizon. He hoped that the other knight - his friend, his brother - would do the same. ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── The words carried over the hilltop like the wind. It was gentle, weighted, with the sort of peace that they could not discern, something they found void since the beginning of the war. Lothar heard such words, he allowed them to settle, but he did not retort or reply, he let the moment pass before he made any reply. He murmured however, voice even, yet it was not without feeling or emotion. “A cruel way, you mean.” His visage flickered soon upon the sight of Miguel - not to his armour, not to the etchings or sigils as denoted him as an ally of Ravenmire, that denoted him as the enemy, but rather to his friend, to the man beneath the machinations of the worldly-politics around them. The same man who had stood before him mere weeks before anything transpired, before anything happened. Lothar exhaled heavily, despite his breath steady, something within him was not. Not yet. He swung from his steed, his boots meeting the sodden earth beneath them with a Thud. The leather straps of his armoured gloves creaked as his grip was loosened, fingers flexing as he reached up to unfasten the clasp at his throat. His cloak - embroidered with the colours and sigils of Balian and Monterosa’s colours, were now dust - ladened from the ride was shrugged off. Not cast away, but rather placed aside, with care upon his riding saddle. There was no banner between them now. There were no enemies. There was no war. Just two men, standing where brothers once stood. Lothar stepped forwards where Miguel had been settled, towards the crest of the hill where the breeze blew gently, rustling leaves and grass were their ambience instead of the clashes and cries of men who charged. He watched the horizon with a distant, yet familiar look, as though he wasn’t truly there, in that moment, as though he was dreaming. He sat down beside him. For a while there was nothing said, just the ambience of the world around them and the steady breathings. His eyes wandered to the lands before them, the ones they had rode upon without care, as boys, unburdened by cause or the machinations of men, the very same lands that blood would surely be spilt over. It lingered, it was amusing, that this is what fate had decried for two who were so close. Then after a long pause, his voice broke their silence. “Tell me Miguel.” - “When did we become men who must kill each other? Is this what fate has destined for us?” ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── Miguel joined his ‘hands’ in front of his knees, left hand holding onto the right stump, wrapped around them, hugging himself. His eyes stared out into the slow sunset, the gentle and unassuming sound of his fingers drumming against the armor plate of his knee. A gentle chuckle erupted from Miguel as Lothar spoke, a chuckle not of happiness, but of despair. Disbelief. Nervousness and anxiety. “Do you remember the fair, when we first met? In Hyspia?” He diverted the subject away from the matter that drove a wedge between them. Miguel had always been a boy who took solace in his memories. “I thought you were so curt, even rude. . . . If you told me then that you’d become one of my closest and best friends, Lothar, I’d slap you across the face and call you insane.” Another chuckle left him, the boy placing his head between his knees. A chuckle turned to a sniffle. A sniffle turned into a slow, quiet sob. Miguel rose his head once more, resting his forehead against his palm, those silent tears streaming down his face. He didn’t sob. He didn’t make a sound apart from the light sniffs that came here and then. After a few moments, he composed himself decently enough. Enough to finally garner courage to bring his gaze up, and drag it towards the Princeling. “The world is ******* crazy, Lothar. We can’t get lost in it. I can’t lose you, I can’t lose Isidora, I can’t lose Alysanna. I can’t lose anyone.” This time, he sobbed, and once more, his head hung between his legs. The boy didn’t cry when he had to burn his own father to save his siblings. The boy didn’t cry when he berated his own brother for using their orphaned situation to his gain. The boy didn’t cry when his hand was bitten off by a demon. But now he cried. He sobbed. He wailed. And after some time, the sound slowly fizzled out. Much like reason in the world, Miguel’s crying would steadily die out, and after some fleeting moments, he was silent once more. Not composed. It seemed impossible to be composed. He sniffed again, running the back of his hand over his eyes. “You changed my life.” He murmured, dark green eyes peering over towards his brother. “So don’t you dare lose yours.” ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── The silence between the pair had stretched for long after the duo had spoken, long after Miguel’s messy sobbing had faded and Lothar’s own eyes glossed and threatened to fall. The sky which one bathed a lush glow upon them had finally surrendered to the creeping night. In the absence of the sunlight, the first of the stars began to blink into existence - distant, cold, watching. Without a word uttered, Lothar stood first. He did not move hastily, as though the thought of leaving this behind might’ve made this feel real. He gathered his cloak, dusting away any and all grass and dirt that might’ve stuck, though the weight on his shoulders from this moment was far heavier then any fabric or armour could ever hope to be. Miguel had been seated for a moment longer. His breath uneven and his fingers curling itself his gambeson as if in an attempt to awake him from this dream. Yet, he pushed himself up with a breath that had bordered on composure. The pair soon faced each other - not as enemies, not as warriors, but as brothers. Lothar stepped forth. Miguel followed. And without hesitation, they embraced. It was not the embrace of two men who were about to ride into battle, as though it was destined for them to do so. It was an embrace of boys who once lived and now dreamed of simpler days, of two friends who became brothers not through blood but through experience, of two who once shared laughter instead of sorrows. It was brief, yet unshakable - it was a moment stolen from a world that no longer had room for it. Then wordlessly they let go. They turned, walked and mounted their horses, the wind whispered through the grass and trees as the space between them grew wider. Neither stopped, nor looked back. The night began to swallow them both. Then, as if it could not be left unsaid, they each whispered, they spoke under their breaths. “Goodbye, Brother.”

