mothsthetic

wilford - a hardened knight and former darkspawn hunter who comes off as cold and unapproachable, paranoid and skilled in his craft. fiercely protective and loyal.

To Ser Stefank Montelliano of the Legion of Saint Godwin, Please!! Despite the passage of time, my desire to join the Legion and serve my people of the Heartlands has not wavered, and has such only grown. It would be my honor to join your men, and call them my brothers and sisters in arms. God Bless You, Her Royal Highness, Adalia Morgana Temesch of the Petra, Archduchess of Vallagne, Princess of the Petra, Countess of Torm Marian

Wilford has to lean back in his desk chair to actually get any sort of idea as to what is partner is waving at him. When he’s handed the paper he holds it rather close to his face, squinting through his glasses as he reads. As he nears the end, his eyes light up. “Oh-! Oh!!” He looks up from the missive with a wide smile, “I’m glad t’ey enjoyed et- I was worried et was tae simple-“ The aging Knight pauses, glancing around the study for a moment. “Maybe et’s time fer an update.” @Hom

The paper reaches the former Chancellor rather quickly, given the proximity to Hohkmat from his home in Vallagne. As he reads it, a small, bitter smile spreads across his aging features. Finally, someone in that wretched city was seeing sense. He’d been part of it for years, never Voidal and as such always seen and treated as lesser despite his time in the city and his help in the community. He ran the clinic, for God’s sake. But that never came close to the treatment of his partner. How the hate festered for him. Watching the love of his life run around day after day, night after night to do everything. Quite literally everything. Leading the infrastructure, leading the diplomacy, the planning of lessons and events, the hosting of said lessons and events, completely running the treasury, none of which had even been his bloody job. Doing the job of two Viziers and a Magister without the recognition- without even a thank you. Genuinely, in the forty years they had been with the city of mages, he had never once heard his partner thanked for carrying the city on his shoulders. Treated as an errand boy, day in and day out with no reward. And when it came time to split, the knight had heard the reaction. The hate had festered. Wilford Reinhold reads the missive with a humorless chuckle, setting it aside. Sulieronn had always had sense- at least in the few times they had spoken. “Good on ye.” He says to the empty air. “Good on ye.”

Albert’s youngest great niece had only ever met him once. A sunny day in Balian, a brief conversation exchanged among the two. His words had struck the young Archduchess deeply. Gazing upon the old man’s features, she saw the striking resemblance to her great grandmother- and for a moment, she could imagine her grandmother, the Paladin’s late sister. In the crinkles of his eyes, had she had the same warm smile? The night falls silent. Sitting on the balcony outside her room, her sisters asleep just inside, the heiress burns a golden candle, flipping through a book of poetry she had seen Grammy Renilde crying over just hours earlier. It will be returned before daylight, of course- the young girl simply wishing to connect to the fallen. She imagines his voice, remembers his warning. Closing her eyes and clasping her hands in prayer, Adalia Morgana takes a deep breath, and whispers into the chill midnight air. “I will be deserving- as you were.”

oh to be the neighborhood crazy starry owl lady

Upon seeing the missive, the young Petran heir gasps excitedly, grabbing the nearest crayon she can and filling out an application- Regardless of the (low) likelihood of acceptance. Full Name: Adalia Morgana Temesch of the Petra Age: 8 Race: Heartlander Prior Experience: Duking it out with older siblings Method of Contact: mothsthetic on discord

The young Petran princess reads the missive silently. Her heart pounds in her chest at the words “her daughter and heir Adalia Morgana”. Heir. She never saw this coming, truly. Seven years old, sitting on the dias of the throne room, watching her childhood blur. Perhaps she should have seen it. Too busy reading books on Templars and Dames to consider it. As she looks up from the missive, Adalia sees a view she may as well familiarize herself with. A view from the throne. A view from a Queen’s perspective.

Bid: $15 Skin: Training in Teal Discord: mothsthetic

From his desk in the palace, Wilford Reinhold recalls the event as if it were yesterday. Screams and cries for the boy to be executed, he remembers running to block the soldier. He remembers yelling in return, pleading the crowd to have mercy on the boy. He remembers the sword through the chest that earned him, and how it nearly ended his life. With his face in his hands, the Lord Regent sighs, trying to shake the memory from his mind. Trying to shake the thought of the late Queen, his late friend, from his mind. He simply folds the letter, at least pleased to hear the boy he nearly died for remains alive and well.

i nearly passed out

HAPPY TRANS DAY OF VISIBILITY I LOVE BEING TRANSGENDER I LOVE MEETING OTHER TRANS PEOPLE ON THIS SERVER 🫶🫶🫶🫶

Chancellor Reinhold lofts a brow, shaking his head slowly. “He’s challengin’ a ninety year old woman? Seriously? Af’er criticizin’ Aimo fer wantin’ tae duel a one armed man? This guy has nae honour tae him.” The knight sighs, placing the paper aside, to turn to other matters.

Things had ended… to say “rocky” between Wilford’s sister and the warrior of Xan would be a gross understatement. While the man himself was mostly uninvolved with the conflict, he did often wonder just what exactly was true- and if it could all be avoided somehow. Elena had been good to him, in those brief times they spoke. A single blue candle burns down on his desk as the Chancellor signs another paper, an untouched glass of whiskey next to the flame. A toast goodbye.

