Koodini

"The duty of mine most paramount, now seen through," Diane had whispered unto her cherished Dame, mere moments afore she held the fruit of her labors high for all within the hall of Trier to witness. At long last, the Duchess would sleep well, with nary a dream to come.

THE CASTLE GLASGON, ALBA. — The 11th of Horen’s Calling, 2077. “Speak it,” strung a weariness which none could bring solace upon. That Tiber’s voice, so often backed by certainty, proved naught greater than a husk of itself. Languid, it found echoing. “I must know. Speak it.” No hand braved to wipe away the sweat which clung to her pale flesh, for any who tried knew they would be met with refusal. The eve’s toils had nearly seen her undone, and left her body enfeebled and her mind within decidedly spent. Yet Diane still drew breath, and so too did that babe, a scion whose cries lingered further than she’d have wished. No doubt the child was in the process of being dressed and soon to be brought forth, swaddled in alabaster cloth just as the Duchess had requested. But that sight had yet to come, nor did any answer to her wonder. A gaze once ever-kind had found itself shed, usurped by an indignation seldom seen. Where insistence had once dwelled birthed now the roots of exasperation. So fine a substitute it was, amongst the quietude which her retinue of midwives and physicians had chosen. Only upon that last writing she fell victim to, though merely a remnant of her settling pains, did their halted makings budge. A scuttling throng of hands and robes, their haste an airless circling— attendants drawn forth come frailty’s semblance, as vultures to the scent of carrion. Her vexation broke forth in a shrill cry. “No- Begone, all of you! Out, until the babe is brought before me!” Her voice carried sudden force, brandished akin to how one would a dagger. All bouts she had ever known paled in comparison to that struggle existent amongst her and those attendants who wished only for wholeness to rest assured. Their care was found misconstrued upon her ears, as if they wished to construct themselves obstacles before her and that which she wanted to know. Ever obstinate, that woman once styled beggar… all until her chamber’s door found groan. The sight of a babe ensnared by cotton and their Lady Matron, at last, drew her into a semblance of peace. Silence fell across the uneased chamber, and only one possessed the capacity to break it. One final time, Diane clamored, “Tell me. Please, Roswyn… Tell me it is our heir.” Mercifully, the Matron did not allow hope to linger further. Before all present, she declared, “A girl.” Spoken neither in lament nor pleasure was that declaration. But no such indifference would be Diane’s to claim. Her brows, once strong beneath the guise of distress, became weak with furrowing. Though unvoiced, all which welled within found manifestation; her jaw’s shake and nostrils’ flare, her eyes’ brimming and flesh’s reddening. Feebly, her voice sought one last request. “Bring her to me. Allow me her, and then I bid you all to leave me.” “Your Highness,” began a breath seeking rebuttal, though it was soon laid to rest. “Bring her to me.” Naught rose in retort. Diane’s hands, sapped of all their greater strength, could hold but one weight: her daughter. Neither burden nor tragedy, merely hers. Her fears were vindicated, for the fruit of labor laid rowdy within her arms. And those humble quarters which seldom entertained noise greater than her own murmurs or the passing gales’ cries found themselves enlivened, now host to mewls which effortlessly shattered the silence of those halls. Even against Diane’s chest, the girl refused to settle. Those squabbles had proven incessant in their stay, no hum nor gracing hand enough to calm her. Had she been alike, Diane wondered, when her own wisps of hair were first drawn to her mother’s chest: a discordant, unruly daughter? Their matron had seen all whom remained out, and now the quarters were theirs alone. And upon their departure, one might swear an air of ease, or perhaps mere exhaustion, befell babe. At last, quiet. And in its wake, peace. The girl possessed a gaze paled as their ancestors’, of no greater vibrancy than the weathered outcrops of stone near Janisport, with hair alike to her father’s, brown as the barks she once carved thoughtless etchings unto. In that light, she was no misfortune. In that light, she was nothing to grieve, in the shadow of an heir which could have been. In that light, she was all she needed to be. Though the hour would pass and Diane would finally surrender the babe to her attendants’ care, rest would not come easily. No dream would arrive, come her head’s fall unto silkened cushionings, nor would any true repose. Her stupor would be ornamented by a grievous, harrowing knowing: her content was a sentiment unlikely to be shared. THE CASTLE GLASGON, ALBA. — The 11th of Horen’s Calling, 2081. Within the hush of her private apartments of Glasgon, Diane found herself at last unmoored from the demands of court. Comforts, the word she had so often used for the finery of that keep. Once, it had been true. A home—at least in its material form, even if those who filled its fair chambers rarely acted as one. Somewhere to retire when the hour grew old or fatigue sought to best her. But a home, it was no longer. All which once met her every need had grown lusterless. Their ballroom’s glazed floors, the frames of golden leaves which ensnared portraits of Alstions of yore, even her beloved chalice, a relic which long predated her arrival unto Azuras. Their appeals were lost, now existent as naught but prosaic fixtures within her day’s toils; gilded nothings which had long been fashioned the very bars of that cage which held her. In her eyes, the Glasgon was no finer now than those timeworn halls which she’d known all her youth. But a woman of her position held no choice. From that cage she could not seek to fly, for encumbrance had settled about her shoulders. Those daughters, so cherished as they were, were styled weights from which she could not drag away. And now another life had begun to quicken within her stomach, no longer small enough to be hidden beneath layers of silk and lace, and entirely impossible for her to ignore. A life whose nearing arrival was not heralded before their realm, for nary a soul dared chance the sanctioning of a festival nor rite in the name of a babe-yet-seen. For William could not seek to deign even that. What good was it to their realm, might she sire another daughter? What shame might further befall him, should their court’s astrologers augur a son’s come yet leave naught but the seed of embarrassment? It was refusal, by his hand alone, to brave such mockery again. A disallowance which began to lead their marriage astray, further into the suffocating hush she had long become acquainted with. For his image before the realm, as their promised steward and darling prince, held greater importance. Greater importance, certainly, than that of his image before her, as husband alone. A husband who could not find it within him to spare her many words, and even rarer a glance stripped of its contempt, yet all too capable of rearing his focus everywhere except her and what was to be theirs by blood. Was she meant to not think much of it, that birthed detachment? Was she meant to be better than she was, to not allow it to act as such a marring upon her spirit? How could she not, Diane reasoned with herself, for any would. No matter, she decided. Those thoughts would do her no good to ponder upon. No remedy could be brewed which might see their tension severed and understanding brought about. It was better, decidedly, to rest her head. A finer choice to prepare for that which awaited the Saint’s days than drive herself maddened with lamentations of that which would only pass. To rest, she was. But even in a realm where no charge laid upon her, that woman of Beaufort would find no reprieve. . . . . . Just as sleep’s soft hand did seek to draw her lids to rest, a sudden lightning within her gaze did flash them wide anew. As if some malefic force, lurking erewhile in the shadows, had thrust a torch within her very soul, and bid her see some revelation in the dark. Yet it was neither dark nor revelation which Diane came into the vision of. Steady beneath her, the sway of a saddle lulled that Duchess of Furnestock, no finer a woman wayward amongst underbrush, to the greater of her senses. Around her rose the endless forest, familiar as the Daelwood of their realm's bounds, yet far vaster, of thickets dense as a mourner's veil and impassable as fortifications of cobble, wherein no sun dared dwelled. The earth beneath her thrummed, shaken by the weight of that steed which she rested upon. Cluster upon cluster of blossoming primroses laid asunder in her wake, and nary a share of soil left undisturbed. Were it not for the crossbow within her grasp, might she have proved naive as to that which she sought: a huntswoman's trophy. Reared, that held gallop soon slackened unto a stillness. "On," she bade of her steed, though it was unlike those subjects of her household. The mare had halted for a given reason, and from its stasis yet it dragged. Her lips found split, but interruption soon sought to see those words within her very throat slain. Overhead, within the high vault of air, a shadow passed, its span wide as the clouds, yet neither breath nor sound betrayed it. The beat of wings, unadorned by the whistle of passing plumage, meant but one thing to her. ".. Draconis," drew the recognition, spoken within a tongue near extinct. Should they persist in that unmoving manner they held, would it pass? Though she was no wiser, she elected to believe so; atop those soils, with nothing grander than her hushed breaths and that horse's low snorts in ornamentation to the forest's ambience, Diane laid. Patience, a virtue she seldom retained, had become her embodiment. Thus, she waited, and not one muscle braved to even flex as that threat within the skies flew over once again. Though this time, it did not leave a harrowing silence behind. From where she stood, a fleeting vision; but within her ears, the strike of cloven hooves against forage rang true. The prize which she sought, of golden hide and grand stature, fled in wake of that dragon's passing. Its vision danced through the verdure, taunting her and fashioning that bared patience a mockery. One force fell that horse's side upon the realization: a heel swathed in tanned leather. “Haste, girl! Haste!” No longer did her leal steed dare tarry. Through bramble and darkness she rode, ever deeper and ever seeking, until the trees opened like a sigh. The sun laid low upon the horizon, and Diane knew well that gilded beast of hers had but two choices: to meet whatever laid upon the bottom of that steep descent or face her. By way of rein’s tug, that leal creature beneath her had its ardor yielded, its bolt coaxed onto a mere walk. “Protect me, as I have sought to protect thee. Guard me in thy light, so no shadow may encroach upon me,” crept murmurs. A last-gasped prayer, before she was to face that which years of rest had long tormented her with. With her crossbow risen and a breath drawn taut, but a singular hoof sought to cross the treeline. When she emerged into the glaring sun and her eyes’ disorientation settled, it soon became clear there laid no gilded beast upon that bluff. It was William and him alone, garbed in their banner’s plate as he oft was. And yet, with an adornment which was utterly unfamiliar: a crown, wrought of the finest metals and topped by a pair of antlers. His gaze laid upon the welkin which overlooked that Archduchy they knew so well. A realm which was to be his without contest. It was as if he knew her arrival had come, for her throat hadn’t even begun to well with an utterance and nor did he face her before his words found stay within the air. “Diane.” “William?” One might swear the prince had found a hint of humor upon him, as those arms and shoulders once tense became at ease. And as his frame found turn, so too did Diane fall upon the fortune of a sight. Swaddled amongst a sea of azure cloth and slumbering, a babe of silver eyes. All which bolstered her wrist’s loft faltered and fated that crossbow to release, where it found shatter atop soil. The Duchess reined her horse and beheld it, as though marking the truth in that vision, whilst a world of bemusement claimed her. Diane spurred her steed, chest taut with pounding as she urged herself up that slope and towards the babe whom awaited, arms reaching. From afar came the deep, slow beat of wings, growing ever nearer. Each stroke shook the air as though the sky itself might rend, shifting gathering upon gathering of foliage aside as the air grew thick. She ran, haste burning her tendons like coals, and the dragon’s shadow infringed upon that serene clearing. Even so, the child laid before her, peaceful as one might pray and with the breath which life required. Those weary hands of hers, beset by shake, reached forth towards the child. Yet she would never grasp him. One last beat rang within her ears, and then a thunder claimed her mind; that world trembled, and its fashionings were torn from, seam by tedious, fleeting seam. The world had drawn its sharp breath and let it go, as if it never claimed her lungs to begin with. So quickly as she descended into its depths, Diane arose from her dream to a cacophony of screams and shouted orders from the mouths of guardsmen. Rush, she tried, to pull herself from her bed's ensnarement and spy that which commotion had found root within. But she was so easily stilled, a fixing of agony strung within her and a wave of nausea seeking pass. "Assist me!" Her voice cried, bound in an authority she oft loathed the possession of. "You must remain within, Your Highness," the vision of an uneased chambermaid pleaded. "Guide me," Diane rasped in interjection. "Aid me onto the balcony." With aid, all bound in due gentleness as her state required, the Duchess arrived onto the sight of that which Godwinsburg shrieked in horror of. Yet when her footfalls ceased and she laid open upon the Glasgon's balcony, it was not the expected band of brigands or pagan tribesmen which found her, but rather the far glimpse of a passing, scaled beast. "Please, my lady, return to your chambers!" That pleading insisted. "They know not if it seeks return!" Though Diane found herself upon no urgency. She lingered beneath the expanse of sky, watching the clouds drift for far longer than the sight existed, in hope that omen might return. Each passing shadow and shifting vibrancy above she examined with silent devotion, as if the skies themselves had whispered a secret designed for her. Time stretched about her, yet she remained, tethered to that vigil, willing to stay until the world revealed what dreams had promised. But the willing seldom came into that which they wished. A breathed lament, of all which worked within to tear her asunder, besmirched the surface of Diane's tongue. Buckling, if it were not her for attendant, perhaps she'd have collapsed then and there from the torment alone. The strength of many it took, to peel her from where she rested enfeebled, and see her back toward her quarters. "It comes," she spake through gritted teeth. "The dragon, once more?" Though no answer found itself stayed within the air, her throat yet occupied by squalls and wails, those gathering physicians knew. There was a dragon to come, and soon he was to claim his ascent.