Torn between friendship and duty, Lothar simply stared at the invitation. A gloved hand rising and rubbing at his forehead as eventually spoke. "Ai, but he has been a Bona friend, the least I could do is visit him this time, if it is the final time I see him." - "After that, come what might, there will be Nen visits to them."

None of the Art is my own ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── Isla de Diamente CIRCA 152 BA. The wind whispered through the olive-strewn slopes, the scent of sun-warmed rocks and the salty seas were carried amongst the slow murmurs and ripples of the distant seas, the strait, often known as the Strait de Sybille, had come into a magnificent view. The mountain would soon loom above the pair, it’s own designs were of a rugged and cragged stone imbued into the titanical slope, it’s peak kissed by the golden glow of a descending sun that cascaded it’s rays upon the island as a whole, casting it’s glow upon the structures below. Crunch. It sounded, as dust and dry earth clung onto the boots of the pair scaling the mountain, the heat of the day had given way instead allowing for an amalgamation of a seafaring and gentle breeze that brushed against the face of the mountain which rustled through the sparse pines that grew and clung onto the slopped cliffs. Huff. The Prince breathed out as he trudged forwards. His heavy boots scraping against the worn stone path, his breath was steady but it was lined with exhaustion. His tunics and gambeson, once pristine and regal, was now bore with the sweat and dust which accumulated through their assent, the regal embroidery dulled through the journey taken. The climb had been arduous, it had been consuming but it wasn’t concluded. The Bishop of Lotharia, cladded in his humble vestments and armour moved with a measured, an ambled pace, his stick pattering against the rough edges of the mountain side as they climbed, rhythmically and knowingly, as though he had taken the same path dozens of times it became second nature. He did not speak at first, allowing for their ascent to be dictated by silence. It was evident such a pilgrimage was not merely an act of devotion, but too was it an act of endurance, a trial the Bishop of Lotharia sought for both the body and the spirit. “The Higher we climb,” Ivan finally muttered, guiding the Prince forth, “The closer we come to HIS wisdom.” The Princeling’s exhale was sharp as such words were spoken, the belt at his waist adjusted mere seconds later as he paused to wipe the sweat from his brows. “If that is so, then HE has made his wisdom a hard thing to seek.” He murmured in response, though his words were irreverence, of a jest and wry humor of a youth who began understanding the weight of the Earth beneath him. Ivan laughed, perhaps the first sight of such in years, at least before another person and yet he offered a knowing glance. “The faithful do not seek the path of ease, but the path of truth, Lothar.” Ahead, the worn path narrowed, forcing them to move as a single file as they passed beneath a natural arch; it was one that was formed from worn and weathered limestone, carved by what was centuries and decades of both wind and sea spray. The sun drew the structure in hues of gold, casting upon the ground flickering shadows. Ding, Ding, Ding. It echoed, faintly. The bell did not toll again, yet its unmistakable, single chim lingered, it echoed amongst the valleys, carried by the wind that swept through the gorse-covered cliffs and into the rolling hills below. Lothar slowed and ceased in his steps. Breath steadying as he finally panned down to the vast expense below, in the distance he spotted where they were dropped by a vessel, yet soon he snapped back, the unmistakable toll of the bell ringing within his mind. “Did you hear it?” - “The bell?” He soon posed. The Bishop, ever deliberate in his path forth, came to a slow halt, the iron end tip of his staff planted into the stone-riddled soil, gaze following Lothar’s own as they, for even a moment, stood together in silence. “There was no bell. Your mind plays tricks.” The Bishop finally murmured. Lothar furrowed his brows at the Bishop’s dismissal, though he knew better than to argue on this matter, he was hardly experienced, perhaps such was the truth. Yet he could not dismiss the distant toll that resonated within his mind which pulled at his chest like an unseen hand. But as the wind whispered past them, the