RaindropsKeepFalling

___________________________ In the far reaches of Adria's dominion, IRENE BASRID, once Francisca, reclined within her chair tucked within a study, gazing out the window to a rainy day. She had a family of her own, by now. Her days as a Dame in Petra had long passed her by. Yet, when the letter had ultimately reached her with the news, it was as if she was a teenager being knighted atop that peak which hosted the ruins her forefathers looked after once again. She was not an old woman anymore, rather, an oblivious young girl with too many questions to subdue. She read the final line silently over and over: Your Everloving Sister... Your Everloving Sister... Your Everloving Sister... Your Everloving Sister... Was she so deserving of that everlasting love? She had not been a good sister in many years, memories making the bottom of her stomach knot. So often, she claimed that it was never too late, even in death, but did she want to find out? Perhaps it was too late, and perhaps there was no point. Irene did not know; she wept. She had not cried in a long, long time; only when the reminder of her mortality and the loss of someone she had not known for so long did she weep. She wept until her collar made it evident, until her eyes were dry, and she did not know why. Maude had always been the wisest of their family, their generation. A generation bygone, she realized. They were the last of a lost era, but never forgotten; she swore that unspokenly. She swore that. ___________________________

Dedicated to Iskander Constantine Basrid, my dear son, who shall live on. I am not a storyteller of fiction, but this tale is more true than it is fictitious, despite the fantastical conditions. ____________________________ ___________________________ A lowlands road where children play, artist’s rendition, ca 1928 ___________________________ ━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━ —————————————— FOREWORD AMIDST THE ENIGMATIC DANCE OF LIFE, death and the unheard whispers that permeate the universe’s masque which a child wonders about, a tale unravels, threading through the labyrinthine paths that a needle takes, verily pricking one's innocence with spilt blood and worry. It is a narrative interwoven with the essence of a being’s heavy heart, where the ethereal and the mundane converge, beckoning the seeker to partake in its riddles. A cruel mistress it is, surely; I know her well. That is to say, we engage in the affair of knowing, for the price of the journey that comes with upon the “white road.” Moreover, we hope it trails to the holy road, where each and every person belongs individually. The way is already set to the rocks, the sun, the darkness, and the embers. The impoverished spirit swivels, to turn their back from the road, but they shan’t escape it; their blindness does not negate what is there. Even some rich and arrogant men would confess “I too must halt. I too stop before the white road.” Here, they travel eternally until they are astray with little compass backwards, leading them to folly or death. All roads lead home. It is here and it has ever been here, and will ever be here. One could come back not by seeking it, rather by looking, finding it at a glance, by turning their eyes to the right or left or looking ahead. The rest is present but unseen, albeit presumed. What has to be, what will always be, is here. At any one moment all my life is here. Let any moment change, and I would find myself in a new place, and that would indeed change my life. I would live then in a new life; but now, here, all my life is. It is my belonging, and my birthright, to where I stand and plant my feet. Here in the tapestry of each year according to time, I walk. I see it clearly in all my thoughts, all my sensations, all my feelings. At any moment everything and naught is clear to me. So clear that if I were to be given a clear cup of water to drink I could drink and drink and never be thirsty, though I would still drink again... The water is never pure, nay, there is always some mud; it only appears so clear. Such is life. Simply, life is the road which stretches outward; life is the water; life is the sun, and the sun shines on my soul. It does not make me run from life, it makes me seek to live it. Water passes through the body of the earth and eventually returns to it. Like the water from the earth, life flows into us. All we are, what we have, is only what is in us, but we absorb what we are made of. We are the sun, our essence is the sun. All we imagine to be is in us. In that way, we are not different. We are all Man. We are the same, cursed. We are still the One. This is our truth. It is the One. It