prophetisms

SNOWFLAKE. The elder Korvacz, Alekszej, posed the question so casually to Dszamila. They stopped before the Ashwood Throne, among the maple trees. In some way, they brought her comfort. If they were white, they would be like the Saintswood. There was no birch bark, though, and the familiar red leaves split in a manner that left an opening in the canopy. Through it, snow made its slow and unyielding descent onto both Korvacz. The sight made Dszamila turn her gaze up and squint as the weather threatened to obscure her sight. “I can’t remember ever experiencing snow at Koppány,” Dszamila replied to Alekszej, her words entrenched in a dialect that flowed easier than Common for them both. She added, eyes still set upon the sky, “Maybe on the coldest nights,” when the winds of the Aestmarch howled the loudest, “But it would melt in the morning.” The last snow of great measure was likely Tuvmas, which felt more like a lifetime ago for Dszamila. Dszamila looked back to Alekszej, like she ripped her attention away from the stars and snow above. In her eyes was a glimmer of hope amidst an uncertainty that wracked her features more often. “It’s beautiful,” she said, “It’s familiar.” However, that was the issue at hand for the younger Korvacz. “It feels too good to be ours.” Her elder could only laugh at her words, but not out of malice. It came from fond understanding, to days where he felt a similar wonder despite doubt. “You’re a Korvacz,” Alekszej told her. He hardly took another breath before he explained, “We are drawn to natural beauty; to the frontiers of the world.” The Aestmarch too, was a frontier, before beset by war and left scarred by its brutality. Those scars of loss would come to fade, though. “Our people are naturalists. Hunters, houndmasters, tanners, foresters,” Alekszej listed the professions, each one a pursuit that did not start with Koppány, nor would they end with it. Alekszej’s hand, bound in dyed leathers, collected some snow for himself with a lofted palm. In a lighthearted manner, the grandfather told his granddaughter, “It was our ancestors that believed the gods were in the land,” from Norland to Haense. “To this day,” he admitted, “I believe this. It was a lesson Ludmilla taught me.” As snow weakly clung onto Alekszej’s gloves, he peered down at it. “This too, a gift from the Vilas.” Fairies. Dszamila’s hands rose, watching as more snow fell onto the leather of her own gloves, not melting as easily as it would in the lands of Haense. “Godani,” she whispered out, almost in disbelief. For any Nordling, it was an ordinary sight. For Dszamila, a Haeseni once upon the Midlands, it was special still. It was almost like she was a child again, yet her concerns of bugs and boys were gone. Instead, it was snow and her own boy. “Before you walked in,” Dszamila referenced to Alekszej, back to their time at Castle Lesanov. “I told Anaksandr I thought Balta and Dszen would enjoy the snow.” Both her babes, or close to it, as Baltasar had not reached five winters yet. “They will know snow,” and even though the notion had charm to the mother, she found tears growing instead of showing teeth. “They might know those gods, this Allfather, his lands,” like Norland, “But they will never know our steppes.” Dszamila’s eyes slid from slick gloves to her sage grandfather. Through marred vision, she continued, “They will not know Xéniavaros unless they cross its ruins. They will know a home,” and Dszamila professed to Alekszej, “But not my home.” It was a swift assumption from Dszamila, though not as swift as Alekszej. He approached her, hand shirking the snow to do the same to her tears. There was no attempt to ward off the help, either. “Will this be my home?” The granddaughter asked aloud, hoping for some kind of answer from her grandfather. “Dear Mila,” Alekszej started with, “Let me ask you this: what is home? A place? Or people?” “People,” Dszamila echoed softly. “People in a new place,” she added to her comment, both brows raising as the younger Korvacz had to come to terms with the circumstance. After the question and answer lingered in the air alongside the snow, cupped her cheek, near pinching it like any other Raevir elder would. “Little Wolf, Mila,” Alekszej imparted more wisdom onto her. “For me, home is where family is.” From little isles, to the expanses of the Highlands now, “I spent nearly twenty years separated from the rest of us, yet I was home.” Gladly, Alekszej reminisced, “I had Ludmilla, our children, and my father.” That was home, for a while. “When Ludmilla passed, and my father did, I still had the children.” “And then?” “Then I found the rest of the Korvacz in Haense.” That was home, too, within the reddened walls of New Valdev and the white walls of Xéniavaros. “We lived in a manor,” and Alekszej laughed, “You weren’t even born then.” The years crept up on them both, but more graciously on the elder, despite his age. Maybe it was a favor of the gods as Alekszej spoke again, “I still find myself at home. I’m surrounded by Highlanders, by family, by loved ones.” Dszamila let out a weak laugh as she listened to Alekszej, “This will be another home,” he declared. “One of acceptance and nature, of pagans and gods, of community too.” There was nothing to deter the old man’s belief. With this confidence, Alekszej also gave a gentler conclusion, “So, I think yes. This will be your home, if you let it be.” Her head tilted to the side and Dszamila huffed out. “Part of me feels like it’s not real,” she admitted about where they stood. The only way she knew the land wasn’t a trick was the way the wind brushed through the trees and delivered the biting cold. Her nose scrunched, but not only at the feeling. “I mean, really. Down the road from us, Koppány.” Past the winding hills, Dszamila found Norland, Highlanders, and a home to be. “I feel a fool, grandfather,” that she did not find it sooner. “No,” Alekszej shook his head in disapproval. “You were sheltered. Haense was sheltered,” he quickly replied, to even out the blame. It applied to him too. “My biggest regret is not taking you lot out around the continent more.” To learn more and see more would’ve done Dszamila and her siblings great favors, in truth. “There is so much to this place you have yet to see,” Alekszej set the foundations for hope, “I know you would love it all.” His hand then rested against his shaska, before he told Dszamila more about the land of the Nordlings. Talk of their faith, their hunt of beasts and beguiling forces–Grendel. Although Dszamila listened, those words were like a light rattling against her skull. She was no Nordling yet, but every path she now tread would lead her back to Norland. The winding road will never be from Koppány again, but past it. Alekszej caught Dszamila’s focus again. “I am happy,” he admitted after, “I am free. We are free of the duties of the city.” No longer an Alderman, and soon Dszamila would no longer be Royal Inquisitor, nor Viscountess. “You can explore,” Alekszej laid another brick in the base of their new beginnings. “Raise your children to be curious, explore, and learn.” Dszamila raised her hand, as white specks now coated her person from cap to boot. Hawk-eyed was she, seeing the way each had its own form, but together, they made up the snowfall. In the northern night, they did not yield. In the harsh winds, they became the storm. Was it not Dszamila’s turn, not to weather the storm, but embrace it? “The world is now yours, Mila.” The grandfather softly smiled to granddaughter, before asking her too, “So tell me, what will you do with it?” “Love it.”

