CopOwl

The haggard hand of a very elderly woman stirs as the sun's morning rays filter into her dusty, long-undisturbed room. Slowly lifting her hand to faintly pull aside her curtain, allowing the light of the rejuvenating sun to enter her cloudy eyes, she whispers senselessly. "I sense a shift ... The Afors ripple anew. The legacy of the seed grown from the blackened soil continues... May the flame of the Kolburanaz never go out." She slowly lowered her hand, and slipped back into a deep slumber, much to her nurse's confusion.

I LOVE YOU “... Like someone …?” The person asked, eyes snapping up towards him as they desperately tried to appear as though they were not hanging off of his each and every word. They listened with such intent to the slight figure before them, their mind quivering on the precipice of some tremendous truth, that the faintest drop of poison entered their perception and everything soured. Soon they found themselves listening in rapt to the memory of the words of a deceiver, and their thoughts recoiled at the theory. “If vy’re messing with me- ea need vy to tell me right now.” They found their lips breathlessly speaking, although their rationality could not appreciate the concept; he has never made a joke once in his life, I am being ridiculous. “He is being respectful, da?” Enquired the voice of the Grand Lady, sitting with the person in counsel, although she cast a threatening glance to the dagger concealed upon her hip beneath layers of coats. “AI, OF COURSE HE IS - !” They replied in despair, “He spooked me- ea-” They sighed dramatically as their muffled voice emanated from where they had concealed their face within the folds of their gown; knees raised to rest their feet on the comfortable tavern chair they were seated upon. “Mari, what am ea meant to do? Ea can’t keep avoiding him forever.” They implored of their patient cousin. The Grand Lady, for her part, hugged the recently matured person before her closer as a poorly concealed chuckle escaped her. “It can be soh very scary.” She began, gently placing her head upon the person’s own, “But if vy like him, and he likes vy …” Marian Weiss herself grew faint even as she continued to speak, for the memory drifted away from the person’s recollection. The colours of the scene grew murky and obscure, tinged layers of each object in their vision beginning to separate out as sleepy darkness encroached, ultimately enveloping their sight as though they were falling asleep once again. The boy stares at the person with founded confusion, “Eam … Niet joking.” He rightly murmurs, advancing on them but furrowing his brows in in concentration as he strains himself to focus his gaze upon their eyes. He appears to examine them for a moment before being forced to avert his gaze and look away, “Ea like vyr eyes …” He murmurs, “They … Have a comfortable warmth within them.” The person meets his gaze for a few seconds; their own eyes wide as their breath catches in their throat. They glance down to his feet as he proceeds unerringly towards them, and they step back in turn as their heart continues to thump upon their chest like a ferrum-soled boot. “That’s-” They glance about for a moment. “Vy’re-” They stutter, their breathing quickening as their mind races with anxiety. “Spas-” Beads of sweat begin to seep from their pores, even in the Haeseni winter chill with flakes of snow falling around them. “That’s- that’s real nice of vy,” As the memory flickers in their unconscious mind, they recall speaking the boy’s name, but can extract neither his name nor his face, despite being able to remember the sincerity of his gaze with precision. They remember the stumbling thud of their boots upon the snow-laden ground as they mumbled their jittery apologies and begin to retreat. With the recollection and reality of her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Elena Viorica Kortrevich awakes with a start in the midst of a wintry nocturnal disturbance. Even in the intense cold, the room’s fire withered where its hearth once blazed, perspiration again dots her forehead as she reorients herself and begins to relax. She whispers quiet reassurances and prayers, though among her consolations are the hopes that “Ea though ea had outgrown nightmares …” Once comforted, she begins to note her memory of the vivid dream shrinking away from her clear recollection, and thinks again on her resolution after discussing the matter with Marian. The rises slowly from bed and lights a lamp, careful to restrict her gentle movements to avoid waking anyone sleeping in the rooms beside her own, and fetches her miniature pocketbook and Koravian poetry volume from her effects. Her face illuminated by oiled lamplight, Elena begins to whisper rhymes and jot down the lines and stanzas of her next poem. Her efforts proceed through the hours of howling winds until the ambient light accompanying the sun’s majesty begins to bleed through the shut up windows of the poet’s bedroom. She glances up, only now noticing the sad misery of her burnt-out oil lamp, and fatigue encroaches in. She returns her exhausted gaze to the poem before her, as yet Untitled, and she glances over the brief notes she had made before the dream dissipated in her mind. With her persistent heart once again beating with insistence, she feels as though an anvil were sitting upon her heart, and only one phrase echoing through her groggy mind. Elena extends her quill forth towards the header of the poem’s page, and scrawls three simple words embodying her entire feeling and being in that moment. “I Love You” The following piece of poetry is published, in homage of I Hate You by VKML Borris Kortrevich: “I LOVE YOU” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 509 E.S. The pain of loving you, Watching you drift away I knew, Everything between us two, Would one day be through, But oh, how I love you. My strain is no fault of yours, But all I seek is sweet assures, To supply my heart its cures, For the endless pain it endures, In service of me loving you. As I await your arrival, My beating heart enduring trial, I recall your gaze’s spirited revival, And suddenly I feel I’m going viral, Because of my love for you. Yet standing before you all naive, My voice lost; all it can achieve, A quiet utterance as I leave, Since all I can do is disbelieve, That you chance to love me? Each word you speak enters like an axe, But a boy unaware the agony he exacts, Asks just how can I make up my lacks? For all my heart does is crack, And with what worthiness can I Love You?