Bishop finally spoke once more, “Or perhaps it was a memory.” - “That is for you to know yourself.” It hadn’t been a bell of iron, perhaps it was indeed one of memory. A toll, one from what felt as though it were now eternity away. Lothar exhaled, eyes glancing to the path ahead as it snaked and rose further up the mountain’s ridgeline, where shadows and silhouettes of fig trees and olive groves seemed to be planted in abundance, the very same trees that only a few years prior did Isidora and Lothar study about, the trees that stood as the backdrop amalgamated of a dying sky. The climb had not yet ended. The bishop, as though sensing the boy’s very thoughts, released a grunt and shifted his walking stick, continuing upon the path and leading the pair. Lothar simply followed. The air grew thinner as they continued their ascent into the tops of the mountain, the one salty-sea scent began to fade under the earthier scent of thyme and mountain sage, what sound was made from waves now were made from the brief and gentle rustles of the groves of trees and sweet singings of the lumine garnu and orange chested fowl substituted their ambience. The once solid path had broken, turning into a path to be threaded with caution and focus. It was not long before fatigue would soon begin taking hold, not merely in the body - but in the mind as well. The Prince’s breath came heavier now, the weight of the journey they had taken had settled upon the now teen’s shoulder, incoherent-murmurs escaping him. His body ached, his thoughts drifting. And as they climbed, visions and memories of past happenings, of his youth flashed behind his eyes, from his first outing to his first fight, to his very recent one, none had escaped him. He noticed a boy upon a road split in two, pondering on which path he might take before treading a path, looking always to the horizon for answers that he did not yet possess. With another bout of wind, the teen reached for his cloak, settling it from wilding flapping about in the wind as he smelt an odd and near identical smell, one reminiscent in times he felt at ease, its smell was near identical to the one he found regularly of a light, floral mix of jasmine- spritzed with the faintest drop of lemon. It was faint, akin to a dusting- barely there and yet, still entirely present. A sweetness lingered as an afterthought, lent from the jasmine and coupled with something more. Cookies, cakes; the essence of home baked goods joined with the jasmine and lemon to create a tangy, sweet and flowery scent. Ahead of him however, the Bishop of Lotharia moved with the subtle steadiness of a man who had long since embraced and perhaps welcomed suffering. Ivan had done much in his life, he had weathered many pilgrimages, many battles for the faith, his eye a testament to his former battles, his feet had felt the scorched warmth of the sands of Rhen, the snow-ladened passes of Haense. He had weathered the weight of an entire nation and a crown who he returned to the faith, not once had he wavered. To him, pain was not an enemy to be conquered, but rather one to be embraced as though it were a companion. ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻────────────────────────────────── “Why do you do this?” Lothar posed in-between measured breaths. Despite not slowing, Ivan retorted fairly, his voice carried wholly and easily through the evening breeze. “To remember.” Lothar swallowed his want and his instinct to ask further to ask what the Bishop had sought to remember, instead he focused upon the climb once more. The skies began to blend into a magnificent sight, with hues of deep violet, the first stars began to show, appearing during the approaching dusk. Their journey continued, it was arduous but it was magnificent, through the jagged ridges, narrow paths and cracks within might rocks, the wind howled mournfully, yet as they made it beyond it, the path levelled - not into flat ground, but rather into a weathered plateau, overlooking and spanning upon not only the whole archipelago, but rather the entire Kingdom itself, Portoregne, Sunholdt, San Adriano it was all visible from this spot. And yet, their gaze was instead taken by a small structure; the remnants of what might’ve once been a watchtower stood a pillar of stone. Eroded by decades of salt and wind, half buried in vines and wildflowers, it stood. Inscriptions were present upon such a stone, yet it was discernible