MADELEINE JANE ALSTION (@DuhPuhWuh) hrough God’s own mercy and with great joy, Their Highnesses, the Duke and Duchess of Furnestock do announce unto all the arrival of a second childe within their noble household. Following a prolonged season of barrenness, brought on by the great hardship endured since the delivery of Elizabeth Henrietta, the Duchess of Furnestock hath now been brought to childbed and delivered of a second issue. The childe comes with great expectation, for the succession is now further affirmed. Come right on time, the babe is of no great size, weighing little more than a stone. Likewise is she graced with the classical Alstion features, foremost among them the Duke’s own chestnut locks and Horenic gray eyes. As the coming of a second childe hath been so anticipated by the Duke and Duchess of Furnestock, the young princess is assuredly cherished by the Ducal coupling, and hath been received as a most welcome and tender addition to the Furnestock household. After much deliberation by the Duke and Duchess, that twain hath resolved to have the babe privately baptised. Further hath she been named in due reverence of those Alstions past. The first name conjures the memory of those scions born in the bygone days of greater Johannia. The second name, an ode to those great figures whose contributions hath been paramount to our illustrious Archduchy. Thus is it our hope that she may prove worthy of the stock from which she springs. The arrival of a second childe to the Duke and Duchess is received as a blessing upon the Archduchy, of which she shall take place in line to the succession thereof. This birth doth serve moreover to affirm the Duchess of Furnestock's proven fecundity, and offers well-founded cause to look forward with hope for more heirs to come. Issued from the Castle Glasgon, the First of Owyn’s Flame, Year of St. Julia, by order of the Duke and Duchess of Furnestock.

