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pomegrad

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  1. Mahaut was already scouring Aevos to find the perfect gift for Sifrá’s nameday!
  2. happy pride and a good men's mental health awareness month <3 check in your friends, you never know what they're going through

    1. Saun_399

      Saun_399

      🏳️‍🌈;

       

  3. The van Leuven invitation wormed its way into Mahaut’s possession after enough searching. “Oh, Eam so happy for them!” There was a beaming smile on the girl’s face before shock took hold. “Oh GODAN, what do Ea even get as a wedding gift?”
  4. if violet has a million fans, i'm one of them, if violet has five fans, i'm one of them, if violet has one fan, that one is me, if violet has no fans, i'm no longer alive. if the world is against violet i'm against the entire world
  5. Mahaut sat quietly, tucked away in her favorite hiding spot as she read over the missive. Although she was too young to grasp the ardent hatred against the she-devil, who took Amaya’s life, she was not too young to remember its effects. The cries of patriotic soldiers on and surrounding the gallows, to the sharp snapping of the she-devil’s neck. It was a haunting sound at least, as Verena would never let the van Leuven see it. Fear would’ve followed Mahaut every time she looked to the gallows since that day, had it not been for the blooming and beautiful roses that made their stand. They offered Mahaut the same solace that Amaya did in life. If this is truly work done by Amaya’s venerated hands, perhaps, it would be another reason for Mahaut to love roses.
  6. An old woman nearly spat her drink out upon receiving the missive from one of her all-too-diligent grandchildren. “This jest what he’s been up to?” Rozsika Korvacz was shocked, to say the least.
  7. Unlike sorrow, time was a true curse to Rozsika. It never stops, but there is never enough of it. As the years dragged on, Rozsika became a grandmother, even a scholar. Her daughter, however, was not afforded the same time as she. There, in the kitchen of the family home, Rozsika felt the same about her queen. “Oh, Amaya,” she murmured to herself. A sprightly and diligent spirit the older woman was grateful to know and work with, long before the queen fell ill. “Y hope to see vy soon.” Meanwhile . . . A little girl sat somewhere, not to far from the square as news of Queen Amaya’s death echoed through Valdev. “Ve Koenas es gone? Like Mamej ag Papej?” the little girl asked aloud, a frown forming on her face. “If she es, Ea will really take care of Ledi like Ea promised!” Clutched fiercely to the little girl’s chest was a lovingly made, toy lamb. A gift from the late queen, who no doubt would serve as inspiration for the sweet girl in the years to come.
  8. Mahaut, barely at an age to understand death, tumbled into the dirt and gravel of the Trelkastriet neighborhood as her mother thrust her and her siblings outside. Before the little girl could get up and run back to the house, she found herself firmly in the arms of a blonde-haired stranger ( @Koodini) from saints’ days before. She was off the ground, one soot-smothered plushie in her left hand, while the other gripped onto the adult who scooped her up. If fawns are disturbed or can't find their kin, they will bleat for their mother. A daughter of van Leuven is no different. She wailed and shrieked for her mother and father, one who never emerged from the home and the other who was so close yet so far. Despite all of Mahaut’s pleas and cries for them both, neither came running from the inferno. With all the prior coughing, the little girl's screams didn't last for long, the sound of flames and creaking wood overpowering her ruckus. Mahaut was defeated and tired. She gripped tightly onto the blonde, as nothing but a heap of hoarse mumbles and tears, and moved further from the dangerous fire. Meanwhile, a silver-haired stranger ( @RingAroundRosey ) flanked the two and cooed words of comfort to the disheveled, little girl.
  9. A Scyfling poetess managed to find one of the missives, now sheltered by an awning as gloom and doom settled above Haense. “My Gud,” she murmured. She had a certain scholar to write to about the terrifying news, servants to pester next. There had to be some other explanation for it all, right?
  10. VOLUME I: FAMILIAR & FOREIGN FACES. Penned and printed by Osta Kol c. 515 E.S. The following collection of poems is a testament to growth as a person and thoughts about those near and far, in land and heart. Flaxen Hair, 511 E.S. I look into the mirror, To face my reflection, And find something Raevir. Her, the girl looking back at me, Does not show it easily. She has flaxen hair that some agree, Looks beautiful with her eyes taiga green. But I ponder, would it be better if her hair was like her mother’s? If it were like a ripe chestnut, fallen from the tree and peeled for all to see. Or if it was like her grandmother's, dark as the crows that perch on Haeseni crests. Perhaps, with crow or mud-like hair, she'd find some kind of glee. Every passing glance I give the girl with flaxen hair, In windows, or puddles, I feel a burden she struggles to bear. Each light lock on her head is another reminder, She stands in someone else’s stead, Someone who's face grows a little uncertain, For his portrait is kept carefully under drawn curtains. “Woe is me,” the flaxen and green-eyed girl could say, Carrying a weight that should not be hers, But sometimes as evening goes to swallow day, There’s a different feeling that soon spurs. Where every strand looks less like flax, And closer to thin and moving gold. A new feeling sets in, seeping through the cracks, Where the girl’s hair is special, and beautiful to behold. Lady-Bard, 513 E.S. Oh Lady-Bard of Haense, your voice sounds so sweet as you sing, But the words are pains still fresh to the people. Do you ache too, lady-bard? I can't help but wonder, beyond your redwood locks, If there is a woman war-torn and scarred. I hope you can hold peace close to your chest, Like how your hands keep their grasp on the lute, I