Chancellor Reinhold is going to spend his entire time on the sand with a margarita.

👍

To say Chancellor Wilford Reinhold never saw this coming would be an understatement. The bill no less than completely blindsided the knight. He remembers when he first came to the Commonwealth. God- thirty years ago, now. Still a nobody, still believing the man he loved to be deceased, still chasing after darkspawn in the night and drinking himself half-dead in the day. If he could look at himself, take that lost young man by the shoulders and tell him “We did it”, the lad would laugh in his face. Maybe rightfully so. There were countless nights spent praying. Clutching the Lorraine between his hands, reciting the prayers he memorized as a boy. He went to Church. Often- nearly every day. And he prayed he would see that beautiful man with the aengelic smile one last time. That God would forgive him. And that he would marry that man. God makes no mistakes. He makes obstacles. And through the decades, Wilford and Atticus have overcome every single one thrown their way. And when the Queen smiled at him, told him she would fight for their love, fight for their rights. He broke. Wilford has never liked crying. But it felt nice to that time. And it feels nice now. To let it out. Sitting at his desk, that same Lorraine from all those years ago held to his heart as his shoulders shake. He looks to the portrait on his desk of his family- His partner, his son, his daughter, his sister-in-law, and that kind old man he never thought he would live to become. And he smiles. “We di’ et.”

From the desk of Chancellor Reinhold Atstana de Regne Petrère 112 To make my stance perfectly clear, and public, absolutely not. Though this paper may be endorsed by my Vice Chancellor, one Rigoberto de la Cruz, I want to make it vehemently known that I, Wilford Reinhold; Chancellor of the Petra, do not support the formation of an Empire with the nations of Men. We have seen this attempted in the past, and each time, we have seen it fail. Typically, with war, bloodshed, and death. With the absence of the League of Veletz in our lands, and the end of the war I myself personally fought in, we have come to an era of peace. Treaties are being signed, alliances are being formed, and friendship blossoms amongst the race of Men. Why should we uproot this? Why should we make this leap into a tried method and expect different results? To go into this expecting anything less than what we have seen become of Empires before is the definition of the word 'insanity'. Many of us lived through the fall of Oren, and have lived to see what comes after. I do not need to be a genius, or have decent vision without my glasses, to see that the people do not want this. Our people, the people of the realms of Men have lives. We have families, and homes, and we are happy. And if we aren't, we do something about it. We are survivors. We have survived Oren, we have survived the Mori, we have survived Veletz, and we will survive whatever else comes our way. Along with this, forgive me if my memory fails me in my old age, but was it not agreed upon with the surrender of Adria that the midlands and the ruins of once-Winburgh would never again be settled on or belong to any nation? That the lands would serve as a reminder of the years of suffering endured at the hands of a aspiring Emperor? If I recall, a monument was to be constructed in commemoration of the lives lost. A monument. Not an Empire. Forgive me for becoming passionate in my writing as I pen this document, but as mentioned before, I am a veteran of this war. I saw the battlefield with my own eyes, I fought, and I killed, and I nearly lost my life on many occasion. There is too much death, too much ruin for the lands of once-Winburgh to ever host a community. The lands are haunted, if not literally, then in presence. They serve a damn good reminder of what we lost to Veletz. Not only would forming an Empire on these lands disrespect the agreement of surrender, and the terms signed upon by the very leaders we speak of, but it would disrespect the lives of Coalition soldiers lost in these battles, who died on these lands and were promised peace in the Seven Skies for their hardships, only to have an Empire built atop their graves. I cannot overstate enough my opposition to this notion. My Vice he may be, chosen by myself, Rigoberto de la Cruz and the other signatures of this missive will have no support from the Petran Chancellorship on this matter as long as I hold the position. The days of Empires among Men are over. It is time to accept what we have, and strengthen the bonds of our people and governments. The era of peace is here. Is it not time we celebrate it? Signed, His Excellency, Sir Wilford "The Protector" Reinhold, Chancellor of the Petra, Viscount of Stormont, Baron of Raònoir, Knight of the Petrine Laurel, Head Physician of the Reinhold Clinic, Head Steward of the River Council, Physician of the Vallagne Clinic, Patriarch of House Reinhold

From his desk, the Chancellor of Vallagne turns to the messenger, his face twisting into one of deep confusion, as he’s been locked inside all day to do paperwork. “…**** ye mean ‘th’ Pontiff’s dead’?”

Sitting back at his desk, Wilford hums quietly in thought as he swirls his wine. “Th’ trouble is, I ac’ually rat’er enjoy Rigoberto’s company. A’ leas’ we can ensure th’ deba’e won’ become personal attacks.” He muses to the silent study.

Wilford shakes his head, eyes brimming with tears as he laughs at his friend’s joke. “I guess we’re no’ gonnae be able tae have ye officia’e th’ vow renewal.”

A certain Petran Knight warms his hands by the fireplace in his study, flames licking high as the missive burns steadily to ash within.

Upon the news of the recent squire’s death, Wilford Reinhold lights a candle in the warrior’s honor. Perhaps once, years ago, he had found the young goblin a nuisance. But now, he mourns the death of a good friend. And when he sees the sign on his mailbox forbidding the goblin from leaving mail after a certain- Incident- he leaves it up. He has a feeling that the young Gob Ztabba-Zniffa would want this to be part of his legacy.