is Life. It is the discriminatory glances they do not recognize, glancing within the mirror which reflects the dark end of the spectrum, and it is the ultimate tragedy. And here, our chronicle embarks. ___________________________ ━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━ —————————————— A PILGRIM COMES TO WHERE it seems to him a long way must be gone to regain the road to the light, and the white road, that which appears to bring one home. Yet, there is no such thing as a truly white road. All roads lead home, and all homes lead back to the road. So he walks on and on. It seems that he has no farther to go to find himself and his home, yet he continues to walk; he seeks more. When his feet tire and his eyes remain eager for the sights he has not already imagined, he comes to a great white church. It lacks windows and spires, and is without a door, resembling a box. Before his imagination constructs the inside, it as if he has lost himself in it; he asks himself: “Why was I here?” and he asks, “Was I on the right road on the wrong road?” and he asks, “Was I in the right place, or the wrong place?” and he asks, “Was I in the water or the embers to begin with?” He does not know. As his eyes cling to the church whilst his soul wanders miles offward, he clutches a book he has not written in. It is his own to keep and he retrieves a charcoal pencil and writes: The Book of Death. He walks to and fro but cannot escape the church's exterior garden. It is everywhere and nowhere all at once, much like the road. It lurks, and like a fractal, repeats without a corner or endpoint. The pilgrim, in his bewilderment, keeps walking. He walks for days, through the nights too. There are no breaks or rests or meals. His hunger lies with the road. Everywhere the pilgrim goes, he sees himself without listening, and he sees the white church without a door. Why had he begun? Where was he going? Where did he begin? The pilgrim does not know, and he keeps walking. He wants to be back to health and unthought. He wants to cry, to plead to his master, “Please! I do not wish to know! I wish to live in the light, so that it blinds me more than the dark, or church would.” But it is too late. He has already taken the step, and he has already drank the clear water. He wonders if his master is dead. He wants to get back to the way he used to live. He wants to be found, even if his master is dead. Then, suddenly, without knowing why, without giving a thought to anything else, the pilgrim walks to the side of the white church. He stands there looking at it. “I am here,” he says to himself. “I am lost, but I am here.” He thinks: “This has been my way. I know it...” He keeps on looking at the church. The road, his road. For thirty minutes he stands there. And for the first time, he recognizes a silhouette within the walls, which he recognizes are, in fact, paper thin. Reluctantly, he treads closer, and closer, until he can feel his breath against the cool stone, and he steps through the exit whence he’d come — the one he had not seen and everyone ends — to the church. A child is being baptized. He is here, and he is not. There is nothing he can do. He peers to a plaque aloft which reads in a language he doesn't know, in a typeface like his own handwriting. “God is asking me to tell my master and prophesy that he has made the clay, but He is making a book out of a bowel.” He murmurs to himself, and being unable to finish his thought whilst snickering, another voice chimes: “God is ‘good’ as we put it. He is everything, and this is the beginning.” “But there is no beginning. It has passed…” The pilgrim remarks, preceding his alarm from another soul that recognizes his own strife. He turns then to face a man who resembles him closely, but not so much that they were quintessentially indistinguishable. He was older by years. The pilgrim found his mouth hanging agape there, gawking just as he had for thirty minutes, thirty minutes which he now did not recollect. “O bold child, you are not to find words. I will teach you to teach yourself.” Murmured the old man. “I believe you,” said the pilgrim. “I will be a teacher. You will teach me, for you have made me a student.” With this, he was taken in to view the baptism and eat, drink and bathe comfortably. The pilgrim consumed his rations scarcely and only filled the tub halfway. He waited to meet the old man, who asked him, “Is there anything in this world which you do not understand?” The pilgrim sat in a small chamber. “There is nothing that I do not understand. There is nothing that I do not know.” “Say that then,” said the old man, “And you shall find love and money.” He knew the old man did not believe