in the dying and scrambling light from the fading sun. It wasn’t a monument, nor was it a shrine. It was a remnant it seemed, of something that was, and now wasn’t. The Bishop was the first to step forth, his aged fingers brushing against the rough and worn surface of the stone, it did not matter to him however. “Pilgrimage is not simply a journey from one place to another, it is not a simple. . . walk. A simple look forward to the end, the destination, Niet.” Ivan murmured. “It is a remembrance, a recollection. Of those who walked before us. Of those who stood, who struggled, who suffered.” The elderly man turned. His plated armor creaked as he did so, it was then that Lothar saw the fatigue in his eye, the clear wrinkles of his features. He stepped forward closer towards the princeling. With one fluid motion, the elder placed a firm left hand upon his grandson’s right shoulder. “Memories will serve you well in life. When stumbling upon a forkroad of dilemmas, search your memories for the best choice. It may not be the perfect choice, but nevertheless…” And it was then that thin yet gentle smile of a grandfather’s love fully prevailed before the young princeling. “You remembered from the past.” ──────────────────────────────────༺☨༻──────────────────────────────────

Scheming Eunuch - @Cheese @Kaii Loathsome Heir - @Cheeseycereal@Wavey Court Jester - @HIGH_FIRE@TaraJess Noble Knight - @Andustar@xDisarray

Lothar stared as he was being blamed, blinking as it had been sent out. Regardless, he began drafting a PERSONAL INVITE for the d’Arkents.

"Good King John." - "It is right for what Pa is, a Bona, a Great King." The Princeling uttered as he was passed on the missive, though he frowned momentairily at the thought of all those he had met within Alba, he shuddered and went about his day.

"United in faith, Net in State." The Prince of Monterosa declared as the covenant was announced.

From the faraway palace of Balian, a Princeling seemed lost in his thoughts, eyes pointed to the skies as he mused the readings of a book. "Some men are born to live for their people, others are born to sacrifice themselves for them. . ."

THE CROWNING OF THE PRINCE OF MONTEROSA ✧⥼─────────༺☨༻─────────⥽✧ ISSUED BY THE CROWN OF BALIAN In the year of 152 B.A. SIXTEEN YEARS AGO, THE KINGDOM OF BALIAN was subject to the coming of its Prince of Monterosa, LOTHAR CASIMIR JAMES. Thus, it is on this day, with eighteen saint’s years of passing, that the Princeling who was once a youth is now preparing to celebrate his coming into adulthood. Spending his years surrounded by family, friends and allies, the Prince’s youth was ushered with a familial warmth, preparing him for what the future might hold. AS HE COMES OF AGE, the celebrations held are not simply to usher his life into adulthood but also in honour of the Kingdom many call home, the Kingdom of Balian. The events shall begin with a custom and tradition seen first during the time of the then Princess of Monsterosa, SYBILLE GWENYTH, where she was confirmed through the traditions of investiture of Monterosa as Princess of Monterosa and eventually as the first Queen of Balian. FOLLOWING THE EVENTS OF THE investiture of Monterosa, the events shall unfold into a joust at the Balian fairgrounds. Promising to be exciting and exileric themselves, and in recognition of his favour for a fight, the Prince shall host his first tournament. Competitors will then enter a tournament, upon which the second and third place will be awarded with prizes of Mina, with first place awarded with Mina and a commissioned lance marking the victor as the day’s victor. ✧⥼─────────────────༺☨༻─────────────────⥽✧ I. THE INVESTITURE OF MONTEROSA The Crown Prince’s instatement. HOSTED BY THE CROWN OF Balian and Diocese of Lotharia, the investiture of Monterosa is a tradition that has appeared in more recent times as opposed to the early part of the founding of Balian. A coronation in itself, the investiture of Monterosa is an event which sees the designated Prince, in this case, LOTHAR CASIMIR JAMES, invested officially with the title of Prince of Monterosa through affirmation of the denizens of Balian, various attestors and both the Crown and Diocese alike. Thus, the coming of age shall begin officially with the INVESTITURE OF MONTEROSA. II. THE JOUST OF ATRUS A celebration of strength. FOLLOWING THE INVESTITURE OF MONTEROSA, the Prince of Monterosa shall be privy to the hosting of