ibiou

“I’m afraid you will grow to resent me, Ailred. I fear that what I used to be — who I am — makes you see me in a different light.” “I do not judge a person by who they were, definitely not when I am what I used to be, a creature of hate brought low by people I shouldn’t have invested my time with. You share the same history, I am afraid.” A lost soul found the fate of Ailred of Drusztra, in the call of the night. Letters stashed into cabinets in the southern climates of Aevos, inscribed with years of pain, of love, of understanding. They would always remain in essence, despite the deaths of both the recipient and the writer, forever interwoven into the tapestry of nature and all things that lived. The sun and the moon; light and shadow. They coexisted, interchangable when the moment saw fit. It was the foundation of their marriage. He pulled her out of rooted evil despite his flaws and handed her a second chance at living. The wind howled in the name of Ottilie of Castile dreadfully for many nights to come. Nature grieved in her death, in his.

⊱ ────────────────────────────── ⊰ MAGDALENA 1 9 9 3 In cold recluse she finds herself away from the other children of the realm, seeking pleasure in the skyline of oak and pine. Here, a moment. Distant. The mossy hollows in the tree trunks were stuffed with grainy trinkets for the upcoming winter, acorn’s galore. Wondrous dark eyes peer up at the branches. The bustle of New Valdev was barely audible out here in the woods this time of year, and with it the young girl finds her delight. The wildlife thinks her presence tolerable at best. Upon the fluorescent orange glow of the sun each morning did they find themselves accompanied by the clumsiest of Man, tripping over twigs to get to them. She sits here, now, with a fox. Crumbs sprinkled the forest floor. A harvest snack, hearty for animals and girls alike; Mama’s bread loaf. It was not to be missed by many, but enjoyed by a few. The birds were inclined to agree. Burnt leaves crumbled as they dropped. No soul was told of her escapades at the crack of dawn, but she did not hide it either. The wind was too violent on their door, slamming it shut with the hinges barely recovering thereafter. A congregation of wood mice had flocked to her feet. What power she possessed! To have the woodland love her (is what she thought), and so half of her loaf was passed around. Charity was not a word in her vocabulary yet. The weeds spiralled around the log in such an eccentric manner, showing off. Distant cockerel call. The day has begun. In cold recluse she finds herself away from the other children of the realm, seeking pleasure in the skyline of oak and pine. Here, a moment. Distant. A dream of quietude. ⊱ ────────────────────────────── ⊰

MAGDALENA IVANOVICH’s first words were “YIPEEEEEE!!!!!” as her father, Ilya, reaped his rewards.

Scribing for Mikolaj, GENOWEFA OF GRODNO put down the quill once the last quatrain had been repeated and copied on paper. "Yer should be proud of this, little lordling. Yer 'ave too much talent for it to be shrugged off."