“. . .and then entered the Duchess of Furnestock, arrayed all in white. Her sable tresses were drawn back and hidden under a veil, and her cheeks, though naturally hued like the rose, were without any artificial furnishing or color. She was in all points the very image of the Queen Mira of Aaun. At her side came the Duke, so appareled as to represent the Saint-King Godwin. This being the final act of that Court, they did declare openly that the Duchess was at last again with child. Whereupon, those assembled burst forth in great applause, and a prayer was said. For it was to all present a thing most evident… That a son was near to being born.” — A transcript of the Court at Highbury, c. 2076 KNOW YE ALL, BY THE DIVINE GRACE OF GOD, THEIR HIGHNESSES, THE DUKE AND DUCHESS OF FURNESTOCK DOTH PROCLAIM MERRY TIDINGS UNTO THE COURT: Her Highness is found with child, and the realm doth rejoice as one heart made glad. Blessed be this occurrence, delivered unto Us after a spell of infertility from which the Duchess-consort long suffered in the years now passed. Wherefore, prior to the babe's own cometh, it is ordained beneath the greater Ducal Coronet and Court of Glasgon that there is to be held a festival of springing mirth; in hope a son's delivery be one of ease and thereupon he is recognized heir. Thus, We decree an invitation to all manner of honest subjects, of origins both common and high, to join in celebration amongst the repose of Little Furnestock. There shall be set forth sundry pastimes and gentle trials, wherein the spirit of fellowship may be put unto grand display and Her Highness may be assured strength by rite aplenty, all in service of blessing and good fortune for the babe yet born. The undern shall be host to an array of leisurely festivities, wherein the haleness of the babe yet had is to be assured by way of trials and rites inspired by the Daelish of olden. THE RITE OF WARDED KNOTS A humble observance wherein each soul doth take a length of cord and bind a knot with quiet thought and stalwart heart. As the knot is drawn, so too is misfortune held fast and kept afar, seeking to guarantee the uproot of all which may prove malefic and bring flourish to all well. Those whom tie their cords in sincerity shall be kept in good health and fortune, guarded from adversity. THE GOODWIFE’S TRIAL A spirited yet friendly contest of strength, wherein two bands of goodman and goodwoman alike shall take hold of a stalwart rope and strive for victory through measured tugs. Though existing in good cheer, for all may find great mirth and fellowship amongst the practice had, a purse of 100 mina doth await the trial’s victors, split evenly amongst the five. THE KINDFOLK’S GARLAND Once fatigued from the celebration’s happenings, all whom remain shall be invited to share in an exchange of garlands amongst parties of like favor. Be it the kindliness shared betwixt those of shared blood, the enjoyment of one’s mere companion, or another’s most beloved, together shall those welcomed be allowed a mass of freshly harvested blossoms from the Crownlands’ hills, to freely craft garlands and bloomed crowns. Might thy hand prove skilled, for to bestow another flowers of poor vision is said to be thought of as a slight, rectified only by a lifetime of proffered bouquets. A PRAYER FOR A SON, PENNED BY THE DUCHESS OF FURNESTOCK. O Almighty GOD look with favor upon us, we beseech the, and grant unto us a son, an heir to oure Princely Coronet. Let him be formed in health and born in safety, and when thou dost deliver him into our arms, endue him with wisdom, courage, and faithfulness. May he grow to serve thee and his people with honor all his days. May his reign be a blessing to the realm for generations yet unborn. We humbly commit this petition into thy merciful hands. Amen. Issued from the Castle Glasgon, the First of Owyn’s Flame, Year of St. Julia, by order of the Duchess of Furnestock.

“How amusing,” Diane of Beaufort mumbled unto her dearest attendants. “They greeted me with manacles yet hold open arms for mine nephews.” Hilarity held against her tongue without repose. Quite fascinating it was, to watch House Tiber’s repute amongst the Imperium shift so suddenly. Yet, greater than all else, it was pride which held against her very spirit. That eve, within the quiet of Glasgon's antechambers, the Duchess would raise her goblet in toast to those nephews of hers. And come that morning, the Prince of Beaufort would find a bouquet of lilacs within his encampment's tent.