Issued by the Naf zwy 11th hag i Jula ag Piov i 509 E.S. "The LORD PALATINE is the penultimate authority of the realm, second only to the Sovereign of Haense, and leads the realm as Head of Government and first aide to the sovereign at his/her behest. Historically, the Lord Palatines have held massive authority, rivalling that of some modern monarchs, and traditionally operate as one of the crown’s most loyal and zeal subjects in accomplishing its interests and goals. The most likely candidate for selection has typically been from Haense’s sprawling nobility and gentry, though there have been cases where clergy (V and IX) and even commoners (XIV) have held the seat." - The Lord Palatines of Haense; 131 E.S. As the Aulic Council inquest continues, the time has come for the Office of the Auditor to summon the occupant of the office of the Lord Palatine (New Marian: Herzen Palatin), Walter Leòn Weiss to speak before the Royal Duma. The Auditor’s summons are intended to answer questions regarding ongoing circumstances within the Dual-Kingdom, and to allow the boyars of the Duma to question the Palatine on his works and plans in a public forum. His Majesty’s Duma hopes to see the Lord Palatine, if possible, at the next session of the Royal Duma so that he may address the hall’s inquiries at his convenience. Her Ladyship, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess-Emerita of Malkovya, Keeper of the Book, Lady Auditor of the Royal Duma, and the Secretary of the Esrova Courts

Issued by the Naf zwy 10th hag i Wzuvar ag Byvca i 505 E.S. "The Lord Emissar (Herzen Vykomyn) is the highest official to represent the Crown in foreign affairs. Under the Emissar’s expertise and guidance, the Aulic Ambassadors manage the Crown’s foreign relations. The Emissar has the Crown’s designated authority to judge and enforce His Majesty’s Will outside of Haeseni Borders." - Ministry of the Emissar; 468 E.S. The Office of the Emissar has been notably more quiet than usual in recent years. Therefore, the Auditor of the Duma wishes to summon the incumbent Lord Emissar (New Marian: Herzen Vykomyn) Viktor Siegmund var Ruthern before the legislative assembly to report upon his office, his current and future plans for the kingdom’s diplomatic ventures - particularly in light of the prospect of war on the horizon - and to allow His Excellency to report upon the state of the nation’s foreign treaties. His Majesty’s Duma hopes to see the Lord Emissar, if possible, in the next session of the Royal Duma so that he may address the hall’s inquiries at his convenience. Her Ladyship, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess-Emerita of Malkovya, Keeper of the Book, Lady Audtior of the Royal Duma, and the Secretary of the Esrova Courts

