ratlordmagic

Peace at Last (PK) ☩ When he awoke, the world was hazy. Waclaw Jazlowiecki descended from his bedroom in Nowa Warsovia, his limbs moving as if through syrup. He was dying, this much he knew. It had been a long time coming, he could only elude the embrace of eternity for so long. His mind began to wander, the events of his life playing out once more in his mind. Faces not seen so long they had almost been forgotten wormed their way into his memory once more. Scenes long since relegated to dreams and nightmares, re-enacted in a shadowy pantomime. He- -ran along a bustling city street, eager to catch up with his companions. “Eloise, Isa, wait up!” He called after them, lagging behind but running as fast as his five year old legs would carry him. “Hurry it up, Ginger!” The blonde girl called back. “We’re all meeting at the fountain!” His brothers, Aleksander and Witold, had teased him relentlessly for befriending girls, but he didn’t care, if Aleks tried anything Waclaw could just put him in the mud. Again. He rounded one more corner in Minitz, coming to a stop at the fountain and taking a deep breath. He- -held his sword tightly, looking up at his Father. Swords flashed against firelight in the night, steel clanging against steel in the all-too familiar cacophony of battle. This was… Adria. He would have recognized the surrounding city anywhere. It was the site of his first battle, after all. Men cut down in fruitless assaults on the castle, Adrians slaughtered in counterattacks, all culminating in the final, desperate sally that pushed the men of Haense and Aaun from the city. The twelve year-old boy had done his duty that day though, and most of the blood on his armor was not his. He- -cringed as the Mori’quessir cannon blasted another chunk of the wall away. He was running out of cover. He had come up to Norland against all common sense to help his friend Rosalind in, what he hoped, would stem the tide of the growing invasion of Almaris. It appeared increasingly hopeless as yet another chunk of wall disappeared in a clash of stone and iron. “PULL BACK FROM THE WALLS!” A voice rang out. A scared, desperate voice. They were all scared, he supposed, some were just better at hiding it. He didn’t want to be scared, he hated that he was scared, but these Legionnaires seemed damn near invincible. Then, almost as if on cue, a hulking figure crossed into his view, a Dreadknight- a creature of nothing but armor and foul magic. They all pulled back towards the gate of the city, making a final stand by a massive tree. He needed to survive this, to get back home. After all, his father- -Gestured to Waclaw from the Comital throne of Warsovia. “And so-” His father’s powerful voice rang out throughout the packed hall. “-I am, as of today, abdicating in favor of my eldest son, Waclaw Jakub Jazlowiecki.” Waclaw, only fourteen, was taken completely by surprise and made his way to the foot of the throne that was, inexplicably, his. “Friends, citizens, and all gathered today-” He began apprehensively. “-I was not expecting this honor. However, I accept it. I will lead our people into a new chapter. An era of peace and prosperity. I gratefully honor the trust you all have placed in me and will do my utmost to ensure that my reign is a Boon- -LOAD UP THAT PLATE!” His cousin called over the sound of battle below. They were in Karosgrad, holding the Harbor gate against the Mori assault. Yet another infantry formation was reduced to paste by the combined cannonfire provided by the Lechian Artillerymen. Things were going… refreshingly smooth. Nation after nation had fallen, and Haense was the last human nation worth defending that remained free. Four years passed since he first fought them in Norland and he had fought in damn near every battle since. Exactly one positive thing had come in the last few years- Isavella. She had gone missing while hunting and only recently stumbled back home. He… had been holding onto feelings for her. If he made it out of this, he’d act on them. But first he had to survive this fight. “Aleks!” He called. “Swing to the right! We need to hammer that damn siege bug!” The cannon fired once more, right into the mouth of the Devourer of Dobrov, causing the monstrous creature to flee underground with a shriek. They had bought themselves even longer to ensure the evacuation’s success. With a nod of satisfaction, he wiped the sweat and grime from his face. “Right. Now for the next problem.” He sighed. The Count of Warsovia- -stared out over the Failor countryside, the township slowly rising around them. After narrowly surviving the Fall of Almaris, he had begun working with the house Ivanovich to build a new home in safety, away from the hell that their continent had become. The Lecho-Raev Commonwealth had been an experiment for him, the first real test of his leadership, one he’d liked to believe he passed with flying