Unto all to whom these presents shall come: Greetings! Be it known that it hath pleased Their Royal Highnesses, the Archduke Edward and his consort, the Archduchess Jane, to proclaim the marriage of their eldest and only son, William, Duke of Furnestock. This marriage is to be solemnised betwixt the Duke William and the Lady Diane, Baroness of Bourgh, whose rank and ancient lineage have rendered the match meet, honourable, and well approved. In remembrance both of that custom from which our line was born, and in regard for the present war, the said Duke and Baroness have elected that their marriage be celebrated in marital fashion, their nuptials to be a Military Wedding. Accordingly, all persons invited are asked to appear in their best and comeliest armour. Any weapons are to be laid aside and left at the door, in reverence of the holy bond here to be joined. Issued from the Castle Glasgon, the First of Owyn’s Flame, Year of St. Catherine, by order of the Archduke and Archduchess of Alba. Promagulated with assent of His Imperial Highness, the Duke of Grense, on behalf of the Draconis-Atrium. THE MONTH OF GODFREY’S TRIUMPH, in the year of our Lord, 2071 The month of Godfrey’s Triumph shall be host to the pair’s processions, with Prince William escorted by his knightly retinue and the Lady Diane by her leal attendants to the Cathedral of Fifty Skulls, wherein their nuptials shall begin. THE GROOMSMARCH | Come the near morrow, Prince William shall depart from Castle Glasgon’s recesses come the sun’s crowning of Our realm’s skies. With his retinue in accompaniment, the Duke of Furnestock will proceed from Glasgon to the Cathedral of Fifty Skulls come the bell’s fifth peal, whereupon his knights will make within, lining the nave and raising their blades into an arch which His Highness shall discover passage beneath. Upon his settling before the altar, those of the White Hart will rest beside its make, blades sheathed. Thereon, he awaits his bride’s arrival. THE MAIDSWALK | Within the household of Bourgh’s chambers, kept from her betrothed’s eyes in adherence with wives’ tales of old, the Baroness Tiber shall be dressed by her staunch attendants. From the Glasgon shall they part come the Cathedral’s fifteenth peal, Lady Diane as lead before a host of bridesmaids, and upon her arrival the toll of bells will cease. This shall signal the coming of her walk down the aisle to the groom’s side, her bridesmaids’ departure, and their nuptials’ begin. THE NUPTIALS | Upon the settling of both respective entourages, the awaited nuptials may commence. Rings shall be exchanged, vows shall be taken, and the ceremony will conclude with Lady Tiber being wed to Prince William Arthur Alstion, thus styling her Lady Diane Fausta Alstion, née Tiber. Thereon, beneath the Arch of Blades, the pair shall depart from the Cathedral of Fifty Skulls as petals are thrown from the boroughs’ sills and cheers cry through Saint Godwinsburg’s streets, marking the procession’s end. THE MONTH OF TOBIAS'S BOUNTY, in the year of our Lord, 2071 The month of Tobias's Bounty shall see the commencement of Prince William and Lady Diane’s celebrations after their ceremony’s come, beneath the fashioning of a skirmish grand and feast lavish. THE RACE FROM GLASGON | Come sun’s rise, the goodmen of Alba shall saddle their steeds and prepare themselves within the courtyard of Castle Glasgon. From Saint Godwinsburg’s holdings to our realm’s tourney ground will the Alban host race, through a symphony of hoof beats and rein crackings. The event’s victor, he who crosses the risen finish first, shall be styled the Victor of Glasgon and bestowed a purse of 250 mina. THE BOUTS OF BOURGH | In celebration of martial tradition, the Bouts of Bourgh shall then commence; a series of three-on-three skirmishes, either armored or of the fist. Thus does the Princely Coronet call upon Our realm’s men, knights both Orderly and Free, men-at-arms, and all able to partake. All participants are expected to make themselves known prior to the event's come. The tourney’s victors shall be styled the Champions of Bourgh and thereon awarded a purse of 1500 mina. THE FEAST OF FURNESTOCK | Upon the tourney’s conclusion, the fair host which remains shall return to the comfort of Saint Godwinsburg’s ramparts, to engage in splendid revelry by way of feast. The kitchens of Glasgon will prove bustling as ever that eve, with courses, desserts, and liquor alike served in honor of the yester-ceremony. THE IMPERIAL HOUSEHOLD, His Imperial Majesty, Hadrian I, Emperor of Man, and his Imperial Pedigree. His Imperial Highness, Marcus Tiberias, Crown-Prince of Man, and his Imperial Pedigree. THE ARCHDUCHY OF ALBA, His Excellency, Parzival von Augusten, Earl of Constans, and His Noble Pedigree. His Excellency, George Aldersberg, Earl of Dover, and His Noble Pedigree. Her Ladyship, Constance Devereux, Countess of Trier, and Her Noble Pedigree. His Lordship, Henri Halcourt, Baron of Artois, and His Noble Pedigree. Her Ladyship, Susanna Helvets, Lady-Regent of Owynsburg, and Her Noble Pedigree. His Lordship, Rothwin Aldor, and His Household. His Lordship, Niccolo di Rosavena, and His Household. His Lordship, Egon von Alstreim, and His Household. Her Ladyship, Brigitte von Rhoswald, and Her Household. THE IMPERIAL CROWNLANDS, His Princely Highness, Siegfried Barclay, Prince in Reinmar, and His Noble Pedigree. His Princely Highness, Sir Martius van Aert, Prince of Blackvale, and His Noble Pedigree. His Princely Highness,Cassius Mareno, Prince of Myrine, and His Noble Pedigree. His Highness, Adrian d’Asturia, Prince of Asturias, and His Noble Pedigree. His Grace, Duncan Baruch, Duke of Valwyck, and His Noble Pedigree. His Grace, Heinrik Ludovar, Duke of Kvasz, and His Noble Pedigree. His Grace, Sir Lothar d’Amaury, Duke of Lorraine, and His Noble Pedigree. His Lordship, Ezra de Senna, Count of Edessa, and His Noble Pedigree. Her Ladyship, Nuvilta Whitewood, Countess of Silasia, and Her Noble Pedigree. His Lordship, Sir Antonius Helane, Count of Valmont, and His Noble Pedigree. Her Ladyship, Dame Lorelei Alstion-Enswerp, Viscountess of Rethel, and Her Noble Pedigree. His Lordship, Iohannis Basileus, Baron of Cascanova, and His Noble Pedigree. PERSONAL INVITATIONS, The Honourable, Milos Sarkozic, Count of Aldersberg, and His Noble Pedigree. The Esteemed, Robert of Glasgon. Her Ladyship, Konstanze von Augusten. Her Ladyship, Roswyn Halcourt. Her Ladyship, Druszila Aldor. Her Ladyship, Wilfrieda von Pruessens. Her Ladyship, Eirene Mareno.

In a charter colony just ‘pon Agathor’s coast, nestled betwixt the shoulders of an envoy and his modish missus, that Lady Tiber which ink spoke of found herself disquieted. How hastily the word traveled. Her name laid plain before Azuras’s denizens, and soon she followed. By way of flesh, in presence greater than the words of a declaration claiming her of measure. To cross a sea, to come into charge she never thought herself to assume; the prospect made a marvel of her nerves. But her resolve remained without faltering. Whilst deckhands hared about a bustling harbor and shouts echoed through the salt-rich air, Diane’s mind welled with intent most salient. Thoughts of the procession to come overturned whatever dismay idled within. Her possessed worry found stationing elsewhere— upon the impression to be made, one fit of a Prince’s intended. “Might we browse the harbor’s wares?” Escaped her lips, eyes steady upon merchants near.

