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1815 Godly

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  • Birthday 06/06/1944

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  1. Rhys, the brother of the former proprietor of New Esbec (before it was so unceremoniously burned by those evil dragon-worshipping mongrel cultists) looked over a copy of the document from his seaside villa in sunny Savoy. He looked to Godfrey, scratching his head. "I don't know what facism is, but this sounds a lot like Risorgimentism, which is objectively the correct ideology. I wonder why this stinking, filthy bug-eyed knife ear, who also openly tried to indulge in miscegenation, is trying to have an opinion. Either way, why yes, I do agree that Savoyard society is nationalistic, racist and overwhelming in its piety. And God forbid if that ever changes."
  2. Anastasios wonders if the Saints Peter and Thomas, or Venerable Olivier, or however many of the Saints and Blessed who had in the past aligned themselves with the Silver State are sinners and heathens. He smiles, framing a copy of the original Crimson-Silver Concordat between Kaedrin and Haelun'or in his bedroom.
  3. A certain aspirant to the cloth, the previous Viceregent of Savoy, shook his head in disappointment when he caught news of the events that had transpired within the cathedral. "Let God preserve us from these demons. Today, they've taken a great man from us. A wound I fear the Church will not easily recover from. My prayers are given for the repose of the Archbishop's soul."
  4. Rhys Briarwood threw his hands into the air as he finally made it home from his ten-years long milk run to Providence, only to find his brother's family estate burning down. "Well, shucks! All that hard work for nothing! If only the Imperial government actually cared for its far-flung subjects in the provinces, then maybe this wouldn't have happened... oh well, it could always be worse; I could've been born as Philip Aurelian, the clown of Adria!" Rambling into ventures hardly relevant to the fact that his home was burning down, he took a long, well-deserved sip of that milk. "Ah, refreshing."
  5. only good deity magic thats been written @JoanOfArc
  6. "Carry on Carrion." The Basrid smirked, a proud descendent of Sigismund.
  7. To the Pig of Providence, Phillip the Parasite You are a pretender, a craven, a yellow-bellied wig-wearing dog. The Duchy of Adria is and always shall be elected by the Duma. Just like your forebear, the dog Joey Novellen, you shall die a lonely death. And your accomplishments will be none but what had been fed to you by a silver spoon. The spirit of the Adrian peoples, which you yourself do not bear, shall never be trampled upon by the likes of tyrants. If you were unafraid, then you would have taken to that electoral mantle the same as the traitor Joey, but alas, we all know you would much rather powder your wig and attend your augustine tea parties where discomforts cannot reach you. We spit on you, and we shall spit on your grave. Sincerely, The Adrian Duma
  8. To the 'Last Knight of Sutica', Firstly, do we reject the many accusations you levy against the honor of His Serene Highness, Olivier Renault, Prince of Savoy. His Highness, Corwin Prince of Sutica remains free, maintaining his former estates and the regnal title of Prince of Sutica. We do not understand why you spread these false and egregious rumors, if not for a loss of your own knightly privileges you enjoyed beneath the crown of Sutica. Nor do we understand the cause of this outcry for the status of Barclay within our realm, who enjoy positions of privilege and even sit on the closest advisory positions to His Serene Highness. And we do also reject these claims in breaches of canon law and rejection of the authority of the High Pontiff, for if this was true, then certainly he would not have crowned our Prince. Yet, we know that there is no purpose in argument with a glory-seeking hound such as yourself whom seeks to laud himself as virtuous and morally upright whilst spreading lies and sedition. Therefore, the heir-apparent of Savoy, Olivier Laurene, shall take up the sword and meet your challenge to a duel on his father's behalf. In doing this, we invite you to San Luciano, so that wagging tongue of yours from which parts so much venom, dishonor and libel might learn a lesson in humility at a sword's edge. With Kind Regards, Lord Darius Basrid, Privy Seal of Savoy On behalf of HIS SERENE HIGHNESS
  9. "Who?" thinks a man, not recognizing an unelected wig-wearing degenerate as his duke.