his first joust, there are no preemptive sign ups required, rather competitors will be lined up when called and they will announce themselves to the gathered onlookers, preceding this, a tournament will take place, where they will be afforded 3 rounds to tilt against one another before the match shall be decided by fisticuffs. III. THE DAY’S END FEAST An evening of revelry. TO CONCLUDE THE DAY’S EVENTS, The Crown of Balian shall host a feast within the Palatio Arancione to celebrate the conclusion of events of the day, all guests and peoples of Balian following the hosted joust are invited to take part in the feast that promises food, drinks and hearty conversations to be had. During this time, all are welcomed to approach and converse with those around. All attendants to the event shall be delivered with specially grown oranges, a speciality of this generation of Balianese. ✧⥼─────────────────༺☨༻─────────────────⥽✧ IV. INVITATIONS THE KINGDOM OF BALIAN CORDIALLY INVITES, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, JOREN I, King of Hanseti-Ruska, and his people. @erictafoya @sarahbarah HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, THERIN I, King of the Petra, and his people. @Tremerus HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, ERWIN I, Prince of Reinmar, and his people. @Timer HER EXCELLENCY, IRYNE IBARELLAN, Princess Royarch of Celia’nor, and her people. @XoxoMinnieXoxo THEIR SERENE HIGHNESSES, XIOMARA I & JULIAN I, Sovereigns of Hyspia, and their people. @tadabug2000 @teeylin HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, EAROSLAV I, Sovereign of Ravenmire, and their people. @Zqppy HIS GRACE, MARCEL VUILLER, Duke of Aquilae, and his noble pedigree. @SmartScout THE MOST HONORABLE, AUGUSTA TEMESCH ET MARTIEL, Countess of San Adriano, and her noble pedigree. @Cheeseycereal THE MOST HONORABLE, HEINRIK VAR RUTHERN, Count of Kositz, and his noble pedigree. @andydreww THE RIGHT HONORABLE, COLETTE DE LYONS, Viscountess of Enderoca, and her noble pedigree. @MapleSunflower THE HONORABLE, CALLIOPE NOVELLEN-TUVIA, Baroness of Tuvia, and her noble pedigree. @BlueBudgie THE HONORABLE, PALOMA GALBRAITH, Baroness of Cascanova, and her noble pedigree. @Gutz PERSONAL INVITATIONS, THEIR ROYAL HIGHNESSES, ELIAS, CASSIEL & AMADEA, THE PRINCES & PRINCESS-ROYAL OF BALIAN. @Cheese@HogoBojo@Kaii HER HIGHNESS, JOSEFINA DE PELEAR.@Rainalyn HER GRACE, ESFIR ARTEMISIA D’ARKENT, Duchess of Sunholdt, and her noble pedigree. @Cheese HIS EXCELLENCY, JARAD MUH’NEL, Lord Emissary of Celia’nor, and his noble pedigree. @JoshBright HIS EXCELLENCY, TOMASZ KAROSWALD, Lord Palatine of Hanseti-Ruska. @garentoft THE RIGHT HONORABLE, LORELEI ALSTION-ENSWERP, Countess of Enswerp, and her noble pedigree. @annanicole__ HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THORIN, Prince of Ravenmire, and his royal pedigree. @Javert HER LADYSHIP, AROWYN-LAURELIE WHITEWOOD. @harvestskies HER LADYSHIP, ISIDORA JAHANA BASRID. @Lirinya HER LADYSHIP, PRIMROSE KORTREVICH. @LuxyLucy HIS LORDSHIP, THEO DE LYONS. @Luka_Rei HER LADYSHIP, JOHANNA VUILLER. @TaraJess HIS LORDSHIP, MALCOLM D'ARKENT. @FireAGN HER LADYSHIP, PATROCLEIA NOVELLEN-TUVIA. @Captain Jester SEGNOR, AURELLIUS GREYE, and the House of Greye. @xDisarray SEGNOR, THEODORE-A ASHFORD DE SAVOIE, and the House of Ashford de Savoie. @Mykei SEGNOR, MIROSLAW JAZLOWIECK. @ratlordmagic SEGNOR, MIGUEL DE ALENCAR. @navigat0rr THE CITIZENRY OF BALIAN. THE REGIMENT OF ST. LOTHAR. THE DIOCESE OF LOTHARIA. HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, JOHN II, by the Grace of God, King of Balian, Prince of Providence, Duke of Helena, Lorraine and Reutov, Count of Pompourelia, Viscount of Eflen, Anatis and Valio, Baron of Renzfeld, Brucca, Valens, Malenos, Montcoure and Ciavola, Lord of Portoregne, Atrus and Monterosa, Warden of La Costa Rubinissima, Protector of the Heartlanders and the South, etcetera. HER ROYAL MAJESTY, KATHRYN OF RHEN, Queen-Consort of Balian, Princess-Consort of Providence, Duchess-Consort of Helena, Lorraine, and Reutov, Countess-Consort of Pompourelia, Viscountess-Consort of Eflen, Anatis, and Valio, Baroness-Consort of Renzfeld, Brucca, Valens, Malenos, and Ciavola, Lady of Portoregne, Atrus, and Monterosa, Warden of La Costa Rubinissima, Protector of the Heartlanders and the South, etcetera. HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, LOTHAR CASIMIR JAMES, Prince of Monterosa, Duke of Atrus.