A HOLY ACRE IN PRONCE, THE YEAR TWO THOUSAND AND SIXTY-THREE. Agathor's skies fell victim to a drear befit only of sorrow. The sickliness which ensnared a youth’s heart pressed beyond mortal confines, made manifest in leaden clouds where serenity once dwelt. Thunder broke as the heavens shuddered, and within dim catacombs a lone flame thrashed, unyielding and untamed, casting its light upon the features of a girl crestfallen, whose gaze fought to remain forward. From the bier to the sarcophagus they set a man motionless, whilst his daughter could do nothing except look on as the fossors’ weary hands labored to secure the seal of his tomb. Its stone make was cold and pale, etched with the story of a life undone: bannermen astride their steeds, a tower crowned by a singular draconic beast — heraldry that spoke of an existence seized by service and bloodshed. And that it had. For this death had not come by mere ailment, nor had it arrived by the grace of age. No, the man within had been rendered still by the very undertaking which had sustained him and his forebears of old: war. Steel had torn through the frail sanctum of flesh. Life's fragile claim was tested, then surrendered. In that sole act of violence, a father, partner, son, and soldier were borne home, bound to stone evermore. And though his lungs were rid of breath, he was all but wholly lost. Perhaps in flesh, but not in memory. For the halls of his daughter’s mind echoed with hazed remembrances of a man both stern and attentive, whose mere presence exchanged the quiet of their home with a bracing, deliberate warmth. A warmth that was rare, perhaps even forlorn hereafter. His affection held no stay within these halls, for it had left alongside him. And try as the widow who remained might, she could not restore what they'd lost. After all, rancor was harder to conquer than men, and she bolstered no semblance of the father gone. Not his tenderness nor his sympathy, a thing long distant to the spirit within. Instead, the husk of a woman remained, scorned to the last breath and of an exhaustion which had no measure. It was her lofted tongue, glacial as the rain-soaked cobbles and hampered with an authority almost untoward of a woman in her circumstance, which liberated their servants of those slackened spines. “That will suffice for now,” crept a symphony of vexation and ire. Another breath hadn't the chance to draw before footfalls echoed out, leaving all but two mourners fitted in sable garbs and heavy veils to their lonesome. Just as it had shaken their servants, that utterance brought her own daughter’s fingertips strain. Clasping, as if to ease the grip about her cross was to forsake the very prayers which resided within the hoarse of her throat. Prayers which found themselves stayed. Not offered nor murmured, for the presence looming beside her proved both suffocating and deafening. Against that cacophony in her mind, the sentiments her mother came to offer devolved into an insistent, throbbing hum. Even if her pale eyes fixed upon the woman, she doubted those words would ever resolve into meaning. They drifted just beyond reach, stripped by grief their form and torn asunder by lament. It remained a doubt she wished untested, nor was it a veracity she wished proven. What she already knew she knew well; some silences were better left intact. Within, wonder trounced all else that arose; Is this all that accompanied loss? Vicious mockeries of silence, a toll which found no lull, and thoughts which stung? Where were the tears she expected to shed? And where resided the cries of that widow beside her? Had she been too enfeebled by misfortune to even wail, to even speak her own ache aloud? And in wake of those thoughts, so too were ponderings of the brother elsewhere birthed; for did he grieve alone? Was the charge now thrust upon him so great that he hadn’t the time to mourn? Or perhaps he did not mourn at all. Perhaps she alone was too naive to the truth of their father’s exploits, fashioned the sole sorrower who held hope of his return. Cautiously, through a fog of misery she swore might claim her, a mustering was found. The might she required to speak, to allow that silence no sojourn. “I cannot believe it true.” Found its way out from her throat, ample in disbelief. Her eyes stung with an aridness yet nothing fell from their reddened lids. Alas, the full of her gaze cast sideward, upon a relict whose own features budged not. “It is a cruel truth, my girl, but truth all the same. Horrid as it is.. painful as it be, it is done and we have no say.” There, hesitation laid evident, profuse. As if the heart within her chest still coursed with condolence. The kindness rarely afforded, the kindness ever coveted, emerged from bitter depths, “And now we must endure, so his death is in all but vain. So you shall. For you breathe, and thus you must.” One, singular breath was yielded. Its release made clear a plethora of emotion, from grief to numbness, even guilt and exasperation. But beyond all, it bled verity unto the soul within; care remained, even if seldom brandished. And narrowly so, that provided an inkling of solace to that girl upon the brink. “Return home once you’ve spoken what you need to. The sisters at the hearth may manage without you for the night.” No utterance erupted in reply. A veil shifted, her chin bobbed, and that mother of hers parted. Only there, unattended, the daughter who lingered was at liberty to let loose all which set against her in endless anguish. The composure of her features made forfeit, she was found too incapable to resist those shedded tears and that steady fixing of a hand to one’s throat. Wails spilt from her lips like a stream of sorrow, plagued with the remnants of a breaking, aching heart. It proved too much for her to stomach. And should she remain in those catacombs any longer, she might go mad with grief. Lay herself unto the stones and await the day’s turn, praying the night’s inhospitality reunited her with the father slain. Only there could the gray of her gaze be witness to his own again, and perhaps that would be simpler. Of more ease than grief, of greater allay than the rout against her being. But that was hardly the fate she would find. The ground which she sat upon felt colder than the woe she fought off, and though her body trembled with surrender, no solace would be found there. The heavens would not part and return him, nor would the night be taken by miracle. That remainder of hope within her chest had flickered out, its flame snuffed to naught but a bellowing pillar of smoke, and yet she summoned the strength to rise. It was a burden she scarcely desired the weight of. To live on and endure, even in spite of the hollow within her chest. But such a grace, of acceptance or refusal, was no longer afforded. Against the crowding of emotion, there stood no room for choice. Those catacombs stood as silent witnesses to the most vital act of fervor that had remained inside her: continuance. Even as the world about her seemed at risk of collapse, she pressed on. It was not hope that urged her, but something far more ancient. An impulse that tethered soldiers to their wars and priests to their altars. Duty. A ceremonious summon, final and without rebuff. With shoulders doused in resolve, one last prayer crossed her lips' threshold, a final goodbye bid to those ancestors laid to rest 'fore she emerged from those catacombs. The taste of salt still clung to her breath as a scent most raw swelled before her senses. Clouds stirred into fashionings of peace and petrichor came to sting, dancing atop tender stimuli in tease. Her mind echoed with a reminder of the place she sought out, home. Thus, amongst the vibrant crowds that filled the streets of Pronce, she moved with dire intent, each step a relentless reminder of her struggle against unraveling. The cheers of tavern-goers, once lively and pleasant, now seemed insensible, made mere pleasantries, as fleeting and mundane as doves in flight come dawn. The murmurs of foreign envoys, preoccupied with their political concerns, faded into mere ambience as the blood within her surged, taut and burning. Those quieted halls of their dwelling would find her in their accompaniment that eve, downcast yet enduring. Just as her mother wished of her, just as she might prove to. THE HEARTH OF SEVEN FLAMES, PRONCE Harren’s Folly, the year 2063 The heat of an eternal hearth, tended and preserved by a convent of the faithful, raged softly alongside the uniform shuffle of feet. Within the sanctum burned seven flames, each a living extension of God’s will, entrusted to a different horde of sisters all of blemished hands and devout spirit. Yet one flame stood untended, left in lonesome, quiet vigilance as two souls parted. A pair who found themselves fitted into the narrow bounds of a chamber designed for the most vulnerable of admissions, now lowered to their knees. “Bless me, Mother, for I have sinned.” “How long has it been since your last confession, daughter?” “No longer than a week.” There was no answer which crept out from the other