mothsthetic

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.

Yvaine Sonja reads the missive over a few times, sighing to herself. She should very much like to go- but deep down she know it’s perhaps not the best idea. The young woman folds the paper in half, setting it into a drawer in her desk.

With a small sigh, Sir Wilford Reinhold lowers the paper in his hands, passing it back to his lifelong friend. “I feel terrible I cannae make et- Can ye bring th’ newlyweds a gift fer me? Et’s th’ leas’ they deserve on their big day.” @Hom

Sitting at his desk while doing his usually nightly paperwork, Wilford Reinhold squints as he reads over the missive. The knight lifts his glasses and brings the paper closer to his face, expression scrunched in confusion as he lowers it. “O’er trout?”

Wilford wonders vaguely for a moment if he can get his prosthetic leg back now that Veletz is now Adria. And then he shrugs, figuring most likely not.

Viscount Wilford Reinhold stares at the missive with wide, completely shocked eyes as it’s placed on his desk. The only thing coherent in his train of thought is “Holy ******* ****.” And pride. Very proud of himself and his best friend.

From the library she peacefully sits in, Yvaine Sonja reads the news of her former brother’s heirship with her brow furrowed in concern. She remembers the boy well. “W Lady has named a bloodthirsty teenager for heir. Y do niet think this will end well…” The young woman mutters, lowering the paper and returning to her scriptures.

Baron Wilford Reinhold smiles with pride as he reads the invitation, proud of the young Queen he’s come to call a friend, and proud of all she’s done over the years. Placing the letter carefully onto his desk, he gets up, and begins to prepare a gift. After all- Her Majesty attended his own wedding. It’s time to show gratitude at her own.

Wilford sighs as he looks over the letter, shaking his head as he reads it over and over. A sense of familiarity washed over him upon seeing it. It could be real, of course. But the man remembers being sat in the throne room, beaten with his own prosthetic limb and forced to write a letter of similar case. Perhaps his friend is okay. Perhaps he is sitting peacefully in Lurin. One can only hope. The letter is quickly crumpled, and tossed into the fireplace.

To the people of Aevos, near and far. I sit here in the Veletzian throne room with shaking hand as I write this letter to you all. Kidnapped and beaten, with no one to come to my rescue. But what I am to say can be left unsaid. The Coalition has taken things too far. The destruction and killing of innocent people, of families, and their disgrace of the name of GOD have left a bitter taste in my mouth- as I'm sure is the case with all of you. It has been long since I left my home, since the war broke out. I've tried my best to avoid it, travelling as a doctor and healing anyone who needs it. We are all GOD's children, are we not? Therefore we all deserve mercy, and love to be given to us. I am here to say that I condemn this war. The taste of blood lingers metallic on my tongue from previous fights I have fought, and I shudder now to think of those now burdened with the taste due to this war. Let there be peace, true peace. For we all have families, we all have loved ones, children, spouses, parents and siblings. Too many have lost to this ongoing combat. Is it not enough? How much descendant blood must stain this land for us all to realize that no peace can be born on the bloodsoaked soil of our world? I do not know where my family is- but I pray for them, as I pray for you, reading this. As I pray for your family. Let GOD's light shine once more on these great lands. To my wife, should you be reading this, I love you. To my daughter, and my son, should you be reading this, I love you. Please, stay safe in these times of anguish. It is all we can do to keep our heads up, until peace once more sweeps across the land. Signed, Wilford R. Roideach, formerly Sir, formerly of the Petra.

Sir Wilford Reinhold hums slightly, sharpening his blade as he sits in his forge, remembering how the demon had broken his nose- and how he’d stabbed through its face in retaliation.