bickando

Helen of Crestfall, that youthful Imperial scion, had spent the summering months in the gardens of the Augustine - for, as luck would have it, the ravages of war had demanded she be locked up in the palace with only her guardian Anna Henrietta for real company. Anna and, of course, her guiltiest pleasure - reading the latest editions of Hearsay of Hanseti-Ruska. Deep in the bowels of the palace, sly butlers handed off to her the latest edition, and behind closed doors she read it. "...I liked the last one better," she eventually said to herself, with a slight frown.

"Though I bemoan the fate of the Sedanites, their fate seems sealed from the beginning; for our nation shall be reunited, and my imperial grandfather would accept no less than an eradication of rebellion." Pretty Princess Helen's speech falls largely into empty space, save for her guardian Anna, who sips from her morning broth - for the two were taking breakfast alone, and Helen reading the bottom of the latest Imperial Times. @libertyybelle

Pretty Princess Helen sighs; a hand placed upon her budding chest. She looks wistfully upon her guardian, Anna. "In another life, Emil was a cellist, a lover of flowers; perhaps he would have lived a romantic, picturesque life with a happy family of five. In this, he is the man that has ended his family's legacy of loyalty. Cruel fate forced him into a choice; he made the wrong one." @libertyybelle

...Helen does not know that man.

"Oh, woe upon our faire Empire; for just as Joseph crossed the Ruber and doomed his host, so too now does the House de Joannes foist upon us a generation of bloodshed." Helen covers her face with a silk handkerchief, swooning upon her fainting-chair. Two poor maids fan their beautiful mistress; her guardian, Anna, is left to wonder at her dramatics. @libertyybelle

Pretty Princess Helen reads through the poem by the warmth of a crackling Augustine fireplace, a tear coming to her eye. "A city I shall never know, a city that enraptured the hearts of so many; do men have that same strength in our modern era? Do the masses find my grandfather worthy of such worship? Do I find him so?" At this, a pause, her gaze turning to her guardian solemnly. "Might women ever find themselves the chief topic of such fable?" @libertyybelle

The warm silence of the Augustine's reading room desk, host previously to a time of pensive repose, was suddenly broken by the high-pitched voice of Princess Helen, addressing her ever-present guardian in Governess Anna. "Lo! Here, a woman that finds in Oren a hateful jewel; There, a man that finds in Oren a corrupt dictatorship. Yet they are able only because of the freedoms they are afforded in our Empire! In Haense, or Norland, they would be put to the sword in an instant...Why is it, Ms. Anna, that when fed a morsel, they demand the meal?" she asks with a frown. @libertyybelle

Pretty Princess Helen muses on the flyer from the comfort of Anna Henrietta's parlor. "Is Malinor their version of Oren, Ms. Anna?" asks the girl in that sharp voice that had become so well-known to the beleaguered servantry of the house. A fat pug snored loudly at her feet before the smouldering fireplace; a cool breeze blew through the open window beside her. One could hardly tell there could be more important matters for them to think about than the re-emergence of a Malinorian state. @libertyybelle

Pretty Princess Helen Antonia watched the proceedings with a petite frown. Pulling from her cargo shorts a single, wilted flower as she left the scene, she sighs. "A true shame..." she says, looking to her incredibly intelligent mentor Anna.

Pretty Princess Helen signs the lorraine over her budding chest. "What great tragedy befalls these men that I knew as brothers? What fell fate looms over our shared Empire? Can we not all live in peace?" she asks her fat retainer, who simply nods in response - for he is, at the moment, carting about a bear in a cage.

Pretty Princess Helen Antonia frowns. "Though this may be warranted," she begins, "I wish we had been able to come to terms - for all Orenians should be loyal to each other."

Pretty Princess Helen Antonia is deeply upset that she is unable to apply to this prestigious group of horn-bearing mammals.

Title says it all - this subforum is for FRPers (not Fantasy RP, but the people that have been running forum rp games on this forum since 2015) - usually we run character RP's (NOT server-related, mind you, but a variety of subjects have been explored - zombies, star wars, high fantasy) or nation RP's (that's more along the lines of lore-writing and nationbuilding within a set universe or criteria, then working with or competing against other players in a moderated setting). This subforum is not for your LOTC characters! Please bring that back up to the RP section of the forums, under the header with the current map's name [as of the time of this topic's posting, that is 'Almaris']! TLDR; THIS IS NOT THE LOTC CHARACTER RP SECTION PLEASE STOP POSTING YOUR CHARACTER RP OR PK'S HERE

"Why are they doing this in the Empire and not in the dictatorships of Norland or Haense?" Pretty Princess Helen asks to her companion, the stout courier Bernard - a question to which he has no answer, because he, too, was quite rational (and was also winded from running after her).

Upon hearing the news, thirteen-year-old Pretty Princess Helen Antonia takes up smoking and binge drinking.

Pretty Princess Helen frowns at the news, delivered to her by courier - a stout boy, so stout that she had at first been inclined to believe he might be a halfling. "And here I was, thinking Haense had overcome its random bouts of hatred for my country - yet, at every turn, I am proven wrong! Yesterday they slandered my grandfather, today they consort with spoon-footed pagans! Do you not agree?" she asks the courier, the scrawny child worker shivering and panting from the exertion of the run - for indeed, he had been chasing her horse for hours. "Y-Yes Your Imperial Ladyship," he stuttered out. "That's Highness to you, and forget it not!" she rebukes in her high, commanding tone of voice. Truly, the nations of the Accord were correct to worry - for the nation lodged between them did not pay its workers near enough, and indeed its lowest classes were all but sodomized by its nobility, especially by those villains of the Imperial House that arranged marriages - and, lo, so too could Oren foist such horrible ethics upon their lovely, rustic tribal holds, where freedom to mate at will abound!

im bro kando and this is the best thing ive seen since 2019

Pretty Princess Helen Antonia reads the scandal sheet and frowns. "How sordid," she comments to her beleaguered bodyguards, before continuing to ride towards Southbridge - much to their collective dismay.