SIEGE UPON THE SENSES Nestled away within the peaks of the frozen north, the City of Valdev lay bare its inhabitants to the Blizzard. The Blizzard and the City were at war, and the Blizzard was winning. Many of the citizens of Valdev had lost sight of how long the Blizzard had been wreaking its chaos on them; the young had grown with it, and the old had forgotten life before it. One morning the tempestuous snowfall erupted from the chalky clouds gathered above without warning; arising from magickal means. Great swaths of wintry matter carpeted the streets and houses as colossal freezing spikes of ice and niveous material erupted from the pavements alike a volcanic peak emerging from the seabed. Soon enough, the hardy Haeseni were strangling themselves in scarves, and overlaying each garment with slabs of insulating fur before venturing into the constant snowy cloudburst hovering just outside the firelit safety of each domicile. The basilica doors were shut, the taverns were boarded, and fireplaces were alight all over the city as each citizen dug in to survive the ongoing nightmare. Although the City had not caught a glimpse of the exiled sun for months, the operations of the Haeseni continued with as sunny a disposition as ever. Few lost the battle to the Blizzard, but those who did were remembered fondly and burnt; in celebration of their lives, and to remind the survivors who they died for. As the flames of the funeral pyre licked at the logs amidst the squall, they emitted a warm glow that represented, for many, Hope. Any external endeavour became more difficult than ever, and messengers soon learnt not to dawdle on their journey as they may once have. Those traversing the streets stooped, bundled in hats and scarves, with their shoulders offering counsel to the ears as they hurried furiously onwards through the tempest to a veritable galaxy of diverse destinations. Stories echoed through dimly lit taverns describing the boy whose uncovered ears came off when he arrived in Valdev, or the old man whose collapsed body in the snow became icily encased thoroughly enough to replace a broken palace step, being buried and unnoticeable under so much snow. Such myths of horror filled the imaginations of the unfortunate pilgrims hiking through the desolate cobbled avenues as the gnawing teeth of the wind bit at their skin with burnt needling pin-pricks. Nevertheless, as the furious flurries slammed against the frosted windows, a very heated battle was taking place inside one of the most prominent tavern's walls. The child felt like they had been there for weeks rather than hours; sat impatiently by the fire as muffled sounds had emanated from within a locked bedroom, strange figures had rushed about, and the Blizzard's anguished screams echoed through the streets all the while. Their anxious fingers rapped against the leg of their stool as blank figures rushed past them and out of sight once more. Enquiries were made, until a shrill voice rang out throughout the room and the fire crackled; the fiery figure's face lit by flame. “Nie one ****ing asks!” Matching them, the other person rebutted their shouts until the pair were engaged in a battle of furious wills – who would crumble first under the other's ire? The child watched all of this in horrified rapture; what had sparked this pillar of vengeful fire they saw before them? Their face grew red and hot from the intense heat of the scene of burning bloodshed before them. Only people with such fierce love between them could inflict pain of this scale on one another; is this the fate to befall all who care so deeply? The child, frightened by the display, clasps their clammy hands over their ears, burying their head to distance themselves from the fight. Their heart ached with the weight of betrayal and rejection, and they thought of the whispers about that old man. Maybe he, like them, had felt so burdened by the struggles of life that he had simply laid down for the winter storm to embrace him, a mother greeting her child once again, and felt the life drain from his husked soul. Eventually, the child's turbulent emotions washed over them and the pain they felt from watching their loved ones tear each other limb from limb became too great; they lifted their rubicund head, grief-stricken tears slipping down their rounded cheeks, and shouted: “STOP!” They cried out, “Just stop! Please stop fighting-!” And, like the child, the Blizzard's mistral roared as the tavern creaked under the strain… The following piece of poetry is published, reflecting on the ongoing blizzard: “SIEGE UPON THE SENSES” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 504 E.S. In Piov the high skies grew nebulous, Winds whistled while ground shew tremulous, And parents and progeny grieved, 'God is punishing us' they cried, As I wonder why I have not died. Pocketed in the fires crackle, As clans and cads alike collect, They fester like a beetle’s nest, Packed closely in by house arrest, While rowdy outwinds yip in jest. Through the rows the squall raced by, The cyclone shrieked a pained reply, Blankets of snow cloaked the ground, Woe betide, for those outside, Lost bearing and drowned. While the blizzard shrieks, so do I; To douse the striking sound, As ferocious rioting ‘rupts around, My fam’ly ties all but torn, As we pray for coming dawn. Its fate Haense has accepted, A solution we’ve neglected, One morn soon the day shall come, When we’ll warm by glowing sun, So death upon this snow-filled bomb!