super exciting!! i love the geysers

O R T H E S I E G E O F K O P P Á N Y. Upon the dais of Castle Lesanov, Joren did not rally his bannermen or allies in wrath to Lemon Hill, nor did he reject the Church, within its own halls, with fury. It was all with virtuous conviction, wrought upon him by the crown he carried for his brother. His people deserved a better life than what the Church offered unto him, and no scholar nor holyman could take that belief from Joren. If the Haeseni could not find peace through penance or pen, then the new king found his blade a better guide than the shepherd’s crook. Before an Archaengul, the loving king did not relent from the bloody path ahead of him. “The Koeng’s duty is to his people. His people’s duty is to him,” he spoke in earnest. The Haeseni would march alongside Joren, and thus he kept an open hand too, to usher them along the long road of war. Of the first Haeseni to know this was the Viscountess Dszamila, ambitions waylaid by the news Joren provided. Even as a Raevir, Dszamila did not act with pride. When Joren spoke hers and Istvan’s names before the Horenic Covenant, in their plans to defend Koppány, she did not find her head held high at the mention of her home or kin. Her chin dipped low, as a servant of the Haeseni and God alike. She could not keep it low, though, as the viscountess had to set her eyes onto the path Joren charted. The path, to Dszamila’s chagrin, led to Xéniavaros. It stood tall enough against the cliffside, unwavering yet. Laborers made their defenses or insights within the white walls for the Crown and Korvacz. Meanwhile, the viscountess laid the groundwork for new arrangements beyond their keep. Crate by crate did she and her kinsmen funnel out their belongings, to collect dust some place else than by their crypts. Root by root did the Saintswood falter from the courtyard, to be upended like the great one of Stran and find new soil all the same. Dszamila orchestrated such without envy. It was a pragmatic matter, which led Dszamila before the steps of Castle Lesanov, and before Joren. Along with their kinsmen, Korvacz and Barbanov alike, Dszamila and Joren conversed in the high halls of the red keep. “Should moy lose this,” the viscountess said. “We won’t lose,” the king said. How wrong he was. Atop the ramparts of Xéniavaros, on the day of reckoning, Dszamila stood side by side with Nadya; a loving queen, but a ferocious soldier first. If the engines of war around them did not rip through their hearing already, the viscountess could hear hers and the queen’s hearts beating out their chests. Dszamila’s mind hardly felt her own as she manned a ballista. Load, aim, loose. Over and over, load, aim, loose. As Nadya drilled the process into every artilleryman, Dszamila told herself it was no different from drawing a bow upon a deer in the woods. What lurked in the treeline was far more unforgiving, though. Every bolt that soared out onto the manmade field needed its replacement, provided to Dszamila by Nadya, at least. Even if the viscountess did not see the way the queen’s hands turned red, both women shared the pain, nonetheless. The pain of war, their labors, and their survival. “To the left!” Nadya commanded from Dszamila’s flank, her voice strained, yet loud enough for the order to rattle in Dszamila’s ear. Together, the Viscountess of Koppány and Queen of Haense moved as one entity to turn the ballista onto their next target. They could do it, Dszamila knew it–even if her vision turned clouded by the smog that loomed over the viscounty. She could not let that stop her, Nadya would not let that stop her–nor the both of them. There was much to lose, regardless of title. For Dszamila, it was her home, her kinsmen, and her queen. For Nadya, her allies, her people, her friends, and her child. Despite all they fought for, none of it could shield them from cannonfire. Shot after shot from Eulersburg, in rapid succession, sundered Xéniavaros and its palisades. As wood and stone went flying, so too did the ballistas. So too, did Dszamila and Nadya. Whatever directions the women went were lost upon the viscountess as she met grass and gravel within the walls. Her shoulder burned hot with a newfound pain that was not parallel to the rest of her body’s ache. Nadya. Where did she go? Dszamila’s throat burned from the smoke and her screams for Nadya. That was her queen, her friend and comrade. She had to make sure she was safe, so they could pick up their blades and start again. Her calls came to nothing, though, as others screamed for help; injuries, breaches, and whatever else war made of the Covenant. The viscountess could not wait upon the queen, even if Nadya’s safety would haunt her through the rubble. Dszamila’s rosen cloak ran red with her own blood as she pressed on. If she did not swing her sword, she pulled someone onto their feet. They had all had to make their stand, not die upon their bellies in the dirt. It was not the way–it was not her way. “Pull back! Retreat!” were words that made Dszamila buckle, as Joren bellowed from somewhere within Xéniavaros and its destruction. It was her home, but not the hill that the Haeseni and the Covenant should die upon. Dszamila surged past bannerman after bannerman that made their leave. If she could not scream in defiance from a hoarse throat, the Viscountess of Koppány could still move past her aches and pains. Her blade could still find another man or two. Her own kinsman was quick to take that away from her, though. “Mila,” a familiar voice rose through all the clamor of soldiers, steeds, and steel. An arm hooked around her, like a shepherd preventing a lamb from running into the pasture. It was her grandfather, Alekszej. “Vy can’t,” Dszamila rasped out. Everything that was left to her, for her children, was going up in flames or down to rubble around them. What viscountess, or mother, or woman would she be, to abandon it? “Y will,” was all Alekszej said, knowing his granddaughter better than most. Alekszej pulled against Dszamila, but not for long, as Alekszej still bested her in strength and stature. As the Viscountess of Koppány was dragged from her lands, the answer became clearer than the skies above them: She would be living. Dszamila would return to New Valdev, still as a viscountess, even if her keep no longer stood on the cliff. Dszamila would return to her children, to cradle them again. Dszamila would still be her own woman, willful as ever. She could not shoulder the burdens bestowed onto her if she were dead. One legacy, at least, lived on. It was only at the cost of whitened stones.