  10. A certain crow readied his papakha for the joyous occasion. He was indeed down to get his Dumapalooza on.
  11. The Lord Scrivener of Savoy, Darius Basrid, wipes the sweat from his brow on the long journey home after an evening of arduous negotiations, pleased with himself at the concessions made and the possibility for a future of peaceful coexistence between Canonist states.
  12. Darius Basrid and his dear grandfather Iskander, Count of Susa, lounged on a sunny beach by their seaside villa in Savoy, sipping margaritas, oblivious to the developments of the junior Basridi in the Empire. @KBR
  13. The smoldering embers of a fire were all that remained to illuminate the stygian recesses of the hollow. Dull light, fading into the throes of unmaking as heat wilted off the heap of ash and cinder. THUD. The noise reverberated against the walls of the chamber, a distant echo slow to fade with each step. THUD. Silence pursued the noise, and the room fell still to the haggard breathing of a drained soul. Suddenly, there was light. Blazing, it cut through the darkness, the features of a man barely distinguishable amidst the shadow. A fiery limb fell upon the brazier; its cinders kissed by the spark of dragonfire. A pillar of fire plumed towards the ceiling, that sudden crescendo steeping towards an even flame that burned against the cold iron which contained its wrath. The draconic shrine knew warmth again, yet -- illuminated in the glow of the brazier, its true nature revealed, the walls were lined with ancient tapestries, antiquated banners belonging to the holy orders of yore, icons of the saints depicted in their humble radiance, crosses and other relics that spoke to bygone days. THUD. Carried towards the altar by heavy steps, the flames bled away from his arm, and with their demise, so too did the pretense of humanity bleed away from the draconic scion. Ebony scales subsumed flesh, infernal eyes burning in the dim light as the creature’s hands struck against the flat surface. It shook the adornments that rested atop the smooth slab - icons of Exalted Owyn, Saint Lucien, Saint Thomas, Blessed Jack Rovin, yet most important of them all, the martyr High Pontiff, Saint Pius II. The reptilian leaned over the slab, taking meticulous care in rearranging the revered curios into position. He fell to his knees, smoldering gaze lifting beyond the altar towards the suit of armor mounted upon the far wall of the sanctuary, and the threadbare, tattered cloth that furnished it, the red cross of the Lucienist Order, albeit dulled over the years, still emblazoned proudly over the tabard. “Can they truly be considered men? The spawn of the deceiver Sigismund, the false prophet of God, who carried upon his lips the greatest poison to ever be sown across this earth. It never ends, does it? I fought them with prayers upon my lips during the Duke’s War, joyous beneath the incandescent sun of Esheuvard. I fought them when I brought fire to the meek crow, bedecked in her hollow raiments of faith. I fought them when the false pontiff discarded me from the communion of a false church. And I fought them still when I took upon the cross of penance…” Silence overcame the war-weary Nephilim. “It will never end. Not until every last misbegotten crow is sent screaming into the depths of the void. Oh, Olivier, why must you have been lenient towards those dogs? It should not have ended, not until every field in our beloved Oren was wet with the blood of the Adrians, not until every last corpse was damned to the scorched ruins of Brelus. It is yet to be seen if this empty church heeds the cawing of these withered carrion.” The rambling words of the supplicant fell short as he stood to venerate the icon of Saint Pius. Crossing himself, he removed himself from the altar. “They are damned if they do and damned if they don't, are they not? For their vicar of God is no more than an usurper, occupying the throne of a martyred saint.”
  14. "What I find most disturbing is not any of the gossip, but this talk of the Rosemoor Bill. Theos forbid that we are made subject to the rule of these hens, whose focus would most certainly be on frivolities such as this, scandal and gossip mongering, rather than rightly-guided governance." Cutting through the air with a wave of his hand, the Rhenyari met the mouthpiece of a hookah to take a long-drawn drag from the pipe. Smoke spilled past the man's lips, billowing out in an wispy cloud. "I fear we're being steered towards trying times."
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