<3 <3 <3

Even as the first copies of the Haeseni Customs Vol. II were being distributed, the sedulous Secretary of the Esrova Courts was making her final adjustments to the study. A red-faced, sweating Scyfling servant sprinted through the frigid streets to Valdev to Queen Amaya's office in the Palace; sent with the final manuscript from Malkovya. He hammered senselessly on the Queen's door, "It's from your Mostir, your Royal Maj- Esty-!" The poor soul had to pause for breath in the middle of a word. Meanwhile, elderly Anabel Elia Colborn was wiping the sweat from her brow. "Phew- crisis averted." She murmurs, ink still dripping from her quill. "May the Council's voice never be perverted under my watch." The aged woman clasps a hand to her heart, before taking in her personal copy of their work. "And may this history never again be forgotten." Then, the old overworked woman rises from the desk and heads to sleep off her late-night editor's exhaustion. Until the next project comes along-!

Published from the County of Malkovya ISSUED ON THE 11TH OF TOV AND YERMEY, 501 E.S. As our society marches unendingly forwards, the Countess Anabel Elia Colborn has fulfilled the duties assigned to her following the abdication of her eldest son, Carolus Ivan Colborn. For 18 years has she ruled justly and with great warmth over the growing Comital household, however age and the onset of senility draws her away from the forefront of peerage towards the pleasant home that she built at Vitraval upon Afors. Therefore, Lady Anabel wishes to abdicate her position as the Countess of Malkovya and Matriarch of House Colborn to her well-trained Grandson and Heir, Lord Cassian Colborn who has proven himself quite qualified. As such, Cassian Alarik Colborn shall henceforth be recognised as the Patriarch of the House of Colborn, the Count of Malkovya, Viscount of Venzia, Baron of Bethlenen, Lord of Vitraval, and the Protector of Scyflings, and Lady Anabel retired to her Council position as the Keeper of the Book of Colborn. Her Ladyship, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess-Emerita of Malkovya, Keeper of the Book, Lady Auditor of the Royal Duma, and Secretary of the Esrova Courts The Right Honourable, Cassian Alarik Colborn, Count of Malkovya, Viscount of Venzia, Baron of Bethlenen, Lord of Vitraval, and the Protector of Scyflings

Issued by the Naf zwy 8th hag i Joma ag Umund i 500 E.S. "At the head of the court sits the Grand Lord or Lady, charged with administering the Morrivi as a whole. As the most venerable and competent of the council, they shall strive for excellence in all things, seeing to it that their underlings are diligently put to task. In addition to this, they are to shepherd the Haeseni culture and serve as advisor to the King and Queen on all matters pertaining to such." - Ve Morrivi Kort | The Formation of the Royal Court; 453 E.S. Following the retirement of the seasoned Fabian d’Arkent-Kortrevich from his position on the Aulic Council, it seems pertinent for the Auditor to summon his appointed replacement; Grand Lady (New Marian: Ve Haucherzenas) Marian Blackwood-Weiss @CasChaos before the Royal Duma to allow her to report on the workings of the Esrova Prikaz Courts. Furthermore, these Summons are to allow the Grand Lady to answer any questions that the Haeseni populace is certain to have for Her Excellency, specifically regarding any planned revisions for the reformed Courts and her personal goals for her tenure upon the Aulic Council. His Majesty’s Duma hopes to see the Grand Lady, if possible, in the next session of the Royal Duma so that she may address such quandaries at her leisure. The Right Honourable, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess of Malkovya, Viscountess of Venzia, Baroness of Bethlenen, Lady of Vitraval, the Protector of Scyflings, Keeper of the Book, Lady Audtior of the Royal Duma, and the Secretary of the Esrova Courts

Little Elena Viorica Kortrevich peers with wide eyes at her wiser senior cousin's newest work of poetry. "Ea wish ea could write like Leo," She murmurs, recollecting the conversation she shared with the very same Leonid Kortrevich months prior concerning how to find poetic inspiration. "But niething really grabs mea attention like it did years ago..." The girl muses. Truly, nothing could quite compete with the terror of the weightlessness of a body adrift in water. "Ea should go ask Leo what his poem is about," She decides for herself, hopping up from where she was sat and scrabbling off in search of the Poet Kortrevich.