Although Mahaut often found herself entangled in her own thoughts nowadays, it wasn’t enough to deter her from news of her household. “Another well-deserved break,” Mahaut gently mumbled to herself upon the contents of the missive. “And another woman that must rise to the occasion,” left Mahaut’s lips too, as her gaze set onto Louna’s name.

From humble arrangements, Dszamila read over the missive of Amélie, from her triumphs to her plights. Although their paths did not start the same way, Dszamila knew that theirs, like many, converged onto one. Even if she may not see the Pétrine’s face up close, nor may she know the Haeseni’s own, they still journeyed together. Step by grueling step, they marched to the same fate–for themselves and the realm.

The walls and roofs of Xéniavaros were slick with rain as clouds loomed overhead, and the hills themselves weathered the winds that swept through them in full force. There was nary a soul within the keep who ventured out that evening, even if they had to contend with a triad of cries. The wind and hounds howled in contention, while from the highest room in the keep was the sound of new life. Servants dwindled in how they bustled out that high room as those newborn wails lessened, no longer bound to the role of caretakers to the peer in those hours. They left the weary viscountess and her consort alone with their firstborn instead. Dszamila laid in bed with her head pounding and sweat upon her brow, yet pride well-shown on her lips. “A son,” she was told by Stephan, who rested against the bedside. “A surprise for Mamej,” Dszamila replied, her guess on their firstborn now moot. Their infant son laid unaware of their chatter nor their observations. His features were soft and foreign to them, not yet embodying Stephan or Dszamila. He would grow into them, no doubt, for their son’s head already bore a darkness like his mother’s locks. “His name,” Stephan spoke curiously, “Unless vy would call him ‘boy’ for the rest of his days.” Even while she rested, Dszamila was not immune to Stephan’s teasing. “Y will call him boy ‘til the end of my days,” she replied. It only got a gentle scoff out of Stephan. “What about the name vy picked before?” “Y picked out many.” “Vy know which Eam talking about, Mila.” “Baltasar,” she replied with certainty. Dszamila caressed their babe’s head as the shutters of their windows rattled from the storm, shushing Baltasar from spending himself further. “Baltasar,” Stephan echoed it with a grin, before rising up from his stool and fetching paper for a missive. Upon the father’s departure, the mother looked at her son’s shut eyes and quivering lips with great care. She herself was born the same way, wailing into the night for not only life, but a legacy of duty and righteousness. After Sifrá, Dszamila became its safekeeper. Her son would face the same fate and become its safekeeper; for Korvacz. His mother would prepare him, for Baltasar’s shoulders were not formed for heavy burdens yet. From his name, to his first steps and further. Baltasar will walk boldly for his kin, should Dszamila ensure it. For now, Dszamila ensured that Baltasar kept steady breaths and rested alongside her. HOUSE KORVACZ ANNOUNCES THEIR HEIR APPARENT. Written and issued by Dszamila and Stephan Korvacz. c. 573 E.S. AN ARTISTIC DEPICTION OF THE VISCOUNTESS AND THE HEIR APPARENT. ╞════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╡ House Korvacz is proud to announce the arrival of the Viscountess’ firstborn son and heir apparent over the course of the recent evening. In his earliest conditions, the heir is hale and hearty like his kinsmen. The Viscountess herself is recovering and in good health too. Prayers are welcome for both mother and son. (@Terry) BALTASAR KONSTANTIN KORVACZ is our heir apparent, his name paying homage to House Korvacz and House Wick to embody the boy’s heritage. Baltasar bears semblance to his grandfather’s name, but means eagle and “of righteous intent.” Konstantin means “steadfast,” with roots in Raevir culture and Wick history that bridges into Haeseni history too. As Baltasar settles into the world around him, he shall have his baptism per Jorenic Rite and take visits from close friends and kinsmen of the Viscountess and Viscount-consort. ╞════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╡ The Right Honorable, Dszamila Korvacz, Royal Inquisitor of the Royal Duma, Viscountess of Koppány and Baroness of Katabánya, the Wolf of Koppány. The Right Honorable, Stephan Korvacz, Viscount-consort of Koppány and Baron-consort of Katabánya.