colors. Nonetheless, he couldn’t shake the feeling- -Of nervousness growing in the pit of his stomach as he stood before Karl and Annette, Isavella’s parents. “I… would ask your blessing to marry Isavella.” He finally said. They had been courting, both officially and not, since just after the Battle of Karosgrad, and he decided it was finally time to make it official. He was nervous, however, until the older Waldenian man smiled and the woman embraced him. “Treat her right.” Karl requested, a command Waclaw had no intention of disobeying. He nodded- -“I do.” He said to the priest, holding his Isavella’s hand as the priest performed the rites of marriage. His eyes flicked out over the small crowd in the chapel, family and friends. Eloise, Calla, Theoderic, Artel… all people he was honored to have at his side. “Then-” the priest began. “-I now pronounce you husband and wife.” Waclaw smiled and leaned in, sealing the ceremony with a kiss. Isavella was his wife. Despite being a hardened veteran of a dozen battles already, he felt giddy. He- -smiled proudly, holding the squirming infant, his and Isavella’s first child. They had named her Roza, after Rosalind who they both had believed died a few years before. He would make sure this child of theirs would make sure never knew the chaos and war they did. She would live in a time of peace and happiness. After all, the role of a parent was to ensure their child lived a better life than they did. And, god- -As my witness, I will dutifully serve the Crown of Aaun to my utmost for as long as I live.” He repeated alongside the other two men knelt before their King. Their ruler smiled at the three. “Rise, knights of Aaun. May you hold your oaths.” Waclaw felt a sense of satisfaction as he accepted the title, knowing he had done his part. Two decades of fighting battles for King and Country. Things had been moving steadily uphill for both him and his country since they had first settled on Aevos, and now he was at the apex of his life. He knew not what the future held, but he would take it in stride. He had his duty to perform, and he would see it done even if it cost his life. The- -smell of the dead bodies littering the streets of Whitespire was nearly overwhelming. The scene inside the Council chambers had been predictably terrible. King Edmund, Waclaw’s cousin Heinrich, his friend and commander Leopold, all dead. Betrayal and blind fury grappled within his mind as he roamed the blood-soaked streets. Light glinted off something familiar. No… it couldn’t be. However, unwillingly, he moved to investigate the object. Much to his horror, it… it was. His wife’s necklace, a gift he had given her. A third emotion entered the brawl for control of his mind. Anguish. He cradled his wife’s body, holding her wordlessly as tears, long since thought dried up, began to flow. How would he explain this to their children? Roza was practically attached at the hip to her mother, a veritable clone but without Isavella’s ferocity. Krzysztof would likely take it better, but… there’s no way to take news of your mother’s death well. He sheathed his sword- -coming to a standstill next to his King, John of Aaun. Veletz, the successor of Adria, and likely ultimate mastermind of the attempted coup that had claimed the lives of so many, was finally surrendering after a long and brutal war. With this foe gone, maybe he could finally rest. War had been what he knew, what he had excelled at even, but now he just felt… empty. Like a bowl long since drained of any contents. Some vestiges of what once were remained, but he was, for lack of a better word, finished. He had instructed that his notice of abdication be published after the Veletzian capital was demolished, and he intended to make full use of his retirement. He- -reached the bottom of the stairs. He was old by now. Older than any member of his family that he had truly known. He sat himself down in a chair by the fire and reached for a quill and parchment. He began to write, excising in detail his final goodbyes to those he was leaving behind. His hand wasn’t cooperating nearly as much as he’d like. He felt tired, fog beginning to cloud his vision. He shook his head, clearing it slightly. If he fell asleep now, he wouldn’t wake up. He wrote as if he had no more time left which, in honesty, he didn’t. The last letter finally finished and sealed, he sighed and relaxed. The quill fluttered to the floor beside him. He took a breath and smiled. And he knew peace. Requiescat In Pace: Waclaw Jakub Jazlowiecki (1908-1973) The Following letters are addressed and delivered in private, do not metagame this information. To Krzysztof Jazlowiecki ( @Traveller): To Calla and Eloise von Theonus ( @carebear& @Rosey): To Marisol Solis ( @beetle): ----------------------

Karol Walewski grimaces upon reading the missive. “And so an empire is born in all but name. May God help us all.”

