MercyAzalea

THE MARE BEFALLEN Penned upon the deathbed of Vanya Vourkehardt, a hand lain still in tinted black and hair streaked silver. The last product of her quill. The Mare Befallen I was born beneath a name, that which bore a weight yet lay but half-forged upon the tongue of history. Work Wilts Weakness. Not as iron law, nor unyielding decree, but as the quiet philosophy of my house, a truth spoken softly in the halls wherein I was raised. Never was I driven by their hands, only by mine own belief, that I must become worthy of the name I bore. For I was the eldest born within marriage, my dear sisters preceding me in years, equal in standing, and though no voice pressed me toward greatness, I yet heard a duty that none had placed within my hands but my own heart. Whispers beneath the burning sun of Balian, a golden and relentless witness to my becoming, where I first mounted a horse that trembled as though the world itself had not yet resolved its own certainty. The reins bit gently into my hands as my Patriarch’s gloves at last released their guiding grasp, and I mistook control for understanding, as though will alone might teach the shape of destiny. I sought Knighthood, not as ornament of tale, nor expectation laid upon me, but as something sacred by which I might prove my worth. I wore it in thought long ere it touched my skin. I trained beneath skies too vast to answer back, my tutor a man so wanting in nobility that I could never bind myself wholly unto that dream again, not in the final, unbroken manner such paths do demand. And so it did not break upon me, it but loosened its hold, like a future that turns aside to rest in other hands. Reinmar followed. Cold stone and quieter judgement, where even echoes moved with measured restraint. I followed matters of the heart within those walls, yet learned I could not dwell within them without being claimed, present yet never rooted. And still, even there, the greatest weight was mine own, for I bore expectation not imposed, but self-forged, pressed gently yet endlessly upon mine own shoulders. So I returned to my stables, to the place where names are not questioned, only continued, and there I laid down the hunger of becoming aught sharper than I was meant to be. I took up the quill. Ink became my quieter breath, softer than steel, yet no less enduring in its persistence. I wrote of friendship, and the gentle magics therein, of the bonds of the Church, and the wisdom found in kindness. I wrote of an accursed land wherein the demand of one’s works came at the cost of creativity itself. I wrote of my Father, after his passing, of days grown long and drear and dim with absence. And I came to understand that legacy is not always borne forward in clamour. Ofttimes it is preserved in stillness long enough to be remembered. Now the world fades at its edges, as though even time grows gentler in my final hour. My breath grows thin, drawn like silk through narrowing days. If I am to be remembered, despite no ring nor bairns of mine own, let it not be as failure nor triumph, but as something quieter, something truer. A life that pressed greatness upon itself, not because it was demanded, but because it believed devotion unto a name must be proven in becoming. I reach for thy hand, dear sister, yet find it not. You must live on. I rest within my chambers, for I was not so blessed as to remain in these lands as long. I return to thee, Father, as ink returns unto still water. Not lost. At last, at rest. Work Wilts Weakness. Vanya Vourkehardt, A depiction of her youth. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT In my final days, I, Vanya Vourkehardt, do hereby set my affairs in order. I name Auris Vourkehardt as executor of my estate. She is to sift through my belongings and distribute them amongst the new generation of Vourkehardts, as she sees fit and with fair judgement, that what I leave behind may serve as legacy rather than burden. Her word is my word, and it is to her that i entrust this task. She is to provide the original copies of my written works to the Vourkehardt whom oversees our market stalls. My sword, Ogresbane, is to be returned without delay to the Vourkehardt Vault, there to remain amongst the relics of our house. All remaining possessions I entrust to my executor’s discretion, that they may be passed on in service to the continuation of our name. Vanya Vourkehardt.

Irena Amaya Glennmaer, once Valkonen, had been dead for quite some time. This news would have her rolling in her grave in shame...