From across the kingdom, Dszamila found the missive upon her table. She couldn’t help but grin for her Kortrevich allies, knowing the babe is in great hands. Soon enough, he’d do great things for his kin, Dszamila was sure of it. “Y should send something in congratulations,” was a murmur for none but herself.

It was another time, another place, but Mahaut felt like she had switched places with her predecessor. With the way the breeze slid through the highest windows of Castle Lesanov, it felt like she was back on the warmer day of her Aulic succession, idle within the Church’s few places of respite. Mahaut didn’t stare herself down like Svetlana did, but found herself looking upon Anaksandr, who bore the same uncertainty she did before. “Vy still wish it to be me?” “Et’s still you.” . . . “Ea still wish et to be you.” In the most careful exchange of that bulava, and an embrace, Mahaut knew that Haense will have one of the leaders it needs.

“Have faith in that goodness, okay?” Mahaut was merely a distressed teenage girl when she first heard those words from the former Baron Korvacz. Time erased whatever event brought her to Korvacz’s doorstep that day, but she never forgot the lesson she learned. It melded well into her young and growing heart, to not only be good but trust others to do the same. It was the same reason that the humble Lady Mahaut sat across from Queen Juliya, years later, in her twenties. She wanted to make her mother proud, to do good like her, and the queen she served. Despite Mahaut’s lack of a formal education or prior experience with the Royal Court, she had enough prospects for Queen Juliya to honor her as the Crow Warden. There was good to augur between black feathers and flight patterns, so Mahaut upheld the position steadfastly. She enjoyed it too, for the manner of excitement it brought herself and those which the Crow Warden held dearest. Mahaut, deep down, would’ve stayed like that for the rest of her days. She would have woken up every morning to venture into the Karoswald or the Aestmarch, at least, to check on her feathered friends. She could’ve written another volume or two on their behaviors, or how crows approached other species. It was good for Mahaut, and for the kingdom, in a duty that suited her best. That was not her path for long, though. It diverged from her beloved woods to circle the capital and its castle. Or maybe it was like a tree falling into the road, when Svetlana set down the paper and quill before Mahaut. She wished for Mahaut to be the Deputy Grand Lady, and all it took was Mahaut’s signature to make such come true. Never, in the near decade of Mahaut’s service to the Royal Court, did she covet the role. Mahaut still signed her name in ink, though, because she could act with good will again, for others. And she did. Dance lessons, gentle counseling, festivals, construction of stalls, and whatever else kept spirits raised was enough, it seemed. Not good deeds, but signs of a good job done. Mahaut was an obvious choice in succeeding Svetlana, after only half a decade in her newest role. So amidst the flowing water of the church fountain, and the roses being in bloom, Mahaut found herself in possession of that rose gold bulava and the phantom of her predecessor. She was now Grand Lady in every right. As Mahaut adjusted to the weight of the Rose Bulava in her hand and the lonelier halls of Lesanov, a greater burden and absence fell onto the kingdom; the death of Queen Juliya. . . . Mahaut was never the closest with Juliya, but Mahaut would not be where she is today, were it not for the queen’s nudge in a certain direction. Further direction was lost upon Mahaut. Even if she was a councilor, even if she did good things and garnered the approval of the Lady Palatine and young King over the years, Mahaut still found little trust in herself. She struggled to find the strength to continue down the path as it wound in other directions, or other issues beyond court entangled her. Somewhere in between those struggles, the children that Mahaut occasionally doted upon stood level with her–or taller. Anaksandr Amador was one of them, from a boy that learned to dance with her in Balian’s royal ballroom to a capable and astute young man set to inherit something far greater than himself by blood. Mahaut, with the best intentions, sought him out to inherit another great thing by merit, too. “Mea seat needs a worthy successor, who can be heard ag provide ve Royal Court ag future Koenas with a much needed voice,” Mahaut told Anaksandr this in earnest, before admitting, “Ea lost mine with Juliya.” He was a younger man, who could