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.

No longer the youngest Kortrevich following the birth of her brother Cyrus, Elena Viorica Kortrevich grieves the death of her beloved mother. As her siblings and father shared the news with her, speaking to the young girl with soft voices; she became fitful, bereaved and panicked. The tiny girl stumbled up from where she was seated and attempted to scurry past her kin up the stairs to where their mother lay. "Nie!" Screamed the sobbing child, cheeks reddened and hands balled into fists as she kicked and screamed. Her older, wiser siblings gently grappled with her, holding her in their arms as she cried and painfully screamed. "MAMEJ-!!" She gasped out. Although eventually subdued and stifled by her family's envelopment, the Kortrevich home did not know quiet that evening, for the wracking sobs of a young baffled child emanated all night long.

The Countess of Malkovya grips the letter sent to her with wrinkled hands. Tears slip down her pale old cheeks; she had known this would come soon enough, but even so ... "Forlati mik, my dear..." She whispers, "I should have ... Spent more time. Forlat.."

Anabel Elia Colborn, mother of the Bride, wells up and begins to cry as her own invitation reaches her. "My little baby girl -- !" She sniffles.

Published by the County of Malkovya ISSUED ON THE 10TH OF VYZMEY AND HYFF, 491 E.S. Penned by the hand of The Right Honourable, Anabel Elia Colborn, Countess of Malkovya and Keeper of The Book "Historia av eldernvar visdomi av viselagda." - Anadan the Wise "History is the old world’s wisdom as seen by those before us." - Scyfling Proverb A significant portion of my work as Keeper of the Book of House Colborn is dedicated to the memory and preservation of our history; those great many practices upheld by our Scyfling ancestors many generations ago that have nearly been lost to history if it were not for the relics and records safeguarded by my predecessors. In part, it is due to the seclusion and protections placed on the Colborn library – an archive guarded by House Colborn ever since the day that our Founder, St. Carr of Carrenhall, met that famed young boy, St. Karl Barbanov – that this rich cultural history has been defended for so long. However, it is also due to the library’s concealment that the youth of today are uneducated on such topics. Therefore, it is part of my duty as the Protector of Scyflings and Keeper of this hallowed Book – in conjunction with the preservation efforts of the Head Librarian of House Colborn, Amelia Ceciliya Colborn – to share the tales, beliefs, and storied traditions of our Ancient Ancestors. Besides this Study, only word of mouth, the writings of our more recent ancestors like St. Carr, and past archaeological discoveries preserve them. There are a great many aspects of our Ancestors’ lives unable to be included in this publication, but it is my hope that any insight into our very ancient past might be preserved in the memories of youthful scholars. Naturally, the current traditions regarding such topics as Marriage and Burial among prominent Scyfling groups like the Comital House of Colborn in Hanseti-Ruska may have developed over time, and will therefore differ from the beliefs and practices detailed herein; such is as the ebb and flow of time dictates. However the perceptive Scholar may notice certain similarities that may indicate where and how current customs have come to be. It is also worth mentioning that it was only due to St. Carr’s influence that the Scyfling people were converted to follow the word of Godan, and that prior to this, Scyflings were a pagan group that followed their own pantheon of gods and goddesses. An ancient portrait picturing legendary warrior queen Brynhildr; famous for killing the hero Siefried after he tricks her into marrying a chieftain named Gundahar. , during the times prior to Scyfling conversion to Canonism, came from a need to attract the attention and blessings of the pagan Gods that were worshipped at that time. Earning these blessings were vital in order for the couple to become parents in the future and continue their bloodline. To allure the attention of the Gods, wedding traditions were intricate and complex, however this was also because of the legal implications that any marriage would have. Marriage was viewed as not only a Union of the bride and groom, but a Union of the two families from which they hailed, thus they could have an effect on mutual family property and/or lines of inheritance. At the time, an unmarried lady would attract the attention of the groom’s family who would gather their legal delegates to decide the value of her dowry, the value of the groom’s assets, set a date for the wedding, and to negotiate the wedding gift from the groom’s parents. The date was a vital thing to decide; weddings were traditionally held in the goddess of marriage’s sacred month, snow made winter weddings impossible, and weddings used to last a full week. After the groom’s family have agreed, they gather with their counsel, and other local figures to bring the proposal to the bride’s family. With the proposal, they promise to support and assist the bride’s family in future endeavors, and both families agree on mutually beneficial terms for the marriage. Often, the bride’s father and/or brothers would consult her on their betrothal choices before making a decision, as it was both legally difficult, and marriages frequently ended poorly if she was not complicit. Other ancient traditions were very intricate and complex, and each ritual was integral to earning the blessings of the gods for a future successful marriage. A group of Scyfling men celebrating and negotiating the gifts to offer a prospective bride’s family. occurred in the time period leading up to the wedding. The bride and groom would be separated with their parents, married siblings, and other married family and friends of each individual’s respective gender so that they can cleanse and strip away their former selves before entering a new life together and, for the bride, a new family. For the groom, he and his male family and friends would participate in a symbolic sword ceremony to rid him of his bachelorhood. It is said that he would be required to break into an ancestor’s grave-mound to retrieve their coveted family sword; it is believed that he ‘enters death’ as a boy and re-emerges back to life from within as a man reborn. After completing the ritual to obtain his sword and manhood, he and his family would wash away his bachelor status in a bathhouse to symbolically cleanse himself before the wedding. In this time, he would be instructed by his male relatives on his husbandly and fatherly duties going into a new life. After this bathing ritual, the groom would dress for his wedding. There was no official costume to wear, however the groom would carry with him the ancient sword of his ancestors, and a symbol of the god of lightning; a hammer or axe. These weapons symbolised the groom’s mastery of his marriage and was to ensure a fruitful marriage blessed by the gods. The bride would also undergo a similar cleansing ritual surrounded by her married female friends and relatives. Her kransen - a circlet symbolising her virginity - likely the item which inspired the roggeband years later, would be replaced by the bridal crown, and her other clothes associated with maidenhood were stripped and removed. The kransen was stored for the bride’s future daughters. She would cleanse herself in a bathhouse - according to the standard bathing practice - in which hot stones were placed in tubs to produce steam and birch twigs were used to induce sweating which was thought to wash away the bride’s maiden status. Lastly, the bride would plunge herself into cold water; closing her pores to complete the cleansing process. The bride’s hair was, at the time, more important than the dress she wore as it represented her sexual allure based on its length. To decorate the hair she would wear a family heirloom bridal crown, some of which still exist now. The bride would then be escorted to the location of the wedding by a young kinsman of hers who carried a sword which she would gift to her new husband. A clannish Scyfling woman preparing herself as part of the pre-wedding cleansing rituals. A picture of the goddess Iðunn, known as “the rejuvenating one” - she was associated with youth and was believed to keep the gods and goddesses young. , like most other things, was a highly symbolic affair. The groom and bride’s family would convene prior to the ceremony to exchange the dowry and bride-price before the religious ceremony could begin. Likely inspiring the present House Colborn practice of gifting a goat or sheep to the married couple, a sacrifice would then be held in which one goat and one sow respectively would be slain to honour the gods that would bless the marriage. The flesh of the sacrificed animals would later be used as part of the wedding feast, and the blood gathered from the killings in a sacred bowl was placed upon an altar made of heaped stones and twigs dipped into the blood. These twigs would then be sprinkled upon the couple and guests to confer the gods’ blessings upon them. The groom presents his recently-obtained ancestor’s sword to the bride - representing the traditions of the groom’s family and the continuation of his bloodline, which she would hold in trust for their future son, and she then gifts him with the sword brought to the ceremony for this purpose - representing the transferral of her father’s guardianship and protection to the husband. This exchanging of swords represents the sacred bond of marriage and is followed immediately by