Esterlen

"And yet it was not by my hand that this man called himself the High Pontiff. If he laid a claim to the papacy I never once supported it. I crowned myself King of the Raevir people with the aid of a simple Raevir priest, as is my right. The throne is my blood right, and all those who deny that are the true heretics."

"A stable and beneficial leader...regardless of what cause they had for it, these Lucienists bared steel in my presence and subsequently set upon the royal court with their blades, attacking us and claiming that they must 'purge the heresy'. My men simply retaliated in kind, bah! Tell me why it is legal for a sanctioned military order to attack and pillage a ceremony full of priests and lords and yet when I retaliate by banishing them from the realm it is 'the ambitions of a madman trying to split the realm apart'! Has the world lost all sense? These Lucienists shouted all manner of things and were yelling to 'kill everyone in the hallway'! A civil war is not what I want, but I will not tolerate those who would make open revolt in my kingdom."

((please sticky this post, GM/FM friendos))

((FM please move this topic to archives.))

((the humanity!!))

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XU32msEFn3c Franz-Josef was many things, but a coward he was not. Thirteen years, it had been, since he had last laid eyes upon Oren. A pathetic excuse for a priest who had made away with two bastard boys and fled the realm to go about his own devices. Father would have laughed at him and called him a coward. His father always knew best, the Old Crow, and he would have said that it was Franz's responsibility to stay and help his nephew rule over men. 'Family is all,' he remembered being told when he quarreled with his older brother. He wasn't afraid, though, all he wanted to do was show his father and his brother that he was worthy of their praise. That he, the boy they had called 'Franjo', was not as weak and bookish as they said he was. He had embarked on this voyage across seas far, known and unknown, to show them that he was just as much a warrior as they were. Not that it mattered anymore though, for Ostromir was a madman, Fyodor a cripple, Milena a traitor and Siegmund had as of late been rendered nothing but a cold corpse. Nevertheless, after his father's death he vowed then and there that he would return one day to claim what was his, at the helm of his ship, bearing the discarded artifacts of his clan and with Ostromir's bastard at his side, who he had made every effort to ensure did not turn out as his father did. They had found what they were looking for. Whether it was sailing from bustling port to port in distant lands, circumnavigating the Autumn Sea, conquering islands and cowing tribesmen in the name of God, Franz and the two Barrows had done it all. Arjen's Hand was the carrack they sailed, named after some long and forgotten Kaedreni knight that was some kin to his mother Helaine, and the ship had docked just off the coast of Old Raev, a land where a myriad of strange, alien peoples had once warred with one another and built up their mud-brick castles, the common people fighting with nothing better than copper and sometimes black iron. Now it was desolate, bereft of any human activity, what little ruins remained overgrown and thick with vines and roots. He had taken his crew, armed and armored, and explored what he could. What they saw in the ruins of the city of Khazav left only the three crows and an additional two men in Franz's retinue, the mysterious blonde-haired knight known only as Ser Lothar Jrent and the man-at-arms Joren of Greywyn, alive. To continue in their journey, he was required to buy slaves with what little gold he had to man the carrack. He had, though, succeeded in his mission, recovering the Crown of Black Barbov and 'Svjetlast', the Blade of Kosan the Fox, ancient artifacts that represented to the Raevir of old the right to rule them, ancient artifacts which had, after all, been lost by Franz's father's father's great-father. It is said that after the events in Khazav, his resolve somewhat faltered and he turned to drink - but any who would say that in his presence are like to find themselves short of a tongue, as the boy Siguine would delicately put it. Franz didn't care for their blood. They were lowborn bastards, yes, but they were kin and they were the closest thing to sons he would ever likely have. But most importantly, he had instilled in them his sense of justice. Every man would reap what he had sown come the end, and mercy would make an example of nobody. To be truly just and honorable was to obey every law of man unfailingly, and a good act does not wash out the bad, nor the bad the good. Father, he felt, would be proud of him. The scholarly boy Franjo had died at sea. It was Franz of House Carrion who had sailed home on Arjen's Hand, a brave and calculating warrior, with a sword in one hand and a crown in the other. Soon, he would place that crown atop his head.

Franz shakes his head in solemn disapproval, his face a twisted grimace. "A tragedy no doubt, but Lord Basileus is foolish nonetheless to waste time in such events on a funeral for a stillborn."

Franz is passed notice of this by a scribe. He shakes his head in disgust. "Why would I desire to know about this? Festina doesn't exist. Boy, burn this missive and censure yourself until you learn some common sense."

(Braavosi*.)

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7aYfjE8h48 The harbour at the capital bustled with the tell-tale hum of economy, hook-nosed merchants spruiking their wears before passers-by, gnarled criers announcing the hour's news before the crowds, whores ushering resting sailors into their dens to either perform their services or rob them of their coinpurses. These sounds of industry, never present when the line of Horen ruled over the realm, were likely in part the work of Joseph of Lane, the ambitious Lord Steward who Franz Josef recalled made every effort to improve the human condition during the age when they both sat upon the council. That was many years ago, or so he thought. Prince Franz Josef Carrion had been in a self-imposed exile for the majority of the last fifteen years, cavorting far off in a foreign land doing God-knows-what. A ship, an immense carrack bearing red and yellow sails the colours of a tongue of flame, had begun to make port in the harbour, manuevering deftly between the chalky cliffs that served as an entrance to the expansive dock. At its fore he stood, retainers bearing his sigil all around him, hurrying busily to dock the vessel. He had departed these lands barely a lad of six-and-twenty, and found himself returning to it a warrior of one-and-forty. Broad-shouldered, tall and muscular, he seemed to in many ways resemble his lord father in his middle age. Across his heavy, square jaw was a close-cropped black beard and moustache, and his eyes were a dark and sullen emerald, distinctive of the line of Carrion. He was not pale of skin like his father and brothers, possessing of a skin tone weathered by the sun almost to the point of resembling leather. While his hairline had receded somewhat, creating the effect that he was older than he was in truth, Franz counted himself lucky not to share the short stature and prematurely greying hair of his mother's line. The scar inflicted upon him by an apostate mage was still present on the left side of his face. He wondered exactly how long he had been gone - a thought that was swiftly interrupted by the heavy tones of trumpets and drums, the dockmaster having recognized both the sigil borne by the ship's sails and the man who stood at its helm. The crowd resounded with a strange, almost unwarranted joy, for this was not just any man who had returned to them. For Franz was the last living son of the man they called 'Papa Siegmund' and spoke of in reverence. The unbroken blood of ancient Raev ran through his veins, his mother and father's lines the culmination of an ancient seperation and later union of two old bloodlines, of Kosanov and Barbanov. Saints were positioned within his family tree, his blood was by all rights holy. And yet Franz had learnt that in reality, that meant naught. He had left a spoiled princeling ill-prepared for any position at court, who had botched his sole appointment as head of the Faith, and he had returned a just, puritanical man. Some knew him by the name of Radomir, Sigi Reuven, or simply Franjo. Others said that he had become a slaver in the far south and drank himself to death in exile, or that he had become a destitute monk and thrown himself into the ocean as penance for his perceived sins during the times of the Tarus Rebellion. It was almost undisputed that he and his flagship were lost. One thing was certain: the sea had given back to the realm a prodigal son born again from water's salt and steam. And now, like the iron his blade was forged from, Franz did not bend. "A prince, a prince!" The assembly shouted, "God has returned to us the prince!"

In an arid land far across the sea, Edward Chivay remembers the shameful defeat of the Teutonic at the Battle for the Dreadfort, a vivid image almost imprinted upon his psyche. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGLteEaPTgw

death to shikaea http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7mdIWaRi-7c