keep up with an equally young king. Those vines of strife that wrapped around Mahaut’s feet and hands were the same that closed around her throat. She was not choked of her devotion, but ambition. It rotted within her worse than anything abandoned in the woods. . . . Mahaut could’ve stayed like that for another year or two, but not lucky enough to sink into the earth yet, like any other rampant decay. Instead, a younger, fiery woman cleaved the rot from her and sundered the snares. It was the work of another queen and only the start. Abruptly, Nadya had Mahaut and Anaksandr both trail after her into Castle Lesanov, to huddle within the Grand Lady’s office and see the Queen’s will be done. During courtly outlines, jottings of conduct, and frequent references, Mahaut listened to the exchanges of Anaksandr and Nadya. “Hope,” rang out, something that Mahaut’s first queen built her court upon. In that moment, it created a dull ache within the Grand Lady, before it eased into a sense of warmth. She felt remorse for what the court had lost, but hope for what it would gain. In that culmination, as she sat in her chair, Mahaut found faith. Faith, that the spirit of Haense is in good hands. And that was enough. Issued by the GRAND LADY OF HANSETI-RUSKA c. 16th OF JOMA AND UMUND, 571 E.S. THE RETIREMENT OF MAHAUT VAN LEUVEN. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, THIRTY-TWO YEARS OF MY LIFE WENT INTO THE ROYAL COURT. Along my journey, I went from wielding whistles of crowsong as the defunct Crow Warden to wielding the Rose Bulava as Grand Lady. Every step on this path, no matter how light or heavy, has been the greatest honor I could’ve asked for. There is a point, however, where hands like mine cannot raise the bulava as high as they once did. There is, in truth, no reason I have to keep holding onto it. From the Crown to its vassals, I see such fervor in the generation after mine. In the way they battle with blades or song, and in the way they handle culture and law. I may not know every one of their names, nor every detail upon their faces, but I am proud of them, regardless. It is their time to lead–it has been their time to lead. My last act as Grand Lady is recognizing such. My tenure is over, after nineteen years. To the next Grand Lady, or Grand Lord, I bid you this: I did not start on this road knowing where it would end. Neither will you. Hold fast onto your fellow travelers and do not be afraid to take their hand when you fall or slow down. There is greater strength in you, and Haense, when you act in solidarity, not isolation. DLUM VE EDLERVIK AG VE BIRODAL, HER EXCELLENCY, Mahaut van Leuven, Grand Lady of Hanseti-Ruska.

Mahaut looked over the reform with a weary but satisfied grin. After enough spilled ink, tea, and waking hours put to writing instead of sleeping, it was complete. In an equally weary glance, though, the Grand Lady’s eyes set upon the Rose Bulava, knowing its weight was harder to handle once more.

And that was it. After twenty-three years, there was no announcement over dinner, no heart-to-heart before the hearth. It was over and proclaimed through written word. Dszamila stood, looming over the table within her new room, the missive laid upon its red tablecloth. As her hands pressed upon the surface, she hardly accounted for the difference in decor. Her bedroom was stripped of everything from the former viscountess, to make room for the new one. Her childhood bedroom sat empty, its curtains drawn closed and waiting to collect dust until another heir was born. It was a sacrifice made, no matter how small, and not the first nor the last. She sacrificed hours of daylight to her studies, to become Viscountess. She sacrificed moments of friendship, to become Viscountess. She sacrificed her greatest bond, to become Viscountess. Now, as Viscountess, Dszamila would have to sacrifice more. It was enough to make her stomach churn as she stood. Her blood, her sweat, her tears. Her mind, her body. It would all go towards seeing the kin of Korvacz stand taller than before, even if by an inch. No matter how diligently Sifrá taught her daughter, nor how gently she nurtured, Dszamila did not find herself prepared for the weight of that realization. It was only with the words upon ink, scrawling out Dszamila’s name and titles, did the burden set in fully. However, she would shoulder it regardless. Not for her own pride, not for her own glory. It was for her family. For every man and woman that came before Dszamila, and every man and woman that could come after her. She would do her damndest to make sure they not only survived, but thrived.

