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.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "A sword that speaks the law can guard more than just a border—it can guard a people’s soul." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ A man of great strength and integrity; experience enough, more than enough. The Dame-Warchief reviewed the missive with a sense of clarity; for too long had the chair been empty. For too long had Reinmar idled without a Lawspeaker. A thoughtful expression crossed her face as she reached for a page, smoothing the delicate sheet out as she laid it atop unorganised paperwork. "I ought to pen him my support; I would think none other more capable than my brother-in-arms." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "A warrior’s strength is not in their spear, but in their resolve to protect what they hold dear." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ The Dame-Warchief reviewed the missive in a quiet agreement. It was the way of the Reinmaren to be conservative in who they welcome into the walls of Kretzen. Seeing that the Furst retained their ways instead of faltering to the greed of frenzy brought a newfound sense of hope. There was strength in their resolve, a steadiness that had long been the foundation of their people. In a world that twisted under the weight of ambition and thirst for power, the Reinmaren knew their survival depended on honouring the old ways; the rites, the bonds, the simple strength of their unity. She leaned back, her gaze drifting to the distant horizon where the wind stirred the tall fields of wheat. Kretzen stood a fortress not only of stone but of spirit. The walls, aged only as much as she, had seen countless battles, and the warriors who had walked its gravelled paths knew that strength was more than just the ability to fight; it was the quiet determination to preserve, to endure, and to stand unwavering in the face of what others might consider inevitable. "Rightly so... not even war shall shake the values we hold so dear. It relieves me to know my son will grow in a unified society as our ancestors intended." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "For a mother, the cry of war and the cry of her child are never far apart, and both demand her strength." ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ She had prayed, with quiet desperation, that the worst was behind her; her heart clung to that fragile belief, seeking solace in the idea that the storm had passed. Yet still, the tremors lingered, a whispered echo of nightmares, an unshakable trace of the infernal darkness that held her in its grip. Even now, the subtle quiver of her hands portrayed the truth. She stared at the missive, a silent sorrow in her gaze. Brows furrowed, lips pressed tight. The Dame-Warchief held her son closer since the Battle of Kretzen. She fought for him. And it was to him she would disperse her wisdom, for it was only with him she sat. "If it is battle they seek, then battle they shall have, just as our ancestors of the Tribe of Theoderic and Gelimar did before us. War is not a mere clash of blades, but a trial of strength and will, to test the worth of our resolve. We fight not to destroy, but to prove that we can endure. Only after the fires of war have burned hot can we sit, as our forebears did, and seek the peace that follows. This is the way of our people." WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "The graveyard knows the pattern well: one soul descends, and the rest stumble after, as if death beckons in echoes." The Dame-Warchief was growing tired of it. Fall, after fall, after fall. It seemed there was going to be an awful lot of pyres lit in the near future for ... what was left of Kretzen. A swift flick of her pen upon the roster of the Host of St Johann ushered across the fallen's name; deliberate and permanent. The duty was done. "WER RASTET, DER ROSTET.."

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ "And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee." Ivona von Ostturm stood unmoving, the weight of the news settling upon her like a distant memory. Though she had not spoken with him more than was required, the bond of their shared oaths was unbreakable. They were brother and sister of the Order of St Tylos, forged in the fires of service. Grief stirred within her chest, quiet and unspoken. Yet the tremor remained, a reflection momentarily taken of all whom she had lost. Adalwin had only just been added to that list; and Sir Albert joining swiftly after. Her hand, steady by all appearances, quivered faintly at her side. A stubborn remnant of the past; of battles fought and lost. She clenched her fingers, willing the memories away, but the weight lingered. Still, she stood tall, her chin lifted. For the sake of her fallen brother-in-arms, she would endure. She would remember. "Wer Rastet, Der Rostet."

⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ ⫸⋙✦⋘ ᛁ ⋙✦⋘⫷ There was something haunting about the moon that hung above Kretzen that night. The Moniker she did not share; "The Wolf". She had considered changing it time and time again, following the disturbances of the Stroheim Werebeast who slaughtered Princess Adalfriede years before. Something wrought her retention of that moniker, the hound who inspired her to take it at all. The hound she took in upon her first days walking the cobbled streets of Kretzen. Her boots struck stone with measured steps as she moved through the garrison, gaze lifting to the sky. The moon cast its pale light upon those tall stone walls, indifferent to grief, unmoved by loss. It had hung just the same the night before; when Adalwin yet lived. The air was mired in that lingering scent of smoke, thick with the tension worthy of a warbound Principality casted in blood. She passed beneath the dim torchlight, the worn banners of the Host of St Johann hanging limp above her. The moon followed her, casting its pale light through narrow windows. Its gaze lingered as she reached the door of her office. With a heavy breath, Ivona grasped the handle. The wood groaned in protest as it swung open, ushering her into the stillness within. With each step, faces returned to her — ghosts of the years past. Young Adalwulf, lost on the field of battle; her dearest friend Isolde, whose unyielding devotion had lived on in the Dame-Warchief. The Princes Leon and Albert, the radiant Frederica. Peter and Robert, taken during her time in Stroheim. One by one, the old guard had dwindled, their lives spent in the service of the banners they swore to uphold. Now, the next generation marched in their place, though even they seemed to trickle away like sand slipping through her fingers. Yet Ivona remained. Scarred, mauled, but living nonetheless. The Adunic blood in her veins kept her face still youthful. But her eyes, beneath the weight of fifty years, betrayed the truth. She was no longer the bright-eyed shieldmaiden who first stood on these stones. She was the remnant; a half-century warrior, bound to endure, for who rests would rust. She settled into the grandiose chair of the cupboard-sized office; Ivona’s hands moved through the scattered pages, fingers tracing reports and rosters. Each line stirred fragments of memory; campaigns waged, orders given, victories earned, and losses endured. Yet it was his name that lingered. Adalwin. Steadfast. Strong. Prepared. From the first day he took the oath of the Host of St Johann, he had proven himself worthy. His voice had carried unwavering commands in the chaos of battle, his shield lifted for his comrades without hesitation. He had faced hardship with grit, his loyalty unshaken. At last, her search ended. The ledger of soldiers. The names were scrawled in crisp, black script — so many still untouched by the finality that awaited. But his stood out. Adalwin. No longer a Leutnant-Grenadier of the Host, only a name left behind. Her trembling hand reached for the quill. The tip hovered above the parchment, the ink pooling in wait. With a deliberate breath, she struck a line through his name. The mark was unyielding. One swift stroke. The duty was done. "Wer Rastet, Der Rostet."

Dame-Warchief Ivona sat in her office, the dim light of the moon casting long shadows as her son stirred in her arms. The missive lay open before her, a narrowed gaze flickering over the reasonings and the stark absence of the section Reinmaria. She traced the parchment’s edge, her fingers steady despite the lingering tremor within. Kretzen’s moot hall and Palace alike had stood tall until the day they didn’t. Ivona pressed a kiss to her son’s head. For his future, she reminded herself.