side of the screen. The girl, still a mourner within, felt herself shudder beneath the weight of that quiet. She had found her way here often as of late, more frequently than any of her sisters in faith. She wondered if her very spirit had began wearing thin beneath the repetition. Or possibly the Mother’s ears, too, had grown weary of this incessant caper. “What manner of sin have you indulged in?” The word was loosed from her lips as though it unburdened her very chest, a softened surrender which rid her sternum of its tension, “Doubt.” “In what, my child?” “In His design.” Her shoulders languished, the carefully rehearsed, faux poise she possessed slipping out from under her. “I cannot reconcile my belief with the sorrow of my soul. I cannot fathom why God would allow my father to be felled. He was steadfast.. He was just as devoted as I, and yet he was taken from us.” Whatever vehemence held in her throat faltered. Pallid hands fled to clutch at alabaster cottons, the garbs which attested to an unbroken purity, now ensnaring a girl convinced she bore a blemish none could cleanse her of. Uncertainty had rooted itself where faith was meant to remain, and she feared it would prove her undoing. She continued on, the rustle of that benign, heeding Mother’s breath her only supplement. "I am all but lost to my pain, Mother, but the silence He keeps has proven impossible to bear. Before His altar, before the flames of His very resolve have I prayed and have I wept, yet still I find myself without answer. My doubt finds no relief, nor does it wane with the days passed. All which remains is a singular question..” Her voice dwindled to a hurt, shallow echo of its former self, “Is He by my side amidst my sorrow, or does He linger elsewhere? Has my grief been shaped a test?" The confessional grew eerily still, save for the exasperated gasp carried from that girl forlorn. A tribute left afloat in the quiet, unsettled. ONE HUMBLE MANOR, PRONCE Horen’s Calling, the year 2064 Even abated, that rot within was not a thing so easily put to rest. Two years having seen through a fog she’d only just stumbled out from. Still, the cries within rang out, like fractured remembrances reminiscent of a mirror made shattered. The image of what she’d known before had become distorted beneath the onslaught of emotion endured, its shape riddled with grooves placed there by change alone. Devastation and despondency, it had all worked to mold her into a girl able, at last, to brook that which she needed. That which she knew awaited her come his final day; dabblings of ink which contained the last words intended for a fallen man’s lone daughter. Words destined to lay before her, the last daughter of Beaufort. A legacy and titleage long stripped of its splendour and influence, now rendered lowly and bereft. No living force could change the tides of their misfortune, that much she, a girl forced into a life of service before God, knew well enough. Generations of princes astray and decades of indigence were not things so easily remedied. But there was one inheritance she could lay claim to, and it rested within the quarters of a father which none were allowed entrance to. None except the one who had bid her home that eve. One Lady Aliénor, mother to both wayward son whose petitions now branded him “The Beggar Prince” and a daughter whose oath tied her to the eternal flames in Pronce’s holy hearth. She whose unfounded authority relinquished her youngest from a night of prayer and study, out from the grasp of a Mother in faith and before the modest bower she had grown in. Yet that widow who wished her there had found herself sent for. For a reason her daughter knew not, she was to be received in the inner city, a summoning echoed out in the name marriage had bestowed upon her. And if the dusk which settled upon their home took any other shape, perhaps the circumstance would have proved different. Just possibly, the daughter who always remained, even in the worst stirrings of settled dust, would be of an opposed curiosity. But that night, a courage seldom flourished bound her very being. It carried her forward, through halls decorated in portraits of men once grand, cross floors unwaxed and untided, with such purpose one might swear God himself ordained the movements so. Only upon reaching her place of intent, a chamber undisturbed, belonging to the father who had been, did she finally halt. Eyes flickered, and the chamberstick within her grasp was set upon the ground. Then, the fidget of a doorknob fixed in a refusal to twist. Gentle whispers meant for the woman elsewhere found themselves atop her tongue, “Forgive me, mother.” The knob before her found itself claimed by fingertips firm. Rear did the forefoot of a girl wrought by determination, naught beyond a quivered breath given in reprise. Into the wooden shaping of the door did it collide, the lone attempt backed by enough force to loosen the lock from its frame. Wood splintered, dirtying the ground beneath her, but she hadn’t the time to fret. Repose was hardly a luxury afforded. For all she knew, there was but a few minutes separating her from a confrontation with the mother who, no doubt, presently sat within a carriage bound for home. Cobwebs and air long stilled, thick with a stain of stale, dried odor, greeted her upon entry. It was as if time itself had entered stasis as she crossed into the room’s threshold, chimes of a weight-driven pendulum serving as lone accompaniment to drawn curtains and dimmed fixtures. Still, no pause held her motions. Forth, pass stacks atop stacks of parchment, her weight fell, halted upon reach of the cedar desk she’d oft sat across from. Amongst a horde of reports and correspondences laid letters sealed, stamped with the sigil of a house she bore the name of. There rested the succor required, an epistle whose exterior was torn to bits within a mere half-minute. Betwixt the clasp of digits, so read ink. . . MY DAUGHTER MOST DEAR, KEPT IN THE LORD’S GRACE, Should this letter lay before your eyes, then GOD hath seen my days weighed, and found their sum. I write not to soothe the truth of what is, but to set your heart right. To belabor the path our Lord hath intended you walk. The one you must, as one final ask of mine, do all but stray from. Know, my girl, though I have fallen, my faith never had. He alone remains the one whom I raised my blade in name of, not the lieges of Pronce nor the petty squabblers of Walden. From beginning to dire end, He fueled my resolve and allowed me the strength to march on. But I let you know this one sacred truth few men are of the confidence to admit, Not all wars are holy. Not the campaign which keeps me from home, nor the ones prior. Many bear righteousness as their chosen banner, whilst forfeiting the very honor our Lord allows us. A war may only be deemed holy should it preserve what is and spare all that is innocent. Make no shrine in wake of my death. Burn no incense and place no blooms. Pray, if you must, but above all else, persevere. Let your vow ring ever-true, and wear your faith without ornamentation. Waste not the hours on what is past. With the strength you have, make on. Keep your cross beared, and remain of purity in a world riddled with filth. Honor me with more than mere tears. SIGNED, Carolus of Beaufort There was no complexity in that which he’d written. Not a convoluted, unending runnel of sentiments which thrashed against her heart. But as if there had been, that girl, in an act which allowed her grief to wholly loose, found weakening. Just as she had years before, those knees of hers buckled and those eyes grew heavy with tears. Noiseless cries dragged her toward floors soiled with dust, into convulsions which only catharsis could birth. Grief, once overwhelming, had settled into a quiet resignation. Whatever polish possessed its edge had dissipated into a worn smoothness, its luster trampled beneath the march of time. That which remained was not peace. Rather, sufferance; a weight the body mastered, no longer questioned in its existence. Then, through a distance which rapidly closed, a voice stained in familiarity took the air, “Diane.” Hurried, as if distress was thick upon the psyche. Those soles’ clicks finally arrived, yet did not find pause upon the sight of wooden chips. Pass the litter and into that chamber, eyes steady and wide fixed atop the daughter who shuddered. Quiet regard, strung with befuddlement of her own, found stay in the air, “Mother?” “Come.” A singular word which led Diane to stand. Redness still crowded against her features, but the storm she traipsed was not soon to surrender. Out from the confines of her father’s dwelling, through the halls she’d been so careful to cross, and atop the ingress of their meek accommodations. “My lords,” Aliénor spoke aloud, gathering the attention of three men donned in gouns of velvet. About the girl's shoulders set an intensity she hadn’t been seized by in many some years. And in its wake, a presentation aloud. . . “The last daughter of House Tiber and sole bearer of her name, Lady Diane Fausta.”