an exchange of divine rings presented upon the hilt of each partner’s newly received sword. With the rings upon their fingers, and the couple’s hands upon the hilt of the husband’s sword, they would each speak their vows to one another. A depiction of the brief courtship between a Scyfling man and his prospective bride. followed the ceremony and began with a ritual known in ancient texts as “bruð-hlaup” or, in common, bride-running for the bridal party. For the bridegroom, it was known as “bruð gumareid” or bridegroom’s ride. Whereas nowadays all attendants make their ways to the wedding feast in a rather dignified horse or foot procession, it believed that the bride-running procession was a race between the two families to make it to the feast hall first, and that whomsoever arrived last was obligated to serve ale to the other party for the remainder of the night. As the name suggests, the bridegroom’s party were permitted to mount while the bridal party had to go by foot, thus it was expected that the groom would win every time. The bride would be met by her husband at the door of the feast hall so that he could lead her through the door and ensure that she would not stumble. Doorways were thought to represent a portal between worlds, and also encompassed the bride’s transition from that of maidenhood to the life of a wife. Furthermore, it was believed that spirits would gather around doorways, and often the doorway of an old homestead would be the grave of the house’s founder who would protect it against evil. If the bride were to trip on her way through the door, that would be an omen of great misfortune for the marriage. Once safely inside the feast hall, the groom used to drive his sword into the supporting pillar of the house and the size of the dent he made would indicate the luck of the marriage, in other words; the children produced by the union. This was representative of the strength of the family’s barnstokkr, the ancestral family tree also known as the “child tree” because its branches would be clasped by the women of the family at the time of childbirth. The bride and groom would then share and drink and and toast to their respective relevant gods or goddesses, and then an emblematic hammer would be placed in the bride’s lap to bless her while the gods were invoked to bless the union. Following this, drinking and merriment would begin and continue throughout the remainder of the week. The bride and groom would share their wedding night together, the bride’s dreams would be noted as they were believed to be prophetic to the number of children she would bear, the fortune of her marriage, and the destinies of her descendants. An artist’s rendering of the god and goddess associated with and honoured at weddings. A party of mythological warriors and shieldmaidens riding to war. , before the good word of Canonism reached the ears of ancient Scyflings, were that Odain the One-eyed would select the most brutal warriors to be guided by his force of Shieldmaidens to his own Gravhalla, or “Hall of the Dead” in the afterlife; an enormous mead hall supposedly constructed from spear shaft rafters, a roof made of gleaming shields, and its gates guarded by colossal wolves. There the warriors that ascended to Odain’s hall, those most honoured and battle-worn champions, would spend all day battling one another in preparation for the final conflict that precedes the end of all things. In contrast to the “Hall of the Dead”, there were other destinations for Scyfling souls. For example, the goddess Vanadis presided over her Folkvangr, or “Field of the People”, while the halls of sea goddess Rán are home to the Scyflings who died at sea. It was a great honour to be chosen for Odain’s mead hall, but it was thought that only those who died honourably and fearlessly would be admitted. These Scyflings believed in a predestined day of death, meaning that one would die on the same day regardless – but it was how they died that would dictate whether the Shieldmaidens would meet them, having passed on. As such, it is common in the surviving sagas for a doomed hero to resist dying a slow, painful, or cowardly death, as such would bar their way to Odain’s side in the life to follow. A legendary Scyfling Shieldmaiden comforting a dying warrior as he passes on. would be held among their clan once their body and possessions had been recovered. The funeral was always, like many other affairs in these times, highly ritualistic as it was intended to bring peace to the dead as they transition to the life to follow, and provide structure and strength for the bereaved to continue on without their kinsman or woman. Traditionally, the women of the clan would take a leading role in arranging the funeral. First, the body had to be prepared for burial. It is thought that the deceased’s riches were used to finance his funeral. One third would go to support his family, one third would pay for his funeral clothes, and the final third would pay for the alcohol served at his funeral. In preparing his body, it had to be draped in clean ceremonial cloths and adorned in jewels. Certain clans also removed the dead’s fingernails, as they believed they would be used to construct the ship Naglfar, a vessel made entirely of fingernails employed by the gods. During this preparatory time before the funeral ceremony, it was possible for a sighting of the deceased as some kind of undead creature to occur – this was considered an omen for the relatives of the dead; a sign that more of them would die. In this case, it was thought that the dead had to die anew, and a stake might be put through the corpse, or its head might be removed to prevent them from becoming undead. The funeral might be drawn out over several days, but was usually an elaborate ceremony featuring songs, chanting, music, and animal sacrifices. Often, a Scyfling funeral was held at the top of a mountain; a practice that persists in current Scyfling burials, and the funeral would be followed by a series of grand feasts held in the fallen warrior’s memory. The funeral of a valiant Scyfling warrior, attended by members of his clan. is the most fascinating practice, as different clans appear to have employed different methods. Some clans restrict themselves to ground burial; in which the deceased’s kinsmen dig a grave for their body to be buried in, whereas other clans are defined by the practice of burning the corpse upon a pyre – much like what is currently practiced by House Colborn, indicating that this tradition originates in the Slesvician clans. On the other hand, clans associated with coastal areas – especially wealthy ones – are cited as constructing burial ships for the dead to be sent out to sea on, only for the ship to be burnt. However, all three methods feature the common thread of relinquishing the possessions of the deceased to travel with them to the next life, allowing them to maintain their social status or profession – these possessions are known as grave goods. Even if a boat was not burnt, imagery of a ship was often invoked by placing gravestones in the shape of a longboat, a practice known as a ship setting. It was believed that these vessels represent safe passage to the afterlife for the dead, while the smoke from a funeral pyre would carry the spirit of the departed to their destination. It is suggested that grave goods served both a religious and a practical function as, due to an absence of rigid inheritance law, burying the possessions of the dead may have helped to mitigate possible inheritance conflicts. A Scyfling warrior would always be burnt or buried with their weapons and riches, an artisan was buried with his tools, and a cavalryman may even have been buried with his horse. In contrast, a woman was more likely to be buried with her favourite household items, jewellry, or special brooches that likely inspired the sølje still worn on Scyfling bunads. It was also common for an individual to receive items representing key moments of success in their lives, such as arrows symbolising military prowess. A burial for a Scyfling chieftain, featuring a ship being set on fire as it goes out to sea. it can be enlightening for Scholars to learn about the habits and practices of those who came before us – that is the role of historians; to learn from the mistakes of past civilisations and discover how we in our current state can avoid them. I myself have expanded my research scope from where I began; my first scribblings were limited to my own family, House Colborn, and they then expanded to cover the historical area of Slesvik, eventually growing to envelope the entire region of Curzken that our people inhabited. It is my deepest hope that our descendants might in turn learn from my experiences and works; it is only through building off one another that descendants shall rise. In addition, it is of great importance of me to highlight that any musings of a period can only provide a mere illustration of happenings at the time of publishing, and that time moves continuously forward in a linear fashion. We cannot return to the period we read about and experience that way of life. It feels pertinent to quote some of my first thoughts on this subject, as youth so often bears wisdom: “But put together these portraits [of culture] and they can illustrate a breadth of ever-changing civilization for the eyes of the resilient Scholar.” It is with those words that I conclude, however I wish to extend an invitation to anyone wishing to discuss any of the above topics in greater detail and forward them to myself. Should anyone have questions also, I shall be more than pleased to speak on them. 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