him, and he could not blame him, for he did not believe himself. He knew not what he believed, only that his feet ached to move once more, and for what reason? This, he also did not know. There was a transitory goal, like most goals were, but that was not here; it was elsewhere, and elsewhere he was not. “I do not seek love.” He said. “Then what do you seek?” “What I seek is knowing what I have sought. I do not know, I’m afraid.” “I see.” Mumbled the man. “Now, there is something else,” said the pilgrim. “I am ashamed to say, but I must say, I am also afraid of death. I fear you may kill me when I have told you about the white road to the light and the dirtiness of my soft palms.” “What!?” said the old man, astonished. “Why should I kill you, when I know you have told me what you have? When you have exclaimed the truth with foolhardiness? When I have taken you in, fed you, saved you, and you have sought to kill yourself?” “I speak with you, without knowing you. If I had never said a word to you before, you would find this strange. But now I am speaking of me to you, not knowing you, as if I had. You are more frightful to me than I to you as I live in the unknown. I do not know if you have lived many years, or just the right number.” “Why, you are a clever fellow.” “Leave it to the life which my master led; it is not my own to take claim to. He taught me all that I know. Everything.” He confessed. “Then what life will you lead?” “I will live for a long time to come, I suppose.” “Not if you let yourself die.” “I do not intend to. I don’t wish to… I told you I feared it.” “Oh, but it may consume you all the same. The light and dark, they are the same coin, boy. No different from you and I, only different moments surrounding the same place. This very church — it was once grand, and now it is not. But that does not matter. It is the past, and we may not change it. We live here, pray here, die here.” “And you do not rebuild?” “We do. Always, and always.” The old man answered without a thought. “And you do not wander elsewhere?” “Where else is there to wander? All roads lead home.” “I lost my home, long ago.” He thought aloud. “Then you are not from here.” The old man lofted a brow. “No.” He answered, nigh snapping. “You are not from anywhere. You are everything, at every time and place, at the same time. There is nothing that you have not seen and realized, and there is nothing that you will not see…” The old man paused. “...That is what you believe. That is what your master told you.” “How might you predict it that way?” “Because I am similar to you. I drank and stepped onto the white road as well.” “Then…” But before he could finish, he had already forgotten what he would say. The clock, although ever slow, ticked closer and closer with each second to when he reckoned he would leave. Of course, he did not know, and neither did the old man, even that book he carried. Although the road had been set before him, he had yet to cross it. That remained his responsibility. The path was predicated with footsteps shaped around the soles of his shoes, but he had not crossed it; no, it was not fully decided, only presumed. He was free of fate, yet trapped within himself, trapped to drink and drink without the pleasure of thirst. “...You are wondering what you shall do when you leave here.” The old man had read his mind. He looked up, locking eyes. “I wonder if I shall find my way back.” “There is no place to find your way to. This is it.” “And if I’d like more?” “Then you may drink and rejoice and face tragedy, but never stop treading onward…” He trailed off. “-But you will feel no differently. You walk without changing, and look while thinking too much to see. You carried a book here, but your pencil was sharpened so that I knew you had not written.” “I meant to.” “Regardless.” “I’ve faced temptation. I felt it would be inappropriate to write of something that attracted me, much like a moth to a flame, more than what I knew.” “You will never write again if you rely solely on certainties. You will find certainties through assumptions made to be true, fulfilling the footsteps in the footsteps of your ancestors. Of your master, and predecessors.” “I don’t recall them.” “Then learn. We live here, but rejoice about the past without dwelling. That does not mean we act willfully ignorant. We walk for a reason, not simply to walk.” The pilgrim paused. He had not considered this. He had indulged in historical pursuits prior, but they went no further than impersonal intellectualism. Now, his eyes turned red; he had not meant to cry. Suddenly, there was a handkerchief atop his palm, and he looked up to see the old man looming above. Five minutes