Altiak

Guy de Bar smiles from the heavens.

The landing of the Savoyards on the coast of eastern Arcas, 1768. THE SUN RISES FROM THE EAST The final rowboat from The Drowned Son landed near the shores of eastern Arcas. Stepping out of the creaky, uncomfortable rowboat, Lucien de Bar thanked his good fortune, fancying that the voyage would be the final venture out to sea for him. He looked to the small crowd of supporters that had gathered around him, a motley band that made him feel more than slightly uncomfortable. He was grateful for their faith in both he and God, but the long journey from Aeldin to these new lands seemed like it would be without end. Perhaps deep down Lucien wished for it to be that way, for on the boat he fraternized with commoners and insiders alike; now, he was their leader and such camaraderie was beneath him. The weight of history bore heavy on Lucien’s shoulders, but he had not set out without realizing what was going to be expected of him and how he would be perceived. Ulmsbottom, and by extension Torelli, had been the home of the Savoyards for generations now. Those who remembered the proud days of Guy de Bar and Olivier de Savoie had long passed; what remained now laid only in fragmented memories, dusty old tomes, and songs sung by tavern bards. Having been liberated of their ancient rivalries in Oren and given the chance to start anew on a new continent, the Savoyards had grown accustomed to Aeldin and began to talk and muse of other things besides the past. Soon, only those most devoted to the name Savoy cared about its glorious yet troubled history. Lucien de Bar was one such man. As the nephew of the Duke of Torelli, a man who was not short of children, his chances of ruling were slim. Although he was by no means disliked by his kinsmen, he was often overlooked and left to his own devices throughout much of his childhood. To substitute his lack of a proper upbringing, Lucien buried himself in the vast library that the Dukes of Torelli had maintained for decades. An unabashed romantic, he frequently opined for a time that had long been lost -- a time when the name de Bar never rang hollow, a time when the Savoyards dominated the political state of affairs in Oren. However, as grand as his dreams were, Lucien seemingly had no means by which to challenge the status quo, and thus wallowed in the misery of being powerless to change fate. But time and fortune would soon prove kind to Lucien. He met others who, like him, wished for a return to the days of old. They knew that such a future could not be found with the current Duke Torelli, so they set their sights to a land beyond. Whispers about a continent called Arcas had reached Ulmsbottom some time ago, but the many content souls who resided there had no interest in this foreign land. Lucien and his fellows, however, were far from content, and soon began to plan a voyage to Arcas to stake their claim. As expected, most scoffed at the proposal, calling it foolish and fanciful; they had heard many a self-proclaimed Savoyard, drunken and raving, proclaim such things in beer halls and feasts. However, over the course of the next six months, a small following of people, mostly urban paupers and disenfranchised farmers, decided that, even if for vastly different reasons than Lucien and his comrades, their lives in Torelli were not likely to improve and a journey to a new land could afford them better ones. The Duke of Torelli was saddened to see his nephew leave, but he made no attempt to prevent him or his followers from departing. His holdings were vast and those departing were few. In truth, such an emigration came as a relief to a ruler who had long had to grapple with the overpopulation that followed the arrival of an influx of Savoyard exiles. Always known to be a kind man, the Duke Torelli even gave his nephew two ships from his personal fleet to use for his voyage. The first was a sturdy, if aged, fluyt: The Drowned Son. The second was an even more ancient carrack: The Rubble. Even if their wear and tear from years of service casted a great deal of doubt on their ability to sail the length of a great ocean, Lucien and his followers knew that there were no alternatives. Thus, on a clear, crisp morning late into the month of Horen’s Welcome, the last of the Savoyards said their final goodbyes, boarded the two ships, and set sail for Arcas. Lord Lucien de Bar and his company taking their first steps on Arcas, 1768. “I must count my blessings for having not gotten seasick, at the very least. That was what I was most afraid of. Besides the awful storm we weathered a fortweek ago, it was smooth sailing,” remarked Antony, Lucien’s younger brother. He was, much like his older sibling, a romantic at heart and one who longed for the revival of Savoy as greatly as anyone else. Despite his young age, he had been instrumental in helping Lucien lead the Savoyards inland over the past few