News reached the ears of the Matriarch of House Colborn rather quickly; although it was not unusual for a messenger of House Stafyr to visit the Colborn Residence and thus his letter went unopened for longer than she'd have liked. Still, on the Matriarch's desk laid her sister's final piece of work -- "Ve Eryka Jewlz: The Ember Collection", a few short lines of smartly written comments scrawled on the folded parchment to be returned to the author. Alas, such thoughts never reached her -- nor did those of an expansive collection stored in the Scyfling Matriarch's drawers. Each publication, each jubilated announcement, a warm-worded comment had been scribbled with the intention to be forwarded to Elia Eryka eventually. However, once Anabel Elia Colborn got her hands on her sister's letter, along with an accompanying notice from her children, tears welled in that aged woman's eyes. "Elia ..." She sniffled, long-buried memories resurfacing from years past -- accompanied by pangs of regret. "You could have - you could have told mik, systir, you could have ..." She whispers, thumb gently stroking the piece of parchment. "Oh Gud," She reflects, "I was truly a terrible systir, my dear Elia. None of us deserved you." That evening, at dinner served for the Countess - and any other young Colborns who sought to grace the Ancestress with their presence - each place at the table was set with a glass of goat milk, in silent acknowledgement of who it was for. That evening was filled with no laughter, merely solemnity. Before the Countess went to bed, she peered out of her window as she set out a candle to flicker away into the night. She signed the lorraine, whispering. "Burn bright, little systir... You are the spark that lit a thousand flames."