"I could be no prouder," Anaksandr offered his dearest son, a man of seldom fashioning — one who seized the reins of his fate instead of allowing the tides their way. That day, when they came to grace a golden shore instead of frigid, northern recesses, joy struck the elder Amador's face.

hope the new year's a good one for you, julius! thank you for being so incredibly kind <3

Birth did tension against a brow oft laced with pride. Dead, Anaksandr discovered, yet not from retainer or personal confidant. Rather, whispers which had caught like wildfire through canopies. Ravaged, both mind and soul. Had it all been for naught? Attempt after naive attempt to mend a wound he hadn’t a hand in originally opening, now proved meaningless? For a woman he failed to ever truly know, a woman he thought earnestly detested him, tears fell. So long as she breathed, he vowed to try. And now, so long as she rested, he vowed to remember her. She would not be lost in their blood’s annals. No, she’d be revered. The expiry of a Phoenix, the gathering of ashes. As they claimed: Nod pepel, Asere Podnimat’sya.

"How.. pathetic." Mumbled Noruidor, revulsion palpable. He'd never been of the Princedom yet found himself twined in disappointment all the same. A sanctuary for his kind stripped of its dignity, forced to kneel before an Emperor. Dark was the day. Dark as could be.

Amidst the thickest canopies Azuras bolstered, a Mali of no true allegiance found the soreness of his fingers pressed against parchment. Aëlwen, a fleeting repose in years past, destined to return. Murmured were the prayers from Nóruidor's tongue, hopes the Acaelanites hadn't lost their kind, just ways. In time, perhaps a visit to their risen sanctuary was due.

A boy impartial to formal gatherings found himself unusually intrigued by his own sister's festivities to be. It was not the promises of fare or the assorted fashions which piqued Johann's interest. No, it was the prospect of others. That alone made him seek out attire fit of a lordling, be it his typical maroons or otherwise. And perhaps it'd do him some good — company.

Anaksandr, a man of true HOLIDAY CHEER, reminisces fondly upon the time he was bestowed a gift by the ever-generous North Star!

♪♪♪ “One is eternal. Steel rusts, memories live; long after the grave calls or the last ember dies.“ ╠════════════════════════════════════════════╣ A turn of seasons, through the temperate wintertide’s gales and towering evergreens onto the distinctly humid days of midsummer. Callous-ridden hands had found their grip about hammers or rivets wrought from bronze, marking the beginnings of a craft meant for far sailing. It wasn't the rowdiness of that Norlandic host, the same ilk he’d parted from Aevos’s accursed shores alongside, which drew him to such a project. It was a necessity; a selfish, uncharacteristic yearning for solitude amongst lands unfamiliar. Though he, a man seldom of tight-knit lips, who wished for seclusion, wished not for silence. It came, unburdened by the presence of another, in words all the same. To the empty air, a man maddened spoke. Not in initiation but in response, “You speak with such simplicity. You know it is anything except simple. Forsake the blood spilled, forget the mind benumbed? I will not. Not even for him.” It brushed past him in rasped reply, denoted by a gentleness absent upon that Amador’s own tongue. Such fragility backed by harsh potential. The saline breeze spoke in its enigmatic manner, a language few besides Anaksandr knew how to decipher. In veracity, in reason. With fairness. In candidness, in sincerity. With resolve. That Amadorian brow faltered in its strength, besmirched by sweat aplenty. Betwixt sweat and an upset rarely spoken aloud, his lips trembled. Each fastening of oaken planks turned another fluctuation of emotion. “And of me? What becomes of me without this?” Anger it hadn’t been, anger it shan’t become. Despite its intensity risen, there was no malice in what came. Nature’s breath swept his unbound hair sideward, revealing scarring long healed. More than what met the eye. ‡ Restless nights in caper with days of breathless laboring. What had begun small expanded overnight; a man who’d only ever crafted a small rowboat to make down the river Lahy, where the remains of Queen’s Crossing long rested, was to have a ship in his name alone. The first in generations of his blood. A hallmark which his family’s annals were decorated in tales of. Had the seas about Aevos been without their storms, perhaps it’d have come sooner. Perhaps Anaksandr, still held by youth, would’ve balanced against the tallest masts and taken to the sea. To know a watery grave, to know all which lingered beyond his view. Only now, enrichened by decades passed, would fruition fall upon such a dream. Bruises fell against the fingertips of a man at work – a rickety loom in company, apt enough for the matter of weaving together a cloth which his only company upon the shore, those thrusts of wind, would breathe life into. Sailcloths were raised and natural paints were soon set against holds of oak. Released flags bled vibrancy against the sea’s pale surface, Amador blues and alabaster whites filling those emptied skies– spare an avian flock or passing cloud. His vessel’s name was known before its construction reached completion: The Jaded Selkie. In tribute to a mother he’d never truly known, a woman who was more of a mystery to him than the sea had ever been. In memory of a father he’d once lost, whose wisdom was beyond that of the years his flesh held, and was oftentimes bound by jadedness which few others rose to the measure of. It was the two of them, a lord of depth unmeasurable and a Viscountess whose fate’s strings were tugged into unexpected orderings, that forged a boy with a penchant for worry. Memories of Aevos plagued Anaksandr in those sullen eves upon Kalldur. A land once home turned blighted. From the shores of endless sea glass about Portoregne to those far, frigid reaches of Ailmere which few, even Haeseni, dared to brave. The company of his own, a twin whose stubbornness rivaled God’s and a sister whose fondness of pearls marveled him. Those of blood diluted or bonds forged; a Kovachev youth of flaxen tresses who’d endured more than most he’d known and a cousin once mistaken– once lost– who found way into his favor again. Some were memories, relics of a past he would eventually forget in the shuffle of his mind. Some had been twined into his very soul, unable to be forgotten even if desired. Yet he remained. Every storm weathered, with footing rarely lost. He had his marrings from atop Koppány and the Winewoods, some worn with pride and others concealed beneath only the heaviest furs. His psyche, though tested time and time again, he believed to remain intact. As his people oft quoted, he persisted. ‡ Anaksandr made sail long before the greater share of his fellow descendants. To be amongst the first who would discover some making of land. A land meant for settling. Not the temporary sanctuary which Kalldur had kindly bolstered. A home for him and his own. Before his chest folded sun-kissed arms which those ceaseless laborings had since numbed. Onto the open sea was a gaze cast, tarnished by a dancing interloper. A foreign energy, vibrant in its flushed hue, which remained aside his pupils. Stillness fell Anaksandr, the winds which raged atop briny waves unable to disturb the appearance he’d catered. “Utterly? Without any doubt, you’re sure of it?” He asked in his solitude. “Utterly,” replied the wind. By the time his boots’ soles graced Azuras, a missive bound by wax was prepared for circulation. That Amador’s ink spoke. . ♪♪♪ From Ashes, We Rise EST 143 E.S. - Present | 1590 A.H. - Present •⋅ ───⊱ ༺⋅☨⋅ ✵ ⋅☨⋅ ༻ ⊰─── ⋅• A CHANGE OF LANDS, A CHANGE IN AMADOR A WRIT OF ABDICATION PUBLISHED BY ON THIS HOLY YEAR OF 604 E.S. •⋅ ────────────────⊱ ༺ ✦ ༻ ⊰──────────────── ⋅• It has been but a year since I was bestowed an inheritance promised to me since birth. For that year, I gathered all I’ve ever known of my name – of House Amador, and began a path to refuge our peoples find great familiarity in. In that year, I basked in the fulfillment of the one purpose I’ve known. But as landfall nears, it is my intent to do all but sow my inheritor’s future in likeness of my own. It is with this mind, sound and resolved, I, Anaksandr Albus Amador, abdicate all I hold to my son, KRISTOFF ISAAK ‘THE SILVER WAKE OF AMADOR’, to be recognized as Patriarch of House Amador in all capacities. Until my breath stills, I shall remain amongst my kin, to aid my son in his endeavours as leader of our house, and be a voice of counsel before the unfamiliar. For my daring Kristoff, I’ve nothing but faith. May he inherit kindness and reject the bitterness of our recent histories, to replace atrophy for vitality. May he do as I wished, and may he lead our house to a future bright. •⋅ ─────────────────────⊱ ༺ ⋅☨⋅ ✵ ⋅☨⋅ ༻ ⊰───────────────────── ⋅• ‘The Anchor of Amador’ His Lordship, Anaksandr Albus Amador, Patriarch of House Amador, Lord of Queen’s Crossing, Enestrik of Karoslund.

