Radzig

𝕱yodor peered towards the war veteran from across the fire, nestled somewhere within the Middelan hinterlands. His folk were still transferring supplies from their old camp back to rural Haense. "Dishonorable men cause dishonorable acts. We were slighted, debts remained unpaid." He'd return, pausing to take a swig of his carafe, which he would pass to the veteran over the fire. "That is why we left in the first place." A pigeon returns after a brief period of time bearing a scroll in response: 𝕸arkus, I will not capitulate to bribery. You give DUMA a bad name!

THE ADRIAN DEBT ___________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ To the Exilic Duke, Markus Marie Sarkozic, 𝕴t was upon the initial settling of Rychwald, a wild and forsaken expanse, that my folk swore to the League of Veletz, thus Captain-General Gaspard II. Barons, we were. Upon further agreement, our tithe of two thousand minae was delivered to the Captain-General in return for two things promised: I. Sole ownership of the region, which we never received. II. The development and systemization of our parcel of land, akin to the tile of a mural, which was never received. This you knew of and, to my recollection, understood. We are aware the remainder of the Veletzian treasury, latter Adria, is in your possession following the diaspora of the Adrians. While the bulk of this letter is context, the request is simple: We ask that you return our minae, two thousand in counting, before the coming Duma. Your old friend, Fyodor Kovachev

Fyodor frowns at the declaration. "I love Emilio Varoche!" He frowns with greater intensity. "This is very sad."

𝕱yodor felt the searing agony of an arrow tearing through his flesh, lodging itself deep into his leg. The bastard found himself assailed by the deafening crumble of Breakwater, the moan of a fallen nameless man clutching at a gash, likely the cause of his demise. Fyodor dragged himself from the courtyard, a mess of bodies, ruble, and melee, to the the edge of the now defunct moat, as it had become a receptacle for cruor and carrion. He began his descent when he heard a thunderous collision, the last of the ongoing barrage, hitting the nearby gatehouse. The structure collapsed upon itself. Fyodor peered towards his leg, ichor fluid pooling around the puncture. From the dust of the collapse came a figure, bearing the crest of the enemy. It pounced upon him, drawing a dagger and grasping at Fyodor's hair. The bastard grappled at the assailants arm, pushing the dagger westward with all his might, although it was turned back towards him shortly after, the glistening ferrum but a mere inches from his eye. The audible puncture of skin and flesh was the only thing Fyodor could hear, blood spilling and pooling at his chin. A blade had found it's way into the neck of the attacker, the blade belonging to a certain Andrik Uldarik. Without a word, he reached a gloved hand towards Fyodor, helping him to his feet, where he would place an arm around his bastard friend, helping him down into the moat. Fyodor, shortly after, found himself lead from the lost Middelan keep, through the forest flanking Veletz, coming to rest at a certain calm little tower at the edge of the Druscan countryside. The duo signed a two-barred cross, coming to rest at the base of the structure. "I vould have niet survived." The bastard huffed, strained a coarse from dust and rubble. "Da. That is what I am here for." Replied Andrik. "Do niet forget." Fyodor Kovachev never forgot.

Fyodor Kovachev signs a two-barred cross after hearing of the news. Great things were in store for young Sigmund.

Fyodor Kovachev prepares to relay such terms to a Haenseti Prince in the coming morning.

Lord Kovachev scanned over the tune, the finger-tapping of his wife audible nearby. He'd think for a moment. If things were already getting this heated, imagine what will happen at the Dumageddon...

Fyodor looks up from his scripts, a familial history tome gifted by his cousin, having just read of the legitimization of an ancient Kovachev bastard, much like himself, except Fyodor did not associate with the ilk of magi. To taint the blood those who gave you everything is a grave transgression. Fyodor smiles shakes his head, returning to the book.

Fyodor Kovachev lets his wife handle diplomacy. He is not very good at these things.

Fyodor signed a two-barred cross, huffing as he did so. "You will not be buried under the Balian sands, Spravca. You will rest under the trees of Rychwald."

Fyodor Kovachev affixes the message onto a tree in Rychwald, marking it with a double-barred cross. "Past be past." He'd begin. "Let the Stassion stand for their true value."

Fyodor Kovachev can't wait to attend. He orders the camp confectioner to make a cake in preparation.

Fyodor Kovachev leans upon the cobble remains of the Northern Post. Rychwald stretched to the banks of the Veletzian countryside, the Knight peering beyond to the city of Winbrugh. His pike rested on the remains of what seemed to be a bell tower, now covered in moss and the remains of many years. An orange and red banner sat slung upon his shoulder. He peered towards the smoldering fire, now mere clouds of smoke which would billow and illuminate the befouled night sky. "We will remain, Brezwyck. GOD help any who infringe upon such." He'd mutter to the Prizak at his flank. @woke

Fyodor adjusts his polearm, peering towards the hinterlands. "It's the natural denouement." He'd sound, grinning a winter's grin.