[a snapshot of Dame Ivona, not a public missive; do not metagame.] ⫸⋙✦⋘ ⚔ ᛁ ⚔ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Tremors. They were not unheard of in the heart of battle; the burden of a war’s lament. The relentless echo of warcries, so piercing and all-consuming, an infernal weight that even the mighty Warchief herself could not escape in dread’s scornful embrace. The shriek of arrows cutting through the air, the thunderous clash of hooves reverberating through the very walls she had sworn to protect, the stones that had borne the weight of her vows for half a century now trembling beneath the weight of war’s relentless tide. For a brief, disorienting second, Ivona found herself back in the gatehouse, the air thick with the tension of battle. Unable to flee, cornered by the forces of the Church; oh, the wretched dispersion of her hope as she learnt the doors surrounding her were locked and she held no time to break them. The walls, once so sturdy beneath her hands, now seemed fragile, shuddering as the storm of war crashed against them. Most assuredly, she would fall in the name of the boy she held so dear—such is the nature of the Reinmaren; the Dame; the Warchief; the Mother. If it meant furthering his chance at a life of sanctuary, then fall she would. She could almost feel the splatter of blood licking at the stone, the heat of fury upon her face, hear the cries of her soldiers, and see the glint of steel beneath her perception of that woefully blood-red sky. ⫸⋙ᛁ⋘⫷ But then, the tremor passed. The Mephistophelian grasp upon her soul vaulted from her at the tearing of a stark, guttural cry. The stones of the gatehouse walls shifted, familiar but altered. The soft glow of the hearth warmed the cold grey stones of the Ritter Tower, her ice-blue eyes blinking thrice in an effort to ground herself, to remind her where she truly was. Seated in a simple rocking chair, her heart still raced, the weight of battle not yet shaken off, as the warm hearth finally reached her senses—the source, she realized. It was not fury that kissed her skin, but the steady embrace of fire. Baby Ludwig von Ostturm shifted unsettled in her arms, her hold on him gentle, as though he were made of porcelain, too fragile to bear any but the softest touch. Gently did her rough, worn hands shift the babe closer to herself, her thumb gingerly brushing over his cheek as she sought to soothe him. The innocent cry of he who could not know the weight of the world, and oh; how she envied that innocence. The cry she wished she could expunge from her soul yet forever intertwined was that sorrow, the weight of the Warchief’s spear evermore burdened across her back. Her appearance, too, spoke of her return. A rare sight indeed, for the veil she never parted with now lay forgotten in some corner, as though it had never belonged to her. Her armour, usually a second skin, abandoned for this brief reprieve, left her more exposed than she cared to be. Her curls, once neatly bound and framed to perfection, now lay in wild disarray about her face, the untamed strands falling across her features like the very chaos she had endured. The braid-bordered shaved side of her head remained, pristine and sharp, a symbol of the discipline she never allowed herself to abandon. Yet here, in this quiet moment with her son, her appearance seemed to reflect the fracture within her—a Warchief, stripped of the entrapment of the prisoner of war, but still burdened with its weight. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ⚔ ᛁ ⚔ ⋙✦⋘⫷ But what was a tremor that did not return? Hoisted upon a steed not of her own, wrists bound in cruel rope and dread, Ivona felt the world narrow to a suffocating stillness. The weight of captivity hung heavy upon her shoulders, the cold sting of unrelenting ropes digging deep into her pale skin, the friction of her shackles binding her skin in a malevolent shade of red. Her gaze, sharp but distant, flickered with a thousand unspoken thoughts as she was dragged through familiar lands not of her own, the cruel wind cutting through her exposed skin. A woman with hair of rose, seated upon a horse near herself. She knew not of her nation, a Knight unknown, but only that she too was caught in the blaze of war—an ally fallen alongside her, sharing the same grim fate. The Knight Katherina, with whom she now sat, awaiting the uncertain fate that awaited them both, as they were lined up in the throne room before the Tar of Numendil. The throne room pressed down on Ivona, cold and heavy. Every breath felt like it might be her last, but there was one thing Ivona had to do before it ended. Her eyes locked with Auris Vourkehardt’s, silently pleading. She mouthed, please, desperate for a moment to ensure her affairs were in order. Her heart pounded; Ludwig, Rafael, the very reasons she fought with a spirit unshaken, were all left at the mercy of the Tar if she couldn’t secure them now. But Auris remained unmoving, her cold resolve unyielding. The Vourkehardt’s allegiances were firm, and Ivona knew this, though the sting of betrayal still lingered. How could I expect otherwise? Her thoughts shifted to Ludwig—his safety, his future. The