C O N F E S S I O N S O F A N A A U N I C Q U E E N I cannot sit idly by as my husband is abused by the laymen and clerics of a faith he holds so dearly. As eager men make excuses for brutal war. I write publicly for what I once expressed privately: I killed James Marcel Whitespire. James was a traitor to the Crown of Aaun and House Alstion. Many years ago he turned his cloak in the Proclamation of Establishment of House Whitespire in reaction to the unification of the Commonwealth of the Petra and the Kingdom of Aaun. His foolhardy and anti-Petran gambit, chirped along with Tiberius van Aert and the Ferrymen, failed miserably. Thus, James Whitespire vanished into irrelevance. Some time later he assaulted and did grievous bodily harm onto his sister, the Princess Josephine, and had a hand in the death of Ser Alexander of Aaun. First a turncloak, a charlatan, and then a coward who beats his own sister. Indeed, blinds her. My rage was insurmountable. I have known too many women to face the wrath of little men. I killed James, and I was pleased to do it. It brought me satisfaction. Indeed, it brought me closure. He was a traitor, a violent thug, and a murderer. On that fateful day he belittled his brother until I could take no more. As small men often do when faced with a strong woman, he fell with great ease. In these moments, Charles had no involvement. The Church knows of my actions and my journey to penance. They have heard of my confession to slaying the traitor. They know of the details, have had witness accounts attesting such, yet still do they wish to bring forth trial unto Charles who has had his innocence proven. My testimony was heard by Cardinal Callahan, Father Elim, and Ser Ailred yet have gone ignored. Feigning ignorance on the account of a Canonist prince accused of kinslaying, through stalling a trial and non-interference in an unjust war, has not gone unnoticed. Tiberius van Aert is an apple rotten to the core. His grudge against my husband goes beyond that of ‘justice’. It has always been there, a jealousy parasitic in nature, festering in following James to Ascalon and whispering in royal Alstion ears to turn against the Crown. He urges to cleanse the wrongdoings of Aaun and yet his greed is written so plainly to see. Humanity hibernates as one of their own is made a mockery of, repeating the actions of barely half a century ago before their eyes. They have pillaged many of our kin, made intent to ruin our homes before. It will not stop with Aaun. It will grow, as a cancerous tumour does, wanting more and more. My actions are my own. Do not mock me by claiming them to be a man’s work. WRITTEN AND PROCLAIMED; In the Hand of Horen at Whitespire, On the 10th of Sun's Smile, 1989. Her Royal and Apostolic Majesty, HEDWIG OF WARSOVIA, Queen-consort of Aaun, Princess-consort of Alstion, Duchess-consort of Vienne, the Lowlands, Balemena and Corazon, Margravine-consort of High Peak, Countess-consort of Whitespire, Florentine and Talentine, Baroness-consort of Blanchet and Virdain

A Queen looked down upon the rocks that clung to the Hand of Horen, washed by the tides of the Silver Sea. In motion were they restless; a storm brewed close by. Bashing sea foam, their edges became rough and wet. HEDWIG OF WARSOVIA's blood was already out there, her father's, twisting her stomach as after decades or so war is boiling. It is all the same, each and every time. The tiresome struggle, as a push of vicious vipers keep the plague oncoming. Her forefathers are looking down, with yet another sigh. To her handmaiden, SPARROW O'MALLEY, the Lechian consort murmured as she took a step away from the ledge. "We will do what we must, Miss Sparrow. In these moments you will know of what it means to be Aaunish." @Sparrow182

In the bustle of the next morrow from the spoiled birthday part of the young Lechian did a cloaked figure head her way towards the butcher's shop in the Whitespire. She purchased some things, tossed her coins, and headed off to pen a letter elsewhere. At once HEDWIG OF WARSOVIA sent a bird from her menagerie, who cooed at the morning sun, towards the direction of the Margraviate of Grodno. "Dear little Mikolaj, I apologise that we could not make it to your birthday party. Adults often like to pick bad times to do things, and we were rushed away! It pains me deeply that you are upset with the lack of attendants. Once I found myself a hostess with no one to host when I was a little older than yourself, and I too grew rageful at the sight. But, we take our downfalls and make them into blessings. Mikolaj, a Lechian must always keep their chin up high. In the coming days should my gift to you be delivered. I noticed that you care for young pups, with whom I thought of on my errand runnings. Parcels of meat will be at their disposal, so they can grow into great hunting hounds. From your Majesty aunt, Jadwiga. P.S. I hope that you can still enjoy your cake. I heard that it is one of the largest ever made in the continent."

The Aaunic consort decided that it was time to go out and touch grass. "I encourage all to do the same," She told her wise sister-in-law JOSEPHINE, "It is refreshing. Some piece of mind as we restore our realm." @Myochii

"And once more, decorum has been restored to our realm." HEDWIG OF WARSOVIA noted at the publications of the Courtly Standard of the Paradisian Court, and in thought remembering the lack of etiquette during the Heartlander Confederation.

A pacing consort kept to her walk in up-down motions in her garden. The horizon had slipped into its orange hues, with pinks seeping amidst the clouds. As nightfall broke, HEDWIG OF WARSOVIA kept on her guard in thought. "How many of them lied when they spoke of unity at my festival? How many wanted to see our downfall as they shook hands with their fellow Man?" Her stream of contemplation, out and open in the salty winds of the Silver Sea, was only heard by her birds resting in her menagerie. "I have preached peace in my royal husband's absence, and he continues to do so in the name of democracy of our smallfolk. How long can we keep the bloodthirst at bay?"