As Mahaut sat in her office, papers typically sprawled across her desk, she could not drag her gaze away from them. Instead of finding errors to correct or notes to add into the margins, Mahaut found herself parsing through memories. Barely, could she remember encountering Milena before. At Vidaus, as a stony-eyed child opposed to one filled with wonder. At Koravia, under similar conditions. It wasn’t until decades later, Mahaut would come to know Milena. It started with an unpublished exposé, meetings with the Aulic Council, then grew into more private visits in the palace offices, then hers and Sigmar’s home. It wasn’t until Sigmar’s temporary absence, that Mahaut tried to warm up to the frigid Palatine and Princess. Dry humor, from then on, hopes that the three could share tea or dinner, and the careful but considerate word of sister came into exchange too. Hardly did those smaller things cause mourning for Mahaut, what made her ache was a memory she could hardly forget. “If only I might’ve been born as charming as vy–I would be the perfect prinzenas.” One of the last things Milena said to Mahaut upon Louna’s Hauchmetvas. She told Milena that her strength was more valuable, and it was true. However, Mahaut had come to realize too late, Milena was equally charming in her own manner. The aforementioned jokes–or attempts to joke, the diligent eye and hand upon the Golden Bulava, the inclination to bet with an allied princess, the subtle enthusiasm for Snailula. Mahaut fondly recalled these things. They didn’t make Milena perfect, but they made her human, not only a crown or bulava. If only, Mahaut had the chance to tell Milena that. She was imperfect, formidable, and charming.

First, it was Juliya. Second, it was Marius. Third, Mahaut did not want it to be Karl, but it was. Sparsely, but surely, she watched the boy that sat in and listened at the Aulic Council meetings turn into the man that led them. Mahaut noticed the weight of a circlet turned into the weight of a crown, and how it was still held high. He was meant to hold it high as she stepped down and found peace, likely off in the countryside. There was no peace to be found yet, no countryside to see now. There was still work to do, so Mahaut shed her stasis instead of tears. . . . Meanwhile, Dszamila found herself within the walls of Xéniavaros when the news broke. Her eyes took in every word on the paper, every dot and dash too, like it would ensure Dszamila her eyes weren’t deceiving her. They never have, and never would in this. Similarly, Dszamila could not deceive her own heart. She knew Karl more as a prince than a king. He was the prince that chased the others around Vidaus, guided crows from pecking girls’ faces to bits–Dszamila’s included–and nearly turned his face a different hue from trying the horn she gifted him. More often than not, Karl was the king that Dszamila watched sit upon the throne, or hover in the royal box. It was a misfortune that they did not cross paths more. As Dszamila’s hands searched for her flask, she discovered a new truth: She would mourn the prince that she knew, and mourn the king that she would never know.

The Grand Lady came into the possession of the missive amidst her break, focus split between its contents and the average commotion of her daughter and pet crow. Perhaps Mahaut could find more concentration if Mathilde was fetching fish instead.

