ibiou

There was a wife somewhere far from the lands that they both had called home, grief-stricken and mad. Hedwig wasn’t at all what she used to be, and neither had Charles been. Both had become vessels of their old selves as they got older, though Charles was more desperate to hold on. Age had worn them into two very different people, and so when her husband had departed to return to Aevos Hedwig had simply let him do so. Oh, how wrong was she for he would never to return to her. In her dreams tonight, she would imagine them as she always did: the girl with the birds and the tarot cards, and him the boy with the crown and the wildest dreams.

Addressed on the 9th of Owyn’s Flame, 2040 To whomever it may concern, My name is Agnes Mathilde Kovachev, daughter of Patriarch Varon Kovachev and the late Dame Phillipa von Reuss. Many moons ago, my father and I had discussed my prospects. At the time, I could not give him an answer because my short life had been sheltered up to a point. Not only that, but my kin had already begun the quest of soul-searching that I had dared not venture onto. Yet, in the wake of my fourteenth nameday, I had an epiphany – I must go out and make my mark on this very earth. I seek good and honest work as an assistant, to be taught someone's craft, or a wardship under a nobleman/woman that will help shape my understanding of our complex world, in which I aim to assist in any tasks that may be given to me during my time of servitude. My only wish is to be provided with food, shelter, and a place to practice my pottery skills. If you are interested, please do not hesitate to send a letter. In good faith, Agnes Mathilde Kovachev

recently just wrote my bachelors dissertation on catholic and protestant literary portrayals of the clergy in eighteenth-century england (-: it's more fascinating than you would have thought in terms of subtext and context to the period and i highly encourage people to deep dive into the subject when they have the chance (recommend the gothic novel 'the monk' by matthew gregory lewis as a starting point).

The Waldenic books that the Lord Vandalore had given the Princess-consort of Merryweather sat stacked on her bedside. She had not let them collect dust as they had moved across the continent, taking her time to read them when the time permitted her to. When news reached Octavia on a harsh winter's day, she could only sympathise with Aloisa, Franz, and the Waldenic Diet. That night she took to the books again, only this time tracing her finger on the printed sentences; praying, hopeful for the future.

♰⊱ ─────────────── ✶ ─────────────── ⊰♰ “♫ My sweetheart, come along! Don’t you hear the fond song, The sweet notes of the nightingale flow? Don’t you hear the fond tale Of the sweet nightingale, As she sings in those valleys below? So be not afraid To walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below, Nor yet in those valleys below ♫” IT WAS ONLY A half hour into dawn when the sun made her claim on the hillside, peeking out from over yonder. Octavia had been wide awake before then, restless in any attempt to sleep, so her time was spent in the company of the first morning light. Her singing was silvery amidst the peace. Only a little louder than a hum, not to wake Friedrich in his slumber. He deserved his rest. She held a hand up towards the sky and countered the birds in flight. A task so meaningless, so mundane. She exhaled harshly. The Alstreim couple were residing in their new lodgings for a month now. As much as there were comforts aplenty, Octavia could not settle. “Make use of the utilities here - the alchemy lab, the library. This will be your home.” They had told both herself and Friedrich. Yet, even now with only the servantry roaming the halls did she feel like a trespasser. It was a common occurrence, this alienation; a lurching pit in her stomach. It was the same in Cascanova, the same in Elizabeth, the same now. There was nowhere that held a sense of familiarity, or true calling. Home became a noun only when Octavia was by her husband’s side, and she hated that. The dependency, the clinginess. It was living with a purpose that wasn’t her own but the leech off of the existence of Friedrich’s family name. This ‘new’ Octavia was not the same as her predecessor - doe-eyed, young Octavia with a dream and a plethora of knowledge. Instead, she was a brassy title and confined to her predicaments. Although she held these sentiments, she was still grateful that they had a roof over their head. War was a vicious beast, and it always ensured that no one would go away unscathed. The blunder of the Alban people had been weighing on Octavia’s mind a lot as the conflict was brewing, and never had it sat right with her the way it played out. The same faces that spoke of seeking justice for the problems they caused took on the form of ghosts now, with different faces. Faces that welcomed them a second time. Her trust was wavering. Somewhat. It was a challenge to abandon the future that was planted in aspirations, but it was a necessary precaution for them. It’s what she told herself, day-in and day-out. Conflicted, a wave of nausea stunted her thoughts. She braced her hands on the rails of the balcony and peered down. Temperance, temperance, temperance. That one ball years ago and the dreaded fear she possessed. Conformity, rejection - masking, masks. Like the song, the valley below, she gulped for fresh air. Festering, bubbling, boiling over. The world was spinning out of control. This fear had struck her mad since she could remember. Always venturing, but never settling. The situation was forever out of her control. Octavia's panic rose in her chest, and she squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them once more, the kindest grey eyes greeted her own. He did not have the chance to even utter a word before Octavia desperately wrapped her arms around him, squeezing Friedrich tightly. Whatever the cause of action was now, they would have to wait this period out. A time of transition, of changes. Uncertainty lingered, but slowly was their growth to acceptance. There needed to be self-discipline, resilience. As the song goes, and so she hummed quietly to herself: “♫ She was no more afraid For to walk in the shade, Nor yet in those valleys below ♫”

Madgalena of Basarab drank a Koeng's Nipple with Isabel vas Ruthern after the clinic commotion. For once, she felt useful. Holding a pail of water came in handy at times, especially if it appeared like divine timing. Once the evening had settled down, the Ivanovich went to prepare gifts for the two children, given that one was her namesake.