had passed. He ought to go. “I don’t remember the way… Who I was… Who I ought to be…” He whispered. “You will find it with time. You may stay here if you wish. I believe you are clever, and that you might make a change.” The pilgrim shook his head. “I cannot. I must continue now, but with purpose…” “You have a look in your eye as if you remembered something. Do tell.” The old man pried, offering a hand as they both stood up together. “...I had seen the sun before I came here. And I had strayed from the road, so far that there was nothing but land, and a lack of anything else surrounding me… Strangely, I did not care.” “And?” “And I had asked myself, had I gone the right way, or wrong?” “Neither.” “Yes, but it was very dark, so hard to tell.” “Did you rest?” “No, I continued to walk.” They were walking now, whence he’d come and entered the church days hitherto. Whence he’d crossed onto the road, and looked into the walls to the baptism of the child, a child he saw himself in. “And when the sun came out?” Asked the old man. “I remember the sun,” he smiled. “How its light, like that of a fire-fly, floated from the sky, through the drapes, and faded, and blew away. Then it becomes dark, but in a minute it is light again. I do not remember whether I sought to thank the fire-fly for this, or to be angry with it.” The old man shook his head and scoffed. “You do not blame God for His absence. A partial creator would be an evil one… lest you are God, which I do not reckon you are, you do not understand the fireflies.” He considered his own words, it seemed. “They must be off galavanting on their own travels too. It is the evil men, who you blame, the ones who do not act as students.” “...I mean it metaphorically.” “And so do I.” “Hmph.” Grumbled the pilgrim, but not out of ignorance, rather perturbation of what he had already known. “I am still a Creatorist.” “Yes, I know.” Exchanging meaningless talk and pleasantries foregone prior to the rest of the trail, the duo arrived at the threshold where the pilgrim had arrived, a baptism being hosted the same. It was as if nothing had changed, nothing had. The pilgrim takes a step. ___________________________ ━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━ —————————————— POSTFACE WHEN I NEXT OPENED MY MAW, I felt fresh air inflate my lungs, which dried the moisture from a muddy path and the water I had consumed. It had been months since I’d seen winter, or drifted to a hearth; that day I drew onward to a place I had not been and found a house with a plaque which bore my name and a book titled Death. It had waited for my arrival, my deja vu. When I tread within, I found there to be a dancing flame. Dancing and dancing, in spite of its surroundings, in spite of its fleeting nature. It paid no mind, and I considered it a fool. Temptation burned me to put it out there, though before I could, I thought better and left; it would be inescapable otherwise, lest I was not a fool (certainly, I am.) By the time I awoke in the night, fireflies scattered the sky much like specks of tiny sunlight. I smiled, remembering what a friend had once told me, and continued to pray for equilibrium during the eclipse. Soon, thereafter, I returned to the white, snowy road, and ventured back home to my son where I had made another home. I do not partake in wishful thinking, but I hold arduous faith in the white road I had oft taken in my youth to draw change from a cruel era. Echoes of God, we are, and a harbinger of death: humanity. But, that never stopped victory, nor hope, nor enigma filling us to the brim until we spill into our kin’s essence, one — that way — together at that, simultaneously a downfall. With each passing moment, I felt the weight and rush of responsibility upon my shoulders. I was not just a bystander in the universe; I was an active participant, a vessel of light and dark, of class and exile and a mirror of the divine for all its sin and power that came with. Humanity, with all its flaws and virtues, embodied the paradox of existence. We were capable of great acts of love, yet so indulgent in our promotion of suffering and instrumental evil. Despite this, I look around, knowing I’m alive; here is what matters and shall we never forget what preceded our place in the road. The world deserves that. I took a step too. The sacrifice was worth it. ___________________________ ___________________________ by Irene Basrid, Countess-Consort of Susa Published 1929 FA © ___________________________ ━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━ ——————————————

imagine MY expression when i had ALL OF THESE MODS INSTALLED ON 1.19 and my face when 1.19 doesn't WORK ON AEVOS 0/10 server!!!