Helen Antonia eagerly awaits her brother's wedding (and also her own, incredible hosting of parts of the festival, which was certain to steal the show - as she was the prettiest princess in the land. Luckily, she was also the most humble, and deigned not to share this sentiment with anyone).

give me ur mina pls

Whitcombe by the Sea, 1804 Life in the city had never suited Albert. His youth had been spent in overpopulated, filth-covered Helena, that famed Ruby of the Empire, as his father took up position as the Vice Chancellor of the Empire. It had been spent splicing and hewing wood with his mother in a small workshop on an off-street, making violins that would never see real use. It had been spent tired, poor, anxious and envious - his siblings constantly ill, his father away, his family lacking the land for which its title named and instead forced to spend its small remaining fortunes on making the swamps of Guise inhabitable. They never managed it; the region was to stay a blight upon the otherwise rolling fields of the Empire until their escape from ill-fated Arcas. Questions and the weight of an elder legacy weighed upon Albert from his youth; long years of questions as to the worthiness of the House de Falstaff; long years of worries about heirs, about flea-ridden Guise, about Leuven - but his worries never fell back upon himself, for even as the tools of the luthier lay forgotten in a forgotten closet, he had moulded himself into an instrument for the family. He pulled strings to have the courts declare his capricious father dead; he married the first fair maid that offered herself; he built a family, a home. Whitcombe, a tall house, or perhaps a small manor, atop a rocky bluff by the sea. The now middle-aged man once verged on bankruptcy to complete it; but there was a satisfaction in looking upon the home, and his work as an Imperial Grandee had paid that back in time. He built from ashes a family, a homestead, and a new start; but standing on his small beach, listening to the waves, a strange emptiness filled his heart. He had never loved his wife, but respected her duly - she died entirely unfulfilled, vengeful even; the woman he wanted would never, could never, be his. His familial sicknesses had not been evaded by his youngest daughter; she had become such a liability that she'd been hidden away, much the same as his own monstrous sister. Where had his love of music gone? When had he stopped making violins, set aside the tools of the luthier, and picked up the pen? Why had his family's name meant so much to him? Perhaps now, he could remember these feelings - his first stop Henry's Wharf, where he contracted a modest sloop with which to sail the coast of Almaris, the Hope's Haven. With him was Cod, his ever-loyal butler, and a crew of three strong sailors. He had thought of her for a moment, but dashed those thoughts from his mind; she was much busier than he, after all, and could rarely spare but a moment from her work. He had thought of bringing his children and nephew, but they were beginning to reach the age of majority; they needed to spend the time with their generation in the capital, without finding themselves beholden to the whims of their aging father. Albert's midlife crisis did not need to pull them from their studies, their young fancies, their new duties. On the third of Sun's Smile, 1808, Albert de Falstaff and a motley crew set sail from Henry's Wharf. On the fifth, they harbored briefly at Whitcombe, upon which time Albert rushed ashore to grab what was later reported to be a stack of letters, and on the eighth, a great storm was seen off the coast. On the ninth, the remnants of Hope's Haven, little more than sections of board and tattered sails, began to wash up along the harbour of Eastfleet. [+] The Contents of Albert's Desk, 1808 A sealed letter, addressed to Mrs. Petra Vimmark, Director of Civil Affairs, originally to be mailed on the fifteenth. A notarized will entitling his eldest son, Emil-Dardot, to all that he was due, especially his luthiery tools; his younger son, Conrad, to his collection of vints, including those originally gifted by Lucrezia, Albert's grandaunt, Conrad's great-grandaunt; his daughter, Cosette, to his collection of books and stories; and his protégé, Petra Vimmark, to his collection of Dark Elven artefacts and his pet table elf, Marquis La Magie; and nothing at all left to his youngest daughter, Renee. A set of half-finished documents, apparently for a to-be-proposed bill against 'Zannite Terrorists'. Records of Whitcombe's taxes and bookkeeping, perfectly paid ahead of time for the entirety of its history. Pearls were its largest export in 1807, all sold to the Household of the Duke and Duchess of Helena. A set of letters exchanged between George Kovachev, Surveyor-General, and Albert de Falstaff, invariably regarding terrorists and threats to the Empire. A set of letters exchanged between Petra Vimmark, Director of Civil Affairs, and Albert de Falstaff, largely of irrelevant issues such as the lack of reading materials in the capital and how they kept serving lamb in the palace. A half-finished love letter to somebody, though with no names nor identifiable information. A huge stack of letters from his deceased wife, Theodora, usually about how he had vexed her in one way or another.

champions of order more like champions of firebombing oren. not bein toxic but ur title is misleading @rukiogo back to albion online or ill steal all ur guild's gear ⚔️ lore didnt look bad tho

Standing among the windy bluffs of Whitcombe, an elderly butler brings the letter to Albert. The aging Count smiles, and within the day his carriage prepared for a trip to the capital.