A LETTER TO THE BISHOPRIC OF LOTHARIA A thesis on Grace and Redemption I. The Role of Grace and Redemption in Cannonist Lives Sin, in simple terms it the matter which separates and divides the simple man from GOD, sins comes in various forms and entities, it could be minute as simple as thievery or it could be large as large as infidelity, such are examples of course but the matter of sin is simple, it is the single action that divides and separates GOD from man. However, if sin is the river that keeps apart GOD and man, then it is GRACE which is the bridge that breaks the divide and allows for humanity to be restored in the graces of GOD. Through simple actions such as prayer, sacraments of baptism and marriage and devotion. Through these means does the canonist flock thus shift towards renewal of divinity within the faith. The scroll of Auspice, as revealed to us through the, Exalted Sigismund, also reveals this to us. It should be noted that Grace however is not simply the forgiveness of sin, but it can rather be viewed as an active transformation of the soul. Leading to the belief that those who turn to GOD, find themselves purified and strengthened through divine intervention. In Balian, this manifests in various traditions witnessed throughout the lands, from marital traditions, to masses held by the clergy both foreign and local. It is instead the importance that is placed upon pilgrimages, often journeying upon the various landscapes observed within the Kingdom of Balian and even journeying on pilgrimages to the lands of Rhen that denizes of the Kingdom are able to truly reflect upon their deeds and seek prayer to absolve what sins they may carry. II. The Tablets of Saint Lothar and Their Roles in the flock of Balian Within the Kingdom of Balian, the tablets of Saint Lothar are amongst some of the most important and influential sources of the faith’s writings. Each tablet is said to have the divine wisdom carried by Saint Lothar that was imparted onto him during his life. For modern Balians, this knowledge and wisdom helps to serve as a guidance for the faithful flock, these tables are used to reinforce many of the virtues set within the scroll of Virtue, delivered by the Exalted Horen. So what do the tablets of Saint Lothar teach us? And how might they find relevance on the matter of grace? The First Tablet - On Faith: Teaches us about the unconditional faith and devotion to GOD, the ideas of this table follow closely with that of the Scroll of Virtue. Calling for mankind to follow the will of GOD. Translated by, His Excellency, Sarson Halgrim, “The First Tablet of St. Lothar: On Faith”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus The Second Tablet - On The Wheel: Informs us about the meditative state of divinity and destiny in the aspect of guidance. The tablet mirrors the prophecies spoken within the Scroll of Auspice by the Exalted Sigismund. Translated by, His Eminence, Cardinal Teodosio Tyria, “The Second Tablet of St. Lothar: On the Wheel”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus The Third Tablet - Kin: Explains to us the duty of family and community. Echoing the covenant of Exalted Horen between his children, it is seen as a path to show us the role of community in canonist life. Translated by, His Excellency, Arif Godfrey Virosi, “The Third Tablet of St. Lothar: On Kin”, Rhen The Fourth Tablet - On Commerce: The translation of the fourth tablet of St. Lothar gives us a general idea on the matters of trade and economic justice that should be observed. These ideals are ones that are reflective of the order set forth within the Scroll of Gospel. Translated by, His Royal Excellency, Ledicort Vuiller, “The Fourth Tablet of St. Lothar: On Commerce”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus The Seventh Tablet - To Love is to: Is a reflection and ponderance on the divine nature of love. The tablet emphasises to us that to love is not simply a mere emotion but rather it is the devotion of two souls who seek to become one, leading to one of the highest levels of both devotion and sacrifice. The tablet is a general reminder that to love, is to find Grace, for love itself is path towards