TO CELEBRATE THE UNION OF DSZAMILA AND STEPHAN KORVACZ. Written and issued by Lady Dszamila Korvacz. c. 568 E.S. AN ARTISTIC DEPICTION OF DSZAMILA AND STEPHAN. “.. What if vyr Kingdom does niet protect vy?” Amid the screams of spectators and thunderous hooves on Vidaus’ soil, that question stood out to a dark-haired maiden. It was posed so carefully, after other exchanges. She was near-callous enough to leave a blonde stranger with, “Then vy turn back to vyrself.” And if not himself, “Vyr kin.” “None who could protect me,” the young man confessed, before the commotion of the Rostig Tourney overwhelmed their conversation. “Guess it’s easier with all these people behind vy. Strength in numbers.” It wasn’t an off assumption, as dozens of Haeseni from all over the kingdom swayed through the stands in celebration for the young Duke of Vidaus. If they were not cheering for the young woman’s cousin, it was for whoever was the most fortunate to knock their opponent into the mud. “If vy live here,” the young woman wasn’t certain, she hadn’t seen him before in the kingdom, “Count the numbers as vyr own.” In comradery, she offered her forearm out to the stranger, like he was another jouster knocked off their horse. “Or at least count one,” out of the many. “Dszamila Korvacz,” was a name put to the maiden’s face, paired with a smile too. “Dobry to meet vy.” “Stephan,” Dszamila found out from him, finally. “...Wick.” . . . The Korvacz needed no armor nor blade yet to protect the Wick, for his safekeeping came in different forms. It came as counsel upon kin, over a drink or the bustling steps of a dance. It went away with minor threats, like stomping Stephan’s foot by a heeled boot or non-existent hoof. Even when Dszamila could not guarantee his wellness, like when Stephan tumbled upon icy Lake Georg, at least she could guarantee the remedy of merriment. Dszamila fell with him in fits of laughter that day. Never did she shirk from him. No longer was he without respite. The Wick afforded the Korvacz the same kind of support, especially in her struggles. Often, it was through conversation, where both parties poured out thoughts faster than ales. Sometimes, it was through silence, beneath tumbling leaves of the Saintswood or the waning stars above Valdev, the latter in better view from an inconvenient climb onto the rooftops. Never, no matter time or place, did Stephan let her words fall upon deaf ears. No longer did Dszamila feel alone thanks to him in a kingdom so vast. Never again, would they go without counsel of the other. Never again, would they go without the presence of the other. They were inextricably bound, not only by fate, but newfound oaths. . . . By vows made flesh, Dszamila and Stephan sat beneath the Saintswood of Xéniavaros as new husband and wife. While the evening breeze rustled through reddened leaves, they spoke of anything and everything again. The future was a frequent topic, with ideas on how to celebrate it welcomed by both. ╞════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╡ With the union of Dszamila and Stephan, the couple would not pass up on celebrating and looking towards the future that awaits them. In honor of the heritage and interests of both newlyweds, there will be three different activities to encompass them and their union. They are listed below in respective order. I. CANDLE MAKING AND CHATTING. To start the event, the recent groom, Stephan, shall host candle making in spirit of his heritage as a Wick. Attendees will have the chance to work and chat together in hopes for both friends and family of the couple to become acquainted with each other. II. SUN DANCING. After candle making, both Dszamila and Stephan will host a dance contest for their mutual love of the activity. It will involve the old Raevir Sun Dance around the Saintswood in Xéniavaros, to see who is nimble enough to stay standing. The winner of the dance contest gets full bragging rights and a special prize from the couple. III. FISTFIGHTING. To end the event, the recent bride, Dszamila, shall host a melee between the most courageous attendees of the celebration to see who is hardy enough to endure every fight. After bracket-style eliminations, the winner of the melee gets full bragging rights. ╞════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╡ House Korvacz and the newlywed couple send out invitations to the following people listed. PUBLIC INVITATIONS ARE EXTENDED TO, His Royal Majesty, KARL IV, King of Hanseti-Ruska and his royal pedigree. His Grace, DMITRY VAR RUTHERN, Duke of Vidaus and his noble pedigree. His Grace, SIGMUND LUDOVAR, Duke of Kvasz and his noble pedigree. The Most Honorable, DAVYD COLBORN, Margrave of Kazan and his noble pedigree. The Right Honorable, DUNCAN BARUCH, Count of Ayr and his noble pedigree. Their Right Honorable, ERIK & EMMA KORTREVICH, Count and Countess of Jerovitz and their noble pedigree. The Right Honorable, KARL WEISS, Viscount of Novkursain and his noble pedigree. The Right Honorable, NERIDA AMADOR, Viscountess of Zvezlund and her noble pedigree. The Honorable, VARON KOVACHEV, Baron of Kovgrad and his noble pedigree. The Honourable, ADELINA VAN LEUVEN, Baroness of Furentaliz and her noble pedigree. The Noble, EVELINA VALKONEN, Matriarch of the House of Valkonen and her pedigree. The Noble, ISTVAN IVANOVICH, Patriarch of the House of Ivanovich and his pedigree. PERSONAL INVITATIONS ARE EXTENDED TO, All noble pedigree of the Viscomital House Korvacz. All noble pedigree of the Comital House Wick, with the one exception of Lord Felix Wick. His Excellency, ANDREI KORTREVICH. His Excellency, TOMASZ VAN VE KAROSWALD. His Lordship, ANAKSANDR AMADOR. His Lordship, CASIMIR WICK. Her Ladyship, DIMA KOVACHEV. Her Ladyship, KRYSTIANA WICK. Her Ladyship, LOUNA VAN LEUVEN. Her Ladyship, MIKHAILA COLBORN. Her Ladyship, PRIMROSE KORTREVICH. Her Ladyship, RUSSANDIEL WICK. His Lordship, SIGMAR VAR RUTHERN. Her Ladyship, YURIA WICK. ╞════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════╡ The Honourable, Dszamila Korvacz, Royal Inquisitor of the Royal Duma, Heir Presumptive to the Viscounty of Koppány and the Barony of Katabánya, the Wolf of Koppány. His Lordship, Stephan Korvacz, Lord of Xéniavaros.

No longer did Dszamila simmer. Instead, she found herself in tired satisfaction. Aside from a successful duel, there was a successful conversation. Two birds with one stone.

In the courtyard of Koppány, a particular heir simmered between stances and the clashes of shashkas in practice, after the missive had been issued. Never again, would she let such disrespect fly off someone’s tongue in Korvaczi halls.

Dszamila read over the missive with great care and a smile upon the latter contents. She’d definitely be heckling Jerovtizian leatherworkers for a new bridle soon!

Amidst workmen bustling and careful preparations in Koppány, Dszamila read over the agricultural missive with great pride for her girlhood friend. “The fruits of your labors have paid off,” she spoke aloud, even if Primrose wasn’t there to hear her praise yet. It would’ve been left at that, had Dszamila’s eyes not caught the section on pomegranates. “Godan, Primrose! Do niet reveal my secrets already!?”