MC Name: Koodinii Discord: koodinii Image: Description of Image: A painting of a sailor clad in blue. Dimensions: 2 x 2

MC Name: Koodinii Discord: koodinii Image: Description of Image: A pair's marriage portrait. Dimensions: 2 x 2

♪♪♪ From Ashes, We Rise EST 143 E.S. - Present | 1590 A.H. - Present •⋅ ───⊱ ༺⋅☨⋅ ✵ ⋅☨⋅ ༻ ⊰─── ⋅• THE DOVE WHO SOARED A WRIT OF MOURNING PUBLISHED BY ON THIS HOLY YEAR OF 596 E.S. •⋅ ────────────────⊱ ༺ ✦ ༻ ⊰──────────────── ⋅• Bitter is the storm which howls through the hearts and halls of our home. I write now to make known the passing of one of our own, Helena Helmi Amador. Little more than a Saint’s Year past, upon a trail and amongst familiar company, misfortune struck and birthed a fatal accident which stole our beloved Helena from us. From this realm she has parted and onto the skies, where we pray ceaselessly that she has found peace, eternal and true. She was without malady or affliction at the time of her passing, healthy and radiant of soul – a fleeting solace in wake of this tragedy. It is with the loss of a girl whose melodramatics and vibrant tastes birthed joy wherever she stepped foot that House Amador undertakes a period of grieving. •⋅ ───⊱ ༺ ✦ ༻ ⊰─── ⋅• A MOURNING PERIOD TO BEAR OUR GRIEF Together, we of immediate relation will make to gather and speak aloud all we hadn’t the chance to let her hear. Before a raised pyre will offerings be laid, ushering her soul into peaceful release. And come an inferno’s cessation, all which remains, ash and tributes, are to be sealed within a casket of cedar. Thereon, her coffin shall be laid beneath a tree dubbed The Fair Helmi, undisturbed and unburdened by the mortal coil. TO BEAR THE COLOR In her memory a vividness is born. The customary mourning attire our people know, of black and lace, will see no display, opted for the color all knew her often swaddled betwixt – green. Until the year of 596 E.S. meets end shall those of House Amador adorn themselves in greens of any hue, just as the young Helena donned in life. TO BEAR A NAME “Long has the living moniker honoured those of our house who rise above … But never has this tradition been put into clear writ, and so with the ascension of our thirdborn I, HENRIK EDVARD AMADOR, third of my name, do decree that furthermore the eighteenth nameday of any Amador … should they prove worthy of our fire, bestowed such a title worthy of their rising into the ranks of Phoenixes bygone.” — Henrik III Edvard Amador. It is the honor of our blood for those worthy to bear a moniker of their parent’s choosing once maturity has bloomed. Helena, fair and histrionic, did not make it her eighteenth, but it is by my will that she is bestowed an epithet nevertheless. Know her, a fledgling pure, to bear a moniker fit, of her mother’s fashioning. HELENA HELMI THE DOVE OF AMADOR 577 E.S. — 594 E.S. •⋅ ─────────────────────⊱ ༺ ⋅☨⋅ ✵ ⋅☨⋅ ༻ ⊰───────────────────── ⋅• His Lordship, Anaksandr Albus Amador, Heir to House Amador, Lord of Queen’s Crossing, Enestrik of Karoslund. Her Ladyship, Mikhaila Amador, Guildmaster of the Healer’s Hall

It was the weight which none could shoulder. Beneath it, Anaksandr shattered. From his lips, as he stared upon his sweet girl— without breath nor blood, what began as a croak turned acidic. A howl like none before, backed by a feeling akin to the very makings of his throat tearing. This was no mere tragedy. This was the still of his own heart, beneath the decay of her's.

@pomegradwake up. freaky bitches are winning today

No argument rose from the tongue of the father. Anaksandr's gaze merely fell, steady upon the floorboards. Oh, how dirty they were to soon become, much to his eldest daughter's woe!

fine, fine! you win.. you win with your gay stuff! part of me feels like it goes without saying, but the show adaptation of IWTV is one of those pieces of media that truly never leaves your mind after you watch it. top 5 greatest shows of all time idc!! AND WHILE WE'RE AT IT? THE DECAMERON TOO, IT HAS BEAUTIFULLY CRAZY SAPPHIC REPRESENTATION. @pomegradand I have truly never watched one show together that wasn't gay then this goddamn book. finished it in my senior year while in study hall and had to fight back tears over how devastatingly good the themes of acceptance and young, queer love were portrayed. aristotle and dante is a book I'll always be a sap over (and why I refused to watch the movie adaptation. i cant risk ruining my view of it.) and this gem ofc