redemption and renewal. Translated by, Her Royal Highness, Princess-Royal Elena Casimira, “The Seventh Tablet of St. Lothar: To Love is to”, Kingdom of Balian - Portoregne The Thirteenth Tablet - Al-Khatam: The final Tablet: The final tablet of Saint Lothar is a summary, it is a conclusion of the Saint Lothar’s wisdom imparted upon the world. The final tablet is a reminder that all aspects of life must be governed and lived by virtue and faith, drawing upon the teachings of each of the Exalted Scrolls. Translated by, His Eminence, Cardinal Ivan Lotharia, “The Thirteenth Tablet - Al-Khatam: The Final Tablet”, Kingdom of Balian - Portoregne What is the relevancy of such tablets with Grace and Redemption? The relevance of these tablets to the theme of Grace and Redemption is important and profound for those encompassed within the diocese of Lotharia, spanning the Kingdom of Balian. Whilst not all tablets have been found and subsequently translated, the relevance of the ones which have given us advice and guidance for the faithful on how to lead a righteous life but also a path for spiritual renewal within life. The teachings provide us not only with simple religious and theological teachings but we may also find the means and ways by which we may return to GOD’s light, relishing in his grace and redemptive qualities. To seek redemption and the grace of GOD, one must realise that the works of former leaders of the faith and teachings of those such as Saint Lothar teaches - us that redemption is not an instantaneous thing, it cannot be. Rather, redemption is a continuous journey of faith, action and self-betterment, it is a process that takes time and true devotion, mirroring the divine mercy which is spoken in the Scroll of Auspice. IN HOC SIGNO VINCES, HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, Lothar Casimir, Prince of Monterosa, Duke of Atrus REFERENCES, 1. His Excellency, Sarson Halgrim, “The First Tablet of St. Lothar: On Faith”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus 2. His Eminence, Cardinal Teodosio Tyria, “The Second Tablet of St. Lothar: On the Wheel”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus 3. His Excellency, Arif Godfrey Virosi, “The Third Tablet of St. Lothar: On Kin”, Rhen 4. His Royal Excellency, Ledicort Vuiller, “The Fourth Tablet of St. Lothar: On Commerce”, Kingdom of Balian - Atrus 5. Her Royal Highness, Princess-Royal Elena Casimira, “The Seventh Tablet of St. Lothar: To Love is to”, Kingdom of Balian - Portoregne 6. His Eminence, Cardinal Ivan Lotharia, “The Thirteenth Tablet - Al-Khatam: The Final Tablet”, Kingdom of Balian - Portoregne

In honour of Atrus-Beelian ISSUED BY THE KINGDOOM OF BEELIAN 12th of Lothar’s Gift 144 BA TEN YEARS AGO, THE KINGDOM OF BEELIAN WAS RETURNED TO ITS FORMER GLORY. AS THE KID KINGDOM OF BEELIAN. It had begun years ago, a dream that was a kingdom for kids, what began as a dream for kids of Balian soon transpired into a kid-kingdom that has accepted many and all children, from lands far and wide, away from Balian itself, it involved many and such is a proud fact. As the kingdom grew, elections for rulership began and soon, the reinvigorated Kingdom was led by myself and Queen Isidora of BEElian. I couldn’t have been more fortunate and proud to have led this kingdom with someone such as Isidora beside me. However as time came, so did age. Nearing the end of the allowed time for someone to lead the kingdom of BEElian, I have decided that my time as king of the Kid-Kingdom shall reach its natural conclusion upon my 16th nameday. However, before elections for King and Queen may begin, Isidora shall rule upon the kingdom for an additional year until she reaches her own 16th milestone, elections shall then begin once more where both I and Isidora shall aid in the elections of the next monarch for the kid-kingdom. To mark the end of my reign as King, BEElian shall host one final joust that all kids will be allowed to join and participate within! For various prizes should they come first, second or third. SIGNED, HIS HIGHNESS, Lothar Casimir James Novellen, King of BEELAIN, Protector of BEELIAN HER HIGHNESS, Isidora Jahana Basrid, Queen of BEELIAN