“Just kill the damned Caelians and be done with it.” Grumbled a retired Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki.

Karol Walewski sighed, knowing he now had a difficult decision to make. Where do his loyalties lie- his home, or his friends? He did not immediately know which, but he did know that a house divided against itself could not stand.

Swords Into Plowshares Writ of Abdication ☩ Penned by Count Waclaw Jakub Jazlowiecki in the year of our Lord, 1966 It was nearly fifty years ago when my father summoned an Impromptu meeting of the House and its many allies. It was upon that day that I ascended to become Count of Warsovia, a title I have held since I was but a youth of Fourteen. In my long tenure, I have seen and endured much- The Adrian Uprising. The Mori Invasions. The Frankish Wars. The perfidious attempted coup headed by Stassion and the subsequent war against Veletz. Yet one thing has been a near-constant throughout: War. It is my earnest and true belief that the times of war are behind us and that a time of prosperity lies ahead. That being said, I am not the right man to lead Warsovia and the Lechian people into this bright new dawn. As we cast aside our swords in pursuit of peace, it is altogether fitting and proper that I, too, stand aside and make way for a new generation of leadership. With this new peace that dawns upon us, let the young, those untainted by decades of conflict and cynicism, guide the destiny of our great realm. It is their world now and it is high time they lead it. Thusly, I, Waclaw Jakub Jazlowiecki, being of sound mind and body, do as of the publishing of this missive, abdicate my position as Count of Warsovia in favor of my son and heir, Krzysztof Pawel Jazlowiecki. May God guide him and grant him a long, fruitful reign. W IMIĘ BOŻE Waclaw Jakub Jazlowiecki THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, Waclaw of House Jazlowiecki, Count of Warsovia, Grand Master of the Knightly Circle of Saint Godwin

Another candle snuffed. Another light, permanently extinguished. Karl had been one of the greatest men Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki had known- the kind to define a generation, one the world was going to sorely miss in the coming years as peace once more settled upon the continent. He smiled upon reading his late father-in-law’s letter. “Know that what you’ve built will endure, long after we are all but dust. That is the greatest legacy to which a man can aspire. Rest well, Karl. God knows you’ve earned it.”

“There’s no promise this pack of opportunists and oathbreakers could make that’d be worth the paper it’s scrawled upon.” Growled Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki. “They chose this. Only a fool starts a fight they don’t have the stomach to finish.”

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki scoffed. “A false pretense for an even falser uprising. If they so dearly want to see their homes burnt, then they shall have their wish. Our peace will not be so easily broken. Any man who would take a Lich at their word is a fool, darkspawn sympathizer, or both.”

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki, veteran of Forty-Three Years of off and on fighting with the Adrians, sits upon a rampart in Nowa Warsovia, watching the sun rise over a humanity now, for the first time in nearly half a century, truly at peace.

“Oren is dead. Let it rest upon the ash heap of history where it belongs.” Count Waclaw Jazlowiecki stated. “I would sooner my line be wiped out in resistance than kneel before an Emperor.”

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki tightened his grip on his antique Greatsword, named “Traitorslayer”, as he read the objective. Stassion. He had sworn, years ago, to not rest until that accursed keep had been reduced to naught but a pyre for those taken by its denizen’s hands. He had fought through years of this grinding war, seeking the day he can finally avenge himself upon the traitors and would-be usurpers. Now the time was at hand. Perhaps after this he would find the closure he desperately sought. Perhaps after this he could finally rest. Perhaps.

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki grinned upon reading the edict. “About damn time.”

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki wiped Veletzian blood from his blade and allowed himself a small smile. "A long way to go yet until we've avenged all those we've lost... but it's a damn fine start."

“About damn time.” Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki grinned as he read the announcement. “We have one hell of a bill to collect on.”

Ser Waclaw Jazlowiecki nodded upon reading of his appointment. "I will serve King and Country as I always have. It's time to get to work."