we cheered

Mahaut had taken that letter from Sigmar that morning after, eyes unflinching as the unopened letter came into her possession through a gentleness often reserved for her. Despite the many moments of silence they shared, this one felt different. It wasn’t avoidant, nor reluctant. It was a respite from each other, in favor of Mahaut’s own privacy and Sigmar’s own duty. Even as Mahaut’s eyes traced the addressment on the letter, it would not rouse her out of the morning routine she had set over the decade and amended so carefully in the wake of their growing family. While she ventured from their room and down the lift, Mahaut opened the letter. Each creak and squeak of the contraption were as quiet as a mouse to Mahaut as she read over every word, inked in handwriting she scant remembered. Had someone asked Mahaut how she felt in that moment, there could be no words. There were no tears, either. Her chest felt light, but perhaps that was simply a hollowness. It was a fitting feeling, though, for Yvaine. She was the one woman who caused Mahaut as much grief as she caused her joy. If Mahaut had willed herself to know Yvaine more, she could remember the Leuven knight—her unexpected sister—as more than that. Carefully, Mahaut refolded the letter back into its original form, except for the futile attempts to iron out the paper from its unneeded creases, to get under her front door. By the time Mahaut had taken her eyes off the letter, her feet had brought her before a door. “Mathilde,” she spoke with clarity, despite everything. “Et’s a beautiful morning,” the mother rapped her knuckles against the bedroom door as her voice carried through the colorful walls. “We could go on that walk you wanted,” she tried to convince her daughter, who may not have even been awake yet. “Maybe go birdwatching, or collect flowers.” As Mahaut’s free hand dragged against her collarbone, she thought of what flowers they could find out in the Karoswald. Something red would be nice. That seemed to be Yvaine’s favorite color, after all.

looks at you like this best wishes to everyone in lotc as we head into 2025!

A year. It was only a year that Dima spent in the Ruthern-Leuven residence, yet felt much longer than the entirety of the Kovachev’s wardship. A year of worrying, mothering even. There was guilt in this, without admitting it to a soul–not even to her Sigmar. Two years ago Mahaut would’ve been pleased to aid Dima in such a way. To house the Kovachev as her own, to tuck her in on the illest and coldest nights, to slice fruit for her, to make sure she read every book in the family collection no matter how small. Those sentiments, their potential joys, were a lot more hollow than the coughs from the stolen bedroom. Wondering became Mahaut’s habit: if Dima would have fared better upon advice sent through paper and ink. Would she breathe easier, hold her head a little higher, if they had gone on walks more? Dima had enough adventures to make her move faster than the winds and there was always the dreaded stairwell of Lesanov to greet the girl after a long day. Would Dima walk straighter, if she had instilled humility every year prior with a gift to give? Maybe it would’ve subdued any hubris that compelled the young Kovachev to fight. Or, changed her view on coin and left her without vying for it, despite how that coin would go back into coffers to see her dwindling kin afloat. It was regret that flowed greater than the Dules and Lahy. It would’ve swept Mahaut away as easily as the cold waters, had it not been for the day she caught Dima downstairs. Like a lamb escaped from its pasture, although Mahaut was no wolf; closer to the shepherd. She remained near Dima in silent guidance thereafter, as a habit that would not die out any time soon. Despite the sunlight that streamed through the windows, the warmth afforded in the colder season, Mahaut’s regret froze over. She did not wholly heed past advice. She did not walk with her every day or month. She was not there for the days Dima fought, like others. But she was there when Dima needed her. Mahaut gave her food to eat, water to drink, a bed to sleep in, clothes to keep her cool and warm, company in quietness. When the Grand Lady happened upon her teenage ward in the foyer, she would’ve picked Dima up if her legs gave out. She would have put her back together. “We’ll keep her whole,” was told to Mahaut when Dima first came to the home. And that was enough. That is enough.

PREPARATION FOR THE TUVMAS SEASON. From the Royal Court. c. 14th OF WZUVAR AND BYVCA, 559 E.S. ㅤAs frost befalls our fields and rains turns to snow, merriment descends upon our great Kingdom. In continuation of honored tradition, the Royal Court hails the winter winds with utmost importance, and announces the formal commencement of Valdev’s preparations for Tuvmas. From the Karoswood’s deepest recesses, a most blessed tree was unearthed, fit to bear the cold best and retain its color through the Haeseni season. In the coming month, this evergreen will be felled and transported to the Aleksandrplatz, where the tree will rise again as a start to the Tuvmas celebrations. ㅤSimilar to Saint’s Years prior, the Tuvmas tree won’t be bare for long. ┣───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┫ ㅤIn the capital square, the Haeseni masses will have the chance to decorate the Tuvmas tree together. There will be baubles, beads, feathers, ribbons and other decor for attendees to choose from. Candles will be set about the tree to the likings of our decorators, though remain unlit until Jakko, the Feast Day of Saint Tobias. Attendees will also find stations around the tree where they can create their own special decorations to place on this season’s Tuvmas tree. ㅤShould anyone be proud of their decorations and wish to keep them for their own trees or hearth, that is welcomed too. ┣───────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┫ ㅤOnce our merry attendees finish decorating the Tuvmas tree, the one with the most holiday cheer at the event will have the honor of setting topper upon the tree: a golden star, traditionally depicting a brighter and kinder path for the Haeseni people during the winter months. Her Excellency, Lady Mahaut van Leuven, Grand Lady of Hanseti-Ruska and Crow Warden of the Royal Court. Her Ladyship, Lady Astoria Ludovar, Deputy Grand Lady of Hanseti-Ruska

As Mahaut sat by Saint Karl’s Crossing, the tolling of bells was enough of a sign. Gazing out onto the land sprawling before her, the Grand Lady let out a sigh. From a Grand Lady without a Queen, to an Aulic Council without a King. Another crude irony bestowed onto Haense.