Published from the County of Malkovya ISSUED ON THE 9TH OF GRONNA AND DROBA, 499 E.S. After years of construction and labour under the watchful gaze of Countess Anabel Elia Colborn, she is pleased to announce the completion of the House of Colborn’s holding within the lush County of Malkovya. The wise Council of Colborn, with special guidance from the Heir, has after much deliberation decided to dub the newly-constructed keep: Vitraval upon Afors, or simply Vitraval. The name is derived from the Scyfen word for the centrepiece of the domicile; a glistening white tree, known as the Carrsten Tree, without leaves whose seed was carried by the Colborns that migrated from Almaris to the new continent, and after whom St. Carr was named. Some Scyflings believe that the sap of such trees has magical healing properties, although its sap has not been harvested for a long time. The Scyfen word “Vitraval” translates to “Walled-in White Tree” in honour of this iconic symbol of House Colborn around which the keep’s walls were built. Additionally, the area of river upon which Vitraval is built has been named the “Afors”, meaning “Where the river meets the Falls”. Vitraval in its grandeur boasts a multipurpose ballroom, comprehensive library for hosting the Colborn archives, stables, gatehouse, Burgrave accommodation, Barracks, Training grounds, extensive housing for Colborn kin, an alchemy tower, crypts, Council chamber, and the Hall of Patron Ancestors. The Countess Colborn wishes to thank those who aided her in the organisation and construction of Vitraval, and hopes that the discerning eye of the Haeseni populace shall deem their hard work to have been worth it. However, due thanks must first be given to those loyal helpers: Amelia Ceciliya Colborn Karyna Rezalin de Pelear Alfred Konstanz Barclay Mikhail Ulrik Aleksey Colborn Charlotte Henrietta The Right Honourable, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess of Malkovya, Viscountess of Venzia, Baroness of Bethlenen, Lady of Vitraval, the Protector of Scyflings, Keeper of the Book, Lady Auditor of the Royal Duma, and Secretary of the Esrova Courts

Issued by the Naf zwy 9th hag i Gronna ag Droba i 499 E.S. "It is the Knight Paramount, First Knight of the Table, who watches over all other Knights and Squires in the course of their duties and ensures the Order runs with unquestioned integrity. While the Knight Paramount may choose the Meyster Knight, Knight Martial, and assign any other Seats as he sees fit, it is the Crown alone who chooses the Knight Paramount through the ancient ritual of the Drowning of the Blades." - Kossar i Haenz | Knights of Haense Following recent publications questioning the Knight Paramount (New Marian: Ve Kossarowain) Audo Weiss @Frostdrop1, it seems pertinent to summon him at the will of the Auditor in order to publicly combat or confirm allegations against the Ser’s honour. Furthermore, with Ser Audo being so new to the Office of the Paramount, both the public and the Boyars of the Duma are likely curious to question him on his ambitions for the development of the Kingdom’s Knightly Orders in the coming years - with the hope that his efforts shall extinguish any ongoing stagnancy. His Majesty’s Duma hopes to see the Knight Paramount, if possible, in the next session of the Royal Duma so that he may address such quandries at his leisure. The Right Honourable, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess of Malkovya, Viscountess of Venzia, Baroness of Bethlenen, Lady of Vitraval, the Protector of Scyflings, Keeper of the Book, Lady Audtior of the Royal Duma, and the Secretary of the Esrova Courts

Published from the County of Malkovya ISSUED ON THE 9TH OF MSITZA AND DARGUND, 496 E.S. After consideration at the behest of the Colborn Council and its Chair, Matriarch Anabel Elia Colborn, a new successor of House Colborn has been selected. Unfortunately for the Scyfling House, its previously-chosen heir; Lord Nikolai Adrian Cedrik Colborn, has found himself unable to fulfill the duties allocated to the Heir or Head of Household. As is the chosen succession pathway of the Comital House of Colborn, the Matriarch is at liberty to select her heir from among the Housewide pool of potential candidates, however she also may request the wisdom of her Council in making her decision. As such, the wizened Colborn Council has made the decision to appoint young and promising Lord Cassian Alarik Colborn as the Heir of House Colborn, future Count of Malkovya and Protector of Scyflings. In the meantime, Countess Anabel shall continue to carry out her role as the Matriarch, and will train the young Heir in preparation for his ascension to Peership once he becomes of age. The Right Honourable, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess of Malkovya, Viscountess of Venzia, Baroness of Bethlenen, Lady of Vorenburg, the Protector of Scyflings, Keeper of the Book, and Secretary of the Esrova Courts His Lordship, Cassian Alarik Colborn, Heir of House Colborn, Heir to the County of Malkovya, Viscounty of Venzia, Barony of Bethlenen, and Lordship of Vorenburg His Lordship, Nikolai Adrian Cedrik Colborn