days. They now made camp atop a hill overlooking a large river, grateful for being on solid land. “I must admit that I had counted on the element of surprise before making landfall,” confessed a pensive Lucien. “We’ve made contact with the inhabitants of this land much sooner than I imagined.” He sighed, redirecting his drifting gaze towards the map of the continent he had been able to purchase from a passing trader. He knew little of what to make of it, and less of what to do with this newfound information. “Cast away your trepidation, brother. The sun will soon set, and I doubt there’s anyone in our camps with an ounce of strength. Get some rest and I’ll take first watch tonight.” Antony intoned, an earnest look in his eyes. Lucien considered the offer for a moment, but waved him aside and slumped in his seat. Without the energy to muster a response, the young lord sat there idly, his only movement being the occasional blink. For what seemed like an eternity the two brothers sat in total silence, nearly falling asleep. Suddenly, a ruffling at the flaps of the tent jolted the two boys awake. In entered Nicholas, a good friend of Lucien who had been asked to scout around the area. His mud-caked face was dripping with sweat and his clothes were matted with dirt, brush, and the other marks of the wilds. The man handed a dampened letter, sealed with an unfamiliar sigil, to Lucien. “Some fancy-looking fellow handed this to us. He said that they had spotted our ships some time ago and that their town is but a short ways from here,” he explained, panting. “Thank you, Nicholas,” muttered Lucien, excusing his friend with a curt nod. Although he had little interest in the letter, being too tired to care, the young lord found it prudent to at least skim over its contents. Breaking the seal, Lucien pulled out the letter and began to read. “Dear Lord de Bar, Your arrival on Arcas has not gone unnoticed. It has been centuries since my family has last seen the flags of your people displayed, but do not mistake my curiosity for ignorance of your history. I do not know your intentions, but from how you are spoken of in our official records, it would seem that you are not a people to be taken lightly nor one to be trusted. That being said, I know that men may not necessarily be the product of their ancestors, and that as time continues its unceasing march forward the rivalries and hatred of old loosen their grasp on new generations. I invite you to come to my lands so that I may meet with you and your people. Perhaps a long-awaited reconciliation is finally in order. Best regards, Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Rubern, Helene Stiboricz” Lucien continued to stare at the letter for some time, trying to recall any mention of ‘Rubern’ or ‘Stiboricz’ from his studies back home. Although he could not remember such names, the prospect of finding answers to such unknowns excited him. Old rivalries had been burned to a crisp long ago, it seemed, and his people would soon find themselves surrounded by unfriendly, potentially hostile, neighbors if he did not act soon. This ‘Rubern’ was a complete mystery to him, as was its princess, but it was a hope that he knew he would find nowhere else. Home was back on Aeldin, home was back on Vailor, home was anywhere else but this wilderness. Lucien thought, suddenly becoming overwhelmed at the realization of his precarious situation. He was but a vulnerable young man with a childish dream he never imagined would be fulfilled, yet somehow he found himself the leader among a small group of those who shared and believed in his vision. Their lives were in his hands now, and if keeping them safe meant venturing to this foreign ‘Rubern’, unaware of their intentions, then so be it. Lord Lucien de Bar looked to his younger brother, who had been watching him read the letter with an intense glare this entire time. He was still a child, but this journey had begun to turn him into a man. If there was one person Lucien knew he could rely on to aid him and support him, to shoulder the burden of fulfilling a dream shared by many, it was his brother. “Antony, notify all those in the camp that they are to be ready to depart by midday tomorrow. I do not know what this ‘Helene Stiboricz' intends, but she seemed cordial and pleasant enough in her letter,” he said suddenly, offering a mirthful smile as he spotted the land of Rubern on his map. “Perhaps we have finally found home.” Lord Lucien de Bar and his followers departing from Torelli, 1767

I am looking for someone to play my wife's girlfriend

Ser Caspar's long-deceased liege lord sighs heavily, chiming in "-Sad!"

I believe that there should be a Great War on LoTC.

Street thug RP?

An envoy from Aeldin arrives at the Conclave, bearing a letter with the seal of the Gradic patrician family. Upon being unraveled, the parchment would reveal Maurice Gradic's support for Gotthold's candidacy.