knowledge that the Vourkehardts, among others, knew of her rank as Warchief twisted her insides. Would they unmask me? That fear gnawed at her, but she pushed it aside. Only her family’s safety mattered now. ⫸⋙ᛁ⋘⫷ Again, the tremor passed. Her trembling hands stilled, her gaze returning to the babe in her arms, finally at peace. Oh, how she envied that peace. To be settled. Her grip softened as the baby settled against her. His quiet breaths seemed to soften the air around her, soothing the sharp edges of her restless heart. The weight of the world, for a fleeting moment, felt bearable, as though she could settle—if only for a breath. But even in the warmth of the hearth, the ache lingered, a yearning for something she could not quite grasp. Her gaze fell to the door, where Rafael’s presence awaited her, steadfast as always. The thought of his comfort; of the safe embrace he offered, so familiar stirred her into motion. Her gaze momentarily cast to the hearth before she rose, cradling Ludwig in her arms, each step toward the door heavier than the last as she departed from the warmth of the flame. The cold stone floor beneath her feet seemed to pull her toward it, the path uncertain yet ever so necessary. When she reached the door, her fingers hovered over the handle, the weight of the moment pressing down on her. For a heartbeat, she paused, hesitation grasping her tightly. The returning chill of a land colder than hers. Not fear of Rafael, no—this was something different. The frost in the room seemed to deepen, creeping through the walls, threading its icy fingers through her thoughts. She shivered. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ⚔ ᛁ ⚔ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Perhaps it was simply a part of her now. The land of Norland lay under an eternal shroud of ice, the biting wind slicing through the air like a knife. The horizon stretched wide and barren, a desolate expanse that seemed untouched by warmth. Yet amidst this frozen wasteland stood a tree, ancient and resolute, its flames never ceasing. The fire consumed it endlessly, sending a relentless stream of ash into the air, a grim reminder of the land’s unyielding nature. The Norlandic ash clung to the earth, a pale blanket that covered everything in a spectral stillness, as though time itself had been frozen beneath the ever-burning tree. It was thought difficult to differentiate the ash from snow. It was here that Ivona found herself, withdrawn from the crushing weight of battle and bound in the cold embrace of captivity. Beneath the tree’s eerie glow, she was led to the Hearth temple.. The flickering flames within its walls cast long shadows, dancing across the cold stone floors as if mocking the warmth she longed for. The King of Norland had shown mercy, though his eyes betrayed little of the pity he claimed to hold for her. This mercy he bestowed wrought a cost, one of prayer forevermore. Ægir Edvardsson, a figure both unyielding and merciful, had spared a moment to send word to Reinmar, a fleeting hope for a distant answer. And when the reply came, it was a brief but blessed relief. She retrieved it at the first touch of Norlandic soil, the message from the aviary bringing her a momentary comfort amidst the biting cold. But the respite was brief, for she was soon taken back to the Hearth temple, her fate still uncertain, her heart heavy with the weight of her past and her future. The King had spoken little, his pity a cold thing that did nothing to ease the frost in her veins. Yet she knew he had been taken here not for justice, but for mercy, however distant it seemed. ⫸⋙ᛁ⋘⫷ Once more, the tremor passed. Ivona remained frozen before the door, her hand hovering just inches from the cold wood, hesitant. The faint light from within Rafael’s chambers flickered under the crack, a quiet promise of warmth. Yet she found herself rooted in place, the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts pressing against her chest. Could she truly seek his comfort now, when so many doubts had become her constant companions? The cold seeped into her bones, and yet it was not the chill of the night that held her captive, but the uncertainty that gripped her heart. She stared at the door, her breath shallow and uneven, caught between longing and restraint. Would he understand her need? Or would the silence between them stretch too far, too deep to bridge? The door remained just within reach, its surface cool beneath her fingertips. Her chest tightened, breath shallow, her mind a whirlwind of doubts, of futures unknown. One step forward. One step back. Yet Ivona stood there, in a fortitude as still as the world around her. The woman who waited, ceased in her pursuit of her husband once more by none other than her very own mind. The decision would not come, not yet. It was as if time itself had paused, waiting for the moment that might never arrive. ⫸⋙✦⋘ ⚔ ᛁ ⚔ ⋙✦⋘⫷ Tremors.

Somewhere, the unsettled spirit of her namesake cast a smile upon her; body not yet burnt, she could not rest... the gentle whisper of the wind would pass on her congratulations, a gust that could not truly commune. Only in her hopes did her message carry.