A FROZEN DREAM CRACK! A colossal sound echoes throughout the river valley surrounding Valdev as the thin wintry river ice cracks, spiderwebbing from the pressure of the forms bundled down and shivering on the ice. As the sheet of ice begins to splinter, miniature icebergs becoming embroiled in water and beginning to float away, the increasingly large hole created in the centre of the cracking ice sheet is conspicuously absent of its prior occupant… Quiet. The child feels … Cold. An immense feeling of pressure and intense frigidity fills their bones; it had been all at once, and their limbs were frozen. They cannot move. Weakly, they open their pale eyes and peer upwards towards the light emanating from the hole in the ice. They feel weightless suspended in water, sinking down towards the riverbed all the same. They can hear the panicking shouts of their companions crying out, but nothing can spur them to fight it; fight against the growing chill biting their flesh. Their lungs were compounding under the pressure; they couldn’t possibly breath, but yet they needed air. As their mouth gapes open to gasp, begging for the sweet release of air, their throat only fills with cool rushing water as bubbles rise to the surface. Several bubbles break the surface of the open pool with a quiet, understated popping sound. The other children fighting for their lives scrabble, scratching against the ice, onto the sheet breaking apart. One among them, however, soaked and sodden as his hands become covered in dirt from grasping the grassy riverbank, peers out over the ice hole with terrified reddened eyes. “SESTRA!” He cries out in fear. Although their mind fills with recollections of their lifetime and an all-consuming terror as they face their death in the eyes, there is a strange peace found in the stillness and silence. Their mouth and throat feels numb from the effects of the ice water filling them, and they gasp frightfully for air. They peer up at the light from above and for a moment their lids make out the unmistakable piercing gaze of another set of eyes bathed and glowing with light. It is only the eyes’ evocation of wonder that fills their mind in their final moments as tiredness overtakes, and their eyes begin to close. However, a crashing sound arrives in their ears, spurring them to gaze upwards once more. Bubbles float upwards as their frozen skin feels the warmth of another’s hands grasping at them. The form of a familiar boy swims down to the child with fitful determination. The brother grabs them by the elbow, dragging them up from their resting place on the riverbed. Unable to move as the coldness of the river water implants weakness into their muscles, they are passively pulled towards the surface of the water and the ice hole – landing upon the brother’s back. The siblings rocket towards the surface of the water under the brother’s tremendous power, their heads about to breach and supply the child with the air they so craved– Elena Viorica Kortrevich awakes with a gasp for air in a pool of sweat. She looks about the room in worry, before relaxing somewhat as she realizes that she finds herself in the Clinic of Valdev. “It was just a dream …” She whispers to herself, wiping her brow that is sopping with sweat. “Just a bad dream,” She murmurs breathlessly, recalling the events of the day prior. As the fleeting memories of her nightmare begin to fade away, her tired eyes find rest on her exhausted brother, Dimitri, sleeping in a chair at the bedside. Having noticed that one of her cousins had awoken, Marian wanders over towards Elena to check her over. “Ah, vy are too hot, petite,” She whispers in an effort to not wake the other sleeping children, her hand on the girl’s forehead as she removes one or two of the young Kortrevich’s blankets and supplies her with a cup of water. "Ea had a very bad dream …" She whispers to her caring cousin, who nods dotingly. Marian strokes some of the girl’s hair, brushing it out of her face. “Ea see that,” She remarks gently, “Donniet fash; just go back to sleep, da?” In response to which the child nods her head obediently, attempting to settle back down and close her eyes. As her mind reflects on the events of the past 12 hours, she begins to drift off into the endless bob and dip of a slumbering suspension… A few weeks later, the following piece of poetry is published: “A FROZEN DREAM” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 495 E.S. As I sleep in the depths I think, Of the weightlessness of water, How my body sways with the tide; There can no more peace be tried. Yet my heart it feels burdened, As each gasp buries me further, The anchor of my grief binds me, To these watery depths for eternity. I lament those sorry sailors, Tears synonymous with sea, Their daughters knew their fate not; Woe ‘placed for fear they’d been forgot. Shall I surface once again, Naught but my debris remaining, The carrion feast themselves while I, Rejuvenate with kin and God on high.