know at least, Haense will be well-blessed, When peace comes and you may have more songs we can hoot. Stellarbound Scholar, 513 E.S. The Saint of Ves must bless our steps, As your venture to the woods brought me into view, I must confess, it was not something to expect Tell me what good comes from drifting out Valdev? You met me with words on the breeze, natural and gentle, Like we were already friends for a lifetime, You spoke to me of your interests among the ferns and lentil, Such verve could make me forget we were not in peacetime. Eventually, we parted ways, in the streets and snow, Back to my lone home of pine and ink, while you likely sit at the windowsill to stare at the night, I put my pen to paper, or ink to the woodblock and slam down on the press, to and fro, While you likely sketch out new things I do not know and survey the stars like it is divine rite. Again I saw you in the woods, though that time I was the one who stood tall, While you were peacefully rested against that mighty tree in an evening sprawl. I spoke to you again, as true friends that time, I regaled you with what you missed in town, gemmed beauties and meaningful dances, If you were there, I bet you would've tap your foot to the lady-bard’s chime, It is not like that would be the last time, as the palace or tavern held many songs and prances. Because of your absence, though, I gave you a token of the fair, A ring of cerulean blue, akin to the river as we make our bridge passes, I think the piece pairs well with your beloved, blue-toned wear, Although you took interest in my bracelet made of the pearls the riverbed amasses. Your eye is astute, though I should expect nothing less, From the man that spends his hours awestruck with creations beyond the clouds, The same man that will share that passion with me as he has worries to express, And the only comfort I can assure him with is that I am no invasive nor gossiping crowds. It seems to work, which makes me glad, You are my friend, same in culture but more sage clad. Although, as our talks become commonplace, I wonder what shall become of our dynamic, You spoke to me of beauty, not of a ring, And it frankly sends my mind into a panic. Oh stellarbound scholar, do your eyes trace over me like I'm one of your star charts? How deep do I lay in that noble heart? Golden-Browed, 513 E.S. In a time where strife is king, Great powers come together, The people expectantly cling, To the diplomatic tether. They watch as the rope is taut, Pulled either way by those in command, But quickly it comes all for naught, And every person feels the dread at hand. He who is golden-browed, Did not slack the rope, Before the judging crowd, But instead fashioned it and dashed all hope. Turned it into a noose, It was all he thought to do, Condemnation turned loose, And the smothering of war will turn him blue. Tell me, good sir, As the siege engines spur, Will the wine be worth it? Even if it means your life is forfeit? The War Is No More, 515 E.S. In Valdev the winds did not howl but certain was the snow, Citizens were gathered in the street, warmed by the fire, Concerned friends huddled close, linked arms between belle or beau, Then the queen of the people emerged, she who many admire. Dark hair with silver slivers like moonlight, And icy eyes that rest upon crow’s feet, She proclaimed that we were finished with the fight, Fresh news that to many felt too soon or sweet. War is no more, though, no longer at our worse, With love in our hearts, the Haeseni disperse. To the taverns for drink, That is where the victorious Haeseni flock, ‘Til the carrion is gone and our cheeks turn pink, Where the men will stomp their boots and women swish their frocks. Gleefully, we can say, the war is no more, Let such burdens and sorrow join the times of yore. Good Men and Women of the Middenlan, 515 E.S. He with the golden brow, Brought dismay to the Midlands, Before kings and queens he could bow, But those leaders were met with a backhand. It would be a dreadful thing to die, When there is so much more to do, Righteous death they will firmly cry, But who would be left when it's through? He with the golden brow, Would not let that land fall, But as horses stormed the fields like a plow, Fewer men and women of the eagle stood tall. Sometime, either dawn or dusk, Those royals and duke surely met, With an absence of nature so brusque, And they brokered a peace hard to forget. He who is golden-browed, Understood what wreckage they sowed. Ten winters of unrelenting pride, For kings, for countries, for children and wives, These reasons to fight waited on either side, But with a war over, there is no more pause in our lives. Good men and women, both eagle and crow, These are joyous times that our children may know. Two birds of a feather, we may well be, As those of Winburgh find new a home, May they find our share of comradery, And dash all fears where folk solely roam. Good men and women of the Middenlan, Let this be our new opportunity, May you be greeted with a kind and gracious hand, For your peace may bring us new unity. GODAN SAVE THE SOULS LOST, GODAN BLESS THE SOULS YET TO COME,
  11. As she heard the news, Osta couldn't help but jump for joy. Fash. She remembered the simple word uttered to her on the day of the peace conference, witnessed by many. That dark-haired woman was right, the proof was in front of Osta now. There was no need to worry, never again, hopefully.
  12. Rozsika couldn't help but tap her foot and cane along to the tune upon hearing it, who didn’t love a good pick-me-up and heroic tale all wrapped into one song! Meanwhile . . . Osta Kol found herself struck with inspiration and courage thanks to the redheaded bard, a specific poem sitting on her desk. “Perhaps I should pay the lady-bard a visit.” It wouldn't hurt to make another creatively-inclined friend!
  13. Even as the old woman went about her errands in Valdev, Rozsika couldn’t help but smile and hum along to the music seeping through the merry tavern’s walls. The future, all things considered, seemed bright.
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