An artist's portrayal of Mount Garmont ———————————————————————————————————— WHAT STANDS NOW as a historic monument to the past is MOUNT GARMONT, left in ruins since the Acrean Revolution. If you have dwelled in Petra longer than a month, then you would recognize its appellation in any official release or ceremony. It stands at the summit of Petra — overseeing the growing Commonwealth from the North. Although its deadened state is naught glamorous, I hope that in documenting its history, the legacy may be honored and revered so our children, and their children, may know what preceded them. Akin to a family's ancestor, these things require a modicum of respect and acknowledgement. In spite of its name living on, its actual life deserves the same action as aforementioned. H I S T O R Y INITIALLY BUILT alongside the County of Mardon in the mid 1850s, under the last Emperor Philip III’s reign, known then as “Castle Garmont,” it stood as both a strategic keep and silhouette to guide travelers and citizenry alike. Occupied by who would grow to become King Frederick I in wake of the brother’s war, Garmont acted as the focal point of Mardon. Architects and portrayals suggest that the Castle’s appearance was one to be nigh envied. It reflected the County itself, predominantly made up of sturdy stonework and painted tile along with terracotta. The roof was not wholly arched, flat, rather and made up of crenelated parapets and battlements, usually reserved for sky reaching walls of manifold nations nowadays. Regardless, the Castle was not built for excitement and allure alone, notwithstanding the fact that it was the King-to-be’s home, Garmont provided an advantage to defenders, come wartime. Given its high altitude, guards would be able to spot invading forces long before they came anywhere near enough to properly attack (ranged or otherwise.) This aided the soldiers of Mardon to potentially ready the full aptitude of their military, allowing no room for an abrupt ambush. The Castle Garmont remained and was blessed with peace for years to come, throughout the Brother’s War and after that, up until the Acrean Revolution. T H E F A L L CONTEXTUAL UNDERSTANDING is needed to truly see the nuance of what came next. Amidst the revolution, Petran settlers (predominantly of Temesch blood, or those who had sworn loyalty) began to flood Mardon, which had been abandoned since the Brother’s War several years prior. Yet, some soldiery remained, guarding the pinnacle of a County (even a home) bygone. Many of these men were without proper leadership, and what kept them from anarchy was an eagerness to heed Oren's command, as loyalists. During the Acrean Revolution, the late King Frederick’s first son and namesake, Frederick Aurelian, sought refuge in Garmont. As Acre easily overpowered the remnants of the Kingdom of Oren on its last limb, it is to be speculated that Frederick Aurelian foresaw that they would reach Castle Garmont next. Before fleeing, or dying, there is one certain thing that the soldiers of the time saw: forces in numbers incoming. Naturally, the immediate assumption was that it was surely Acre. As a result, Frederick Aurelian provided a final order prior to his disappearance, to burn Castle Garmont before the enemies reached it. This was to prevent them taking control of it in the following regime. Haplessly, for the next three days to come, an inferno enveloped Castle Garmont, leaving the ruins we know today, and henceforth known as the "BURNING OF MOUNT GARMONT." If he had known that it was instead the Petran settlers, then perhaps the outcome would have differed. However, its initial advantage came to be its downfall, a lack of communication providing no further help either. By the time the Petrans arrived at the mountain's peak, the new Regent Paul Salvian stated that it would be honored, over the sound of coughing and sickness from the smoke. Since then, Dame Catherine of Furnestock (the late King’s sister) has verified that it has and will. ———————————————————————————————————— IT WOULD BE foolish to dwell on the philosophy of the decisions of dead predecessors, but we may concur that the actions taken were quite unfortunate. Many adults who are now active in the decisions of Petra’s future were children who grew up in a realm which only knew war. The Acrean Revolution promised a new, better era; we came to witness that this did not survive the test of time under the Harvest Confederacy. Although endings are oft inevitable, death in such a way as Castle Garmont’s may be prevented in the future by the guidance of its ruins, and the people within. I foresee that there are no guarantees, but we may rebuild and look to the reminders of our past to avoid similar mistakes. Hence, the soul of Garmont stays with our nation; we are not helpless. ———————————————————————————————————— By DAME IRENE OF MARDON 1 8 9 3 . . . O SAINTE RÈGNE PETRÉRE

"Finally, it's out..." The signatory IRENE declared with a huff, recollecting the Saint's Day prior and cramming which followed. She rose sluggishly from her desk strewn with papers, freed from her work... if only for a fleeting moment.