She had been in wait for decades. Reunited with her beloved mother, amongst other siblings; yet an Alaric-sized void left her incomplete. The strawberry-haired Lady of what was Garenbrig's expression lit up, the echo of hasty steps louder as she bounded towards her brother with open arms. Her family was finally together again.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ “Anne held the reins tight while I struggled to keep pace. Now she’s gone, and the burden falls heavier; but the wider field knows no mercy for those who falter..” ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ [!] In the depths of grief, a poem was published entitled “Anneliese”. [!] They say the wind now dances light, That dawn spills gold upon the moor, Yet all the world feels dimmer still Since when she walks through fields no more. She was the flame the dusk obeyed, A mane of fire, long and low. She led when we were but untried foals, Wherever she would ride, we'd follow. Not born beneath our bannered name, Yet none bore Vourke's weight so well. She stitched her soul into the reins, And in her gaze, the strong could dwell. The pasture stirs, the stallions cry, The forge still sings, the leather bends; But hush has claimed the stable’s heart, And time rides slow where her path ends. So I shall braid the embered strand And wear her memory in my mane, And whisper to the restless breeze That love, once lost, is not in vain. Work Wilts Weakness, but not the ache of you. ⋙✦⋘ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Xenathra Netherwind was, frankly, God knows where. The iconic window cleaner was known for her frequent descension back into the wild forests, only to return on a bright summer’s day when the wind blew an ounce too strong, whispering her summons to her chosen kin. As the sunlight streamed through the borders of those trees, a certain dark elf noticed a familiar sigil embossed onto a lost page. She picked it up, head tilted curiously as she pondered… Those silly horse people had lost their page. She was convinced that those horsepeople would be lost without her intelligence and ruthless guidance. Netherwind thusly embarked on her journey to Caladras to return this lost flyer, unbeknownst to her that the wording announced the death of one of her beloved horsepeople. “Honestly… I must do all heavy lifting for horsepeople… I wonder where Horsefather has been. So quiet recently.” ⋙✦⋘ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "Anneliese carried herself with a fire few could match. I witnessed her growth; fierce, steadfast, quietly resolute. She bore the weight of her house with a grace often misunderstood. Now her absence is a heavy silence I carry between duty and memory, and I regret the visits left undone. Words alone cannot ease such a loss." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ The cold stone of Ritter Tower bit through the thick cloak as Ivona von Ostturm rose from her desk, the weight of the missive pressing heavy in her hands. The flickering torchlight cast long shadows along the chamber walls as she moved toward the hearth, the only warmth in the icen room. The flames crackled, sending brief glimmers of braided light that danced across the cold ground like long-forgotten memories. Her fingers trembled slightly as she unfolded the letter once more, eyes scanning the words until they rested on the name that stopped her breath; Anneliese Vourkehardt. The name echoed in the silence, and Ivona slowly sank into the worn chair beside the fire, disbelief rooting her to the spot. Anneliese is gone. The room seemed to chill further, as if the loss itself had drawn the warmth away. Her mind flickered back to the countless letters Anne had sent, each a quiet plea for her to visit. How many of those letters had she ignored? How many seasons had slipped by, buried beneath duty, pride, and stubbornness? She had told herself the ties of blood were all that mattered. That Anneliese was not for her to fret about. She had scorned Anne’s choice to adopt a child, believing the Vourkehardt name should be kept pure, unbroken. How cruelly blind I was. And yet Anneliese had carried that name with more strength and grace than anyone could claim by blood alone. The irony was sharp enough to draw blood. She pressed a hand to her chest, where the ache had settled; quiet, relentless. Words of regret burned behind her steady gaze, but she would not speak them aloud. Not yet. Not here. I should have come sooner. But now it was too late. The flames before her flickered, fragile and fleeting, like the life of the sister she had failed to visit, and soon did that timber burn out, the only sign of its presence lingering in the scent of smoke and despair. The silence stretched long and cold in the room, and Ivona was left alone with the weight of what might have been. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