Anabel Elia Colborn muses upon the Beaver situation as the plight of the children -- and her young kinswoman -- reach her ears. "Well... Ridding ourselves of the beavers upon the river was on my list of things to do, after all.. Although I had been planning to wait until after the construction of Vitraburg ..." The old woman mutters to herself, "It will make it significantly more difficult to work once the water is returned. Alas." She shrugs, making a note to encourage her younger kinsmen -- and possibly the Brotherhood of St. Karl -- to deal with this beaver problem head-on.

"Wonderful, wonderful ..." Muses the Matriarch of House Colborn with a warm smile upon reading her sister's work. "I wish dear Elia had thought to include sweet Amaya's Milagra necklace, earnt for completing her Nattrvaskr, and "The Beauty of Bethlenen" tiara; her wedding gift from mik." Anabel Elia Colborn frowns for but a moment. "It's a shame, although the Milagra necklace is nejt necessarily lavish enough to reflect the riches of the royal family.. Nevertheless, it's wonderful to see more of Elia's talent."

All of Haense simultaneously shouts "YASSS QUEEN!!!" Meanwhile, the more methodical Anabel Colborn is preparing to make her move as she pens a letter atop her piles of invoices, commissions, and works in progress. Soon enough, she hails a messenger boy and dispenses him to carry her invite to the Kortrevich Residence, bearing both the Countess Kortrevich and Grand Lord's names upon it.

"It is with this," A simultaneously vengeful Countess Colborn mutters, "That a line has been drawn in the sand. As the youth say," She grumbles, setting about consulting her maps and accounting books, "The game is on."

"Ah, the curse of the Kortrevich brodirs..." Muses an elderly scholar, well versed in the fabled tale of the two Kortrevich Knights of eons past; one dubbed "the Turncoat", and slain by his own brother for his betrayal. "Gud forgive the Turncoat, for he's strayed from your Light... It is simply the fate of the men; the dark and the light among House Kortrevich." The Scholar's brows pinch severely, her own kin scorned by the Turncoat... That night she lights two candles, hoping that Godan might spare him from his inevitable fate, and in honour of her friend, Fabian, that he might find the strength to triumph when the time comes.