[!] A printed flyer was distributed across Orenian territory, neatly handwritten with an illustration to match. =+= ISSUED BY PRINCESS FRANCISCA IRENE NOVELLEN 12th OF HARREN’S FOLLEY, 1883 SORT OF ESTABLISHED IN 1879, the SCHOLARS BOOK CLUB served a group of best friends, initially prompted by Countess Halstaig Sadie O’Rourke and myself (Fran!) via inspiring speech. It brought inspiration to not only be exciting, but to pursue more things and share commonness between everybody (like any club probably should.) To put it simply, it aided the process and motivation to potentially write and absorb books, which there have been a dangerous lack of in our Kingdom [books.] Since then, there has been a pause due to the isolation and stillness during the recent war which is now over. Now, it may finally truly launch especially amidst Aster Calia, hence this missive being released. The SCHOLARS BOOK CLUB aims to bring the world to our fingertips. In fact, my old tutor once said that the ability to read is very, VERY powerful. As a result, it is my belief that everyone should read. With its publicity, I — Francisca Irene Novellen, Princess, writer, and ward alongside the other founders — hereby announce the real start of this club, open to most. You may ask, “How does this differ from any other old school?” That is a wonderful question. There is autonomy sought in this very club, to acquire more knowledge and impressive wit. That is the goal, after all. If we do not have our context of times before, then how can we do good things in the future? Although most books have been lost from the Stassion Court library, I hope to see more [books] through this exclusive club. To join, there are two requirements. You must be a kid. You must like to learn and read, or learn to read. If this applies to you and you are a lovely person, then please travel to Castle Stassion and speak with me or reply and send a bird to the Royal Aviary. I tend to the birds, so your letter will reach us. Future meetings will be hosted and sponsored by BOOKS & BOOKS in Florentine thanks to generous donations from the Countess Halstaig and Mischa Falcone. BEST WISHES Her Royal Highness Princess Francisca Irene Novellen

Although a call to action may be silly in premise, considering we've seen it exhausted many times to no avail, you cannot discount the point and rebuttal of the post. To say that Twi was maniacally laughing about ruining these players real lives is a biased oversimplification. Although she may have been competitive, and even joked about conquering their communities, not only have other nation's done the same (if not a lot worse) she did her best to make amends with Haelunor OOCly with several screenshots to attest. There may have been OOC bickering, but when can you name a war that hasn't had some roots that aren't solely in RP? Warring a nation does not equate with harassing real people. Why do you excuse the actions of other nations, including about half the server, refusing to consider that Twi isn't that bad in the grand scheme of things. Perhaps there is a screenshot of her saying "kys," or something along those lines. Anyone with half a brain can comprehend the fact that its in a joking, sarcastic manner. I won't claim that Twinny was faultless as a NL, however I will not pretend that administration has not only fumbled this verdict but shown their virtue signalling hypocrisy wholeheartedly. Moderation should not be an excuse to remove communities abruptly based on lackluster evidence. We still have no idea about the victims, or damning proof. Cropped screenshots are usually not difficult to provide, and we have seen that courtesy for much more heinous ban reports. Free Twi, or if you won't do that, then hold the majority of the server accountable for the supposed toxicity that she displayed. We can all count a few places and people a whole lot worse off the top of our heads alone. Those people that still roam the server freely, without any deserved consequences. That much needs to be recognized, truly.