Dame Ivona von Ostturm snorted at the comment of Valentin von Chopped. It was too accurate.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ "It is a step forward for Reinmar, yet a step back for myself.. That is how it should be." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm read the missive in silence. The role of Warchief was no more. She had known it would occur for some time, of course, but she found it strange to write her signature without Her Excellency; without being the Warchief. A Dame alone, once more. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ "Many have given less and stayed. You gave more than most. Still; this realm does not pause for tired hands." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm read the missive in silence, her eyes lingering on that title. Relinquishing the reins. So he had. She gave no protest, no praise; only a quiet nod amongst the crackles of flame. Varik had served, and now he stepped away. But the reins could not remain idle, and surely they would not for long. “Then let someone take them up,” she murmured. The Host endures. And so would she; even if it was not aided by his Orderly guidance. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ "Betrayal cuts deepest when it wears your colours." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm read the warrant in silence, jaw tight. "So the church moves," she muttered, "Good." She folded the aged parchment with care, yet her hands stiff. "Then let it be by their justice, and our hands." Her gaze flickered to the doorway, unyielding. "He'll not die a tribesman. He'll die a traitor." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

Issued by Dame Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm In the year of our Lord 2027. ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR, To all tribesmen of Reinmar, and to the faithful across the realm, Let this word carry through stone and stream: Rudolf of the tribe von Weisenstein, once named son of our people, has raised sword against a Holy Knight of the Church Militant in defense of a creature deprived of God’s light, a child of the shadows. He has brought shame upon the Reinmaren name, And by his wickedness, threatened the bond between our kin and the Holy Mother Church. This is not exile. This is the Hunt. He is to be taken, bound or slain in last resort. Detained, he should be delivered to the grounds of the Host of St Johann. Should he fall resisting, his head is to be delivered to the Holy See As a sign of our penance and proof of our devotion. He is no longer shielded by kin or blood. The tribe von Weisenstein claims not his acts. The Reinmaren will not stand in his defense. By tradition and oath, we Reinmaren answer for who was once our own. And when they strike unjustly against the sanctified, We do not weep; we ride. Let none harbor him. Let none aid him. Let the sword be swift. I, Dame-Warchief Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm, Call this the Will of Reinmar, And bind my name to the promise of his downfall. He shall be found. He shall be broken. And his head shall kneel before the altar. A depiction of Rudolf by a witness. [ @ReverseNebula] WER RASTET, DER ROSTET Her Excellency, Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm, Warchief of the Principality of Reinmar, Feldmarschall of the Host of St Johann, Ritter of the Order of St Tylos, Hirdswoman of the Furstin, Lawman.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm looked at her signature with a raised brow. Honestly.. she was going to run out of ink posting these missives. "Leutnant, inform me of our jousting lance stocks. We ought to source more." [ @YeeterTheThird] ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

Issued by Dame Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm In the year of our Lord 2026. ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR, From the campfires of the Host of St Johann, this message travels on boot and breath, carried over soil and stone to reach those whose swords still sleep and whose names are yet untested. The Host calls to you. If you have not yet drawn steel in service, if your hands are clean of blood and your shoulders unscarred by the weight of command, then you are Unblooded. But you are not unseen. The Host watches. The Host waits. And now, the Host opens its arms. Come forth, and learn to move as the warriors do. Training shall be given under those who have walked the warpath and returned with honor. You will not be coddled. You will be carved. Beneath the gaze of veteran soldiers, you shall learn how to stand your ground, to strike true, and to survive the madness of battle. Each lesson will temper your flesh and spirit, until the two are as one. And for those who do not seek the sword, but wish still to serve with steady hands and sharper minds; Castien von Ehrenwald, a healer of high regard, offers instruction in the ways of medicine. You will learn the language of wounds, how to pull a man from the brink and stitch him back into life. You will walk alongside warriors, not as shield-bearers, but as guardians of breath and of bone. The Host does not offer comfort. It offers a crucible. You may enter as you are, but you will not leave unchanged. The call has been given. The fire has been lit. Let the Unblooded rise. A depiction of Hauptmann Isolde von Kanunsberg. To enlist, seek out or write a letter to arrange a meeting with Dame Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm [MercyAsphodel] about the Host of St Johann, located in Kretzen, Principality of Reinmar. WER RASTET, DER ROSTET Dame-Warchief Ivona Sturmweber von Ostturm, Feldmarschall of the Host of St Johann, Ritter of the Order of St Tylos, Hirdswoman of the Furstin, Lawman.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ "Items of significance embed themselves throughout history.. perhaps this document shall aid in expressing the sentiments that my words cannot. " ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm reviewed the document, brows knitted together as she methodically set her items of jewelry within a secure crate; soon would the tribe migrate, and she sought a head-start on packing her belongings. Her thoughts then shifted to the Fürstin; a woman she had shown devotion in act alone. A gift was a fine idea, she decided. "I'd best ask around for a craftsman.." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘ "Without the Kanun, there is no justice. And without justice, there is no righteousness. I consider myself a knowledgeable woman of Reinmar; if you will have me, Lawspeaker, I should like to be considered for the ranks of the Lawmen. " ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm reviewed the recount of the moot with furrowed brows, each word as enthralling as the last. Upon reviewing the call for Lawmen, she wasted no time in reaching for the quill; she felt she knew the Kanun well enough, so why the devil not? ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ “He never asked us to follow blindly, only to ride with purpose, to endure with pride. The stable feels hollow without him.” ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ [!] Aside notice of the passing of Baldric, shortly thereafter would a poem be issued. [!] In the stillness of these walls, where silence hangs heavy, I recall the scent of leather and sands, The sound of hooves breaking the quiet dawn, Your hand steady on the reins, teaching me to trust the storm. You placed me upon the saddle, small and fearless, The mare beneath me restless, her breath an unsteady gale, And with a voice like the thunder’s command, “Grip firm,” you said, “But never with force; let the horse feel the weight of your trust.” Your grip on the reins was an iron bond, But you let me find my own rhythm, Taught me not to fear the buck of the beast, Nor the wild gallop that followed in the wake of courage. With each ride, I learned not just balance, But to listen to the whispers of the lands, My grasp upon the lance, To understand the pulse of the creature beneath me, And to never relent in the face of uncertainty. You taught me that a rider is not just a master of the horse, Nor master of the lance, But a master of self, To hold the reins not in dominance, But in harmony with the very wind and soil beneath us. Now, the mare is gone, and your hand is but a memory, Yet the rhythm of hooves still beats in my chest, Splinters where that handle was once grasped, I carry the lessons of your saddle with me, The steady echo of your voice; “Fear not the reins, Vanya. You must command what is born of the earth.” ⋙✦⋘ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Xenathra Netherwind was never very good at reading. It was probably for the best that Baldric Vourkehardt had not written to her, as she would have likely requested that some poor soul read it out to her. And so she continued to live out her life blissfully unaware. She wore the colours Vourkehardt, not in dedication to their family but simply because he had gifted her the garb she sported most, which bore their family colours. Had she any means of finding out of his passing, she would have cried. Long Live the Horsefather. ⋙✦⋘ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "There were moments when we stood in the quiet, when the world felt too heavy for words. His presence was a comfort, as constant as the weight of my own duty. And I wondered, in those fleeting silences, if things might have been different, had life not demanded so much of us.." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Ivona von Ostturm stared down upon the concealed envelope, a certain measure of dread set within her heart. She did not quite know why this particular letter from Baldric had wrought such distress upon receiving it, but a part of her knew the moment her eyes laid upon the ink. It did not seem freshly written, based upon the ink. This letter seemed to carry an undesireable weight to it, one of which she did not seek to hold. Yet she held it regardless. The crackling flame beside her broke the otherwise still silence of that eve in Reinmar, a gentle tremor bore in her grasp. It always seemed to rear its’ head in the cover of darkness, in the comfort of the cold walls of the Ritter tower. Baldric had never seen it. She could never quite bring herself to encourage him to visit Reinmar, knowing her husband’s distaste for his blood. And thus she kept her dearest friend at arms length; their time shared wholly dependent on when she sought his company, and rarely when he sought hers. The Dame-Warchief never found herself with a moment spare enough to justify the journey to Caladras. As she read over the letter, her steeled expression, for a moment, seemed to waver. Her lips thinned, tightened. Eyes narrowed, burning. Anger. It was anger she felt. It was not anger at him, she could never be angry with him. This hatred found itself directed inwards; why did she not make time? She had made her stance clear, that the Vourkehardts should not seek to visit her in Reinmar. She made trips to Balian in her younger years, and even so.. Baldric was right. The sands of Balian were not for her. Sand irritated her, so small yet everywhere, latching onto every little thing it could no matter how hard you try to brush it off. You still find it in your clothes even if you wash them twice, yet thrice over. That flame in her eyes burnt, stung, hissed in the refusal to accept what lay before her. Blurred vision as she looked upon it more, until that anger manifested itself and left a salty trail across her scar-torn cheek. “How dare you, Vourkehardt. How dare you leave me behind once more?” ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.