What was once Stran was over yonder from the views of the Alstreim residence in Elizabeth. There, a pale-faced baroness was looking towards the horizon that was familiar now, yet almost as foreign as when she arrived ten years ago. "No child should be born in a time of war." Uttered Octavia lowly on the account of her nephews' birth. Yet still, in good faith despite the circumstances, did she send her congratulations.

Whilst her husband was tending to his alcohol business elsewhere, The Baroness of Corwinsburg scribbled a letter on parchment for him to read later. She left it on their bedside table. "Freddy, Please have a look at putting yourself down for the Mayoral Office. You cannot just be an actor in my plays. Please seek out other hobbies. Love, Your Octavia." @Olox_

A CELEBRATION OF THE WORKS OF LITERARY ICONS ⊱ ─────────────── ✺ ─────────────── ⊰ THE HEARTLANDS HAVE BEEN the birthplace for many literary icons for centuries, taking inspiration from their individual cultures and life-changing events. Yet, for many years their collections have been brushed under the carpet and forgotten about, left to rot in old bookshelves untouched. In new tradition, the Alban Wordsmiths Society will pay homage to the works of Heartlandic authors by displaying their literature for all to read. Performances and readings will be given to entertain the crowds, reminding all citizens of their creative roots. The first event of its kind will be celebrating the life of AMELIA P. VAROCHE, Baroness of Virdain. Lady Amelia Pauline Varoche grew up in the Kingdom of Aaun during the conflict with the Duchy of Adria, before becoming the Baroness-consort of Virdain and matriarch of House de Lewes. The events of her life were ripe with strife, however this did not affect her work. In fact, it helped be her source of inspiration. Lady Amelia’s literary works come in different forms: poems, plays and essays. She was never shy of her Illatian roots, in which throughout her life she took great pride in. In honour of Lady Varoche’s life, Guerra Sil Fiume: A Drama in Three Acts will be performed on the Elizabethan stage for all to enjoy. As well as a performance, her works will be on display and available to purchase for those interested. If you wish to audition for a role in the play, send a bird to Octavia of Cascanova [@ibiou]. CHARACTER LIST ⊱ ─────────────── ✺ ─────────────── ⊰

The Baroness of Corwinsburg, Octavia, dropped to her knees at the news. "NOT MY BOOKSHELVES!!! STAY AWAY FROM MY BOOKSHELVES!!!" She screeched, shooing away any threat with a broom. Her keen eye would be looking out for the rats, or their droppings amidst the bookshelves.

In Elizabeth that night of the guild's first-ever annual publication, a candle still flickered in a townhouse; specifically, the Public Library of Saint Daniel. Octavia was restless without sleep, having made several trips from the Varoche and Alstreim residences, and the guildhall that same night out of nerves and anticipation. Would their ventures flourish with success? Would they be able to unite people with a common goal? All of these questions were left up to the fate of her Lord, to whom she prayed.

One Octavia Galbraith could hardly concentrate between new wedding plans and her library pursuits. Such a busy lady, yet she never had enough time — struggling to keep on top of it all.

A librarian upon the streets of the duchy, who witnessed the union of the Aldersberg couple, had found the news she read to be a blessing. Octavia Galbraith and her growing mission to provide for her chosen home led her to grab a quill and dunk it in ink. "To His Excellency, the Count of Dover and his Countess, @Mattiii @Phoebe202 Congratulations upon the birth of your heir! I hope the boy and his mother, the Countess, are in good health. The cold is most bitter at night this time of year, so I advise your servants to light your fire with more firewood than usual. I write with the intention that as Chief Librarian of the Public Library of Saint Daniel, I might begin tutoring the young Lord George as a form of governess. He can access my ever-growing children's literature collection and be educated properly as a lordling should be. This offer will start once the boy is the age to comprehend reading and writing, and it is at your will to either accept or deny. Yours faithfully, Lady Octavia Galbraith, Chief Librarian of the Public Library of Saint Daniel & President of the Alban Wordsmiths Society."

THE ALBAN WORDSMITHS SOCIETY ⊱ ─────────────── ✺ ─────────────── ⊰ LO UNTO THE PEOPLE OF ALBA & THE HEARTLANDS, In the manner of all things book-ish, the Public Library of Saint Daniel in tandem with the Alban Wordsmiths Society shall lay host to a POETRY WRITING WORKSHOP. From novice to professional, one’s skill is not important in this master class. All are encouraged to come along and combine both heart and soul over fresh beverages and food with a quill at hand. ⊱ ─────────────── ✺ ─────────────── ⊰