Twinny’s Ban As of approximately an hour ago, Twinndolin (Twi or Twinny to some), the NL of Celia’nor was banned without an explanation. Some of you may already be aware of this. The ban is for 6 months without expectation of being unbanned, on the grounds of a Community Guideline Violation for "Harassment." What is the issue with this? Problematic players should be removed from our community, after all. The fallacious nature of this ban becomes evident when we realize that this is the extent of the knowledge we have. No moderator knows why she was banned. No mod manager was consulted on the ban for this supposed harassment. In fact, they did not even know why. There was no consultation beforehand with an influential player in the community. No follow-up to answer the common question: why? It's absurd to consider this proper procedure in any way, shape, or form. And highly unlikely for those who know her. Twinndolin remains anonymous, regarding her voice, opting for text-to-speech. It's rather difficult to justify such intense harassment when using a robot. And even then, she does not leave the confines of her discord and has no logs whatsoever regarding what she says through said bot. So what did she do that deserved a six-month harassment ban? A message through a forum would be quite sufficient with some evidence to show what she did wrong. But here’s an addition to this ban. This Community Guideline Violation comes with the added fact that she is forum banned. Locked off from the community and anathematized from interaction with others. What terrible thing could she have said to deserve a forum ban to block communication? To add to the strangeness of the timing, the heir of Celia’nor was unbanned the day prior to Twinndolin’s ban. The timing works perfectly for an easy transition from the current NL to the next NL. Maybe even shows the mod admin's preferred NL in charge. Perhaps that might be an answer as to why she was banned. To sum it up, no moderator knows why she was banned. No manager knows why she was banned. She is forum banned, so she has no way of hearing formally besides discord, in which no message was sent. A Community Leader and friend to many completely silenced just in time for a preferred player to take the mantle of the nation. Silence is the best way to treat those you do not like. Every avenue Twinndolin could seek was taken from her, and she has to pry away to understand so much of the reason she is banned. Banned by one person who never particularly liked her or wanted her to achieve. Its poor treatment of the average player and the server itself. Bias within the mod team has been a hot topic, but we can’t begin to argue either side when we don’t know what she did. She doesn’t know what she did, and it was not a mod decision. It was a decision by the admin alone. Admin bans like this should not be done on a whim, and we may all unanimously agree on that aspect. There needs to be a valid rationale and proof behind it. Please, Administration, clarify this situation. Until then, we can only make fair assumptions from what we’ve gathered. Give us the reason why she was banned.

Within an ivory prison locked from the inside, a messenger bird soared into the royal aviary housing beloved birds. There, a girl found solace in tending to them. She plucked the invitation without hesitance and skimmed the contents... Everything had to be out of her favor, didn't it? FRANCISCA brooded that day, visage riddled with sorrow.

Matteo clenched his jaw and seethed; no one knew over what exactly...

The Anti-Treason Ordinance 17th Sigismund's End 1879 With a marked increase in treasonous activities against the Kingdom of Oren by rogue agents, including rioting and threats of assassination towards members of the nobility, the Lord Inquisitor has deemed it fit to enact a policy regarding anti-Orenian activities within the climate. Treason, as defined in the Revised Orenian Code, but not limited to, is: 204.01 - Treason and Sedition Act (1751): On Treason 204.01A - Where an individual commits acts with the intent to compromise the integrity of the Crown and its constituent institutions by waging insurrection and seeking the destruction of the Orenian State by impugning the character and person of the Crown through subversive means such as collusion with enemy entities and actors against the State, this shall be the crime of treason. 204.01B - Where an individual commits acts with the intent to compromise the integrity of the Crown and its constituent institutions by waging insurrection, committing acts of violence, or raising flag in rebellion against the state, this shall be the crime of treason. This policy will include a swift crackdown on any supposed threats against the Crown and its citizens, ranging from slander of the Crown to violent terrorist attacks. We will give Inquisitor's complete authority to carry out justice as they see fit in order to bring terror and its associates to justice as soon as possible. This policy is unable to be completed by the Royal Inquisition alone. We require the assistance of all of the Kingdom of Oren to effectively police against traitors. If you know of anyone related to, committing or attempting to commit subversive actions against the State, you are required to send a letter directly to the Royal Inquisition or report this behavior directly to any member of the Inquisition so we may review the evidence and deem the appropriate action. Failure to report any evidence you may have knowledge of will be deemed as being complicit in the crime. Please direct all inquiries and reports to the Lord Inquisitor’s office. With unity and virtue, we may rid the world of evil and continue the peace we live in. ISSUED IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD; 1879 Matteo Basrid Lord Inquisitor Helen Basrid Inquisitor Secretary