Xarkly

Sigismund breathed a quiet sigh of relief that Emil had been rescued, and the Orenian bandits executed.

The Whisper Knight nodded solemnly as he heard the news as he patrolled around Dobrov with the Brotherhood.

THE SILENT GOD … I shall free Oren from its shackles … … the sun will set a final time on Urguan … … dethroned from the Pontificate of God … … God sent us to San Luciano … … His Holiness Michael I … … Fidei Defensor shall be bestowed upon Sigismund III … Sigismund woke with a stifled scream. Moonflight flooded his bedchamber, but for a moment his vision swam as his lungs heaved deeply, and cold sweat rolled down his face. The words that had been so loud in his sleep were gone, leaving him in the deep silence of the Nikirala Palace. The only sound to be heard was his rasping wheezes for breath, and the faint snoring of his wife - Emma - beside him. It was a small relief he had not woken her. He placed a hand to his sweat-soaked face and sighed between his wheezes. He was no stranger to uneasy sleep as of late, but despite each night he conquered, it grew no easier. After mopping the sweat from his brow with his forearm, he shed the blankets, and staggered out of bed. He paused for a moment at the cot by the bedside, in which lay the swaddled sleeping form of one of his sons, the infant Prince Josef. It was a miracle Josef had not woken, either -- the baby boy was a terror when he cried. It must have been the dead of night with that deep silence, but there was enough moonlight for Sigismund to trudge across his chambers. His hair stood on end in the autumn cold, but he barely felt it as he donned a pair of boots and a loose linen shirt. After a moment’s hesitation, he took a sheathed longsword - one of Zodd’s gifts - from a stand on the wall, and made his way to the door with the sword in hand. He spared one last look at his wife’s sleeping form, before he slipped outside. Alone, he limped through the eerie Palace corridors with a left leg numb from sleep and the soles of his boots scraping against the floor. By the time he reached the door to the Chapel, tucked away behind the lower dining room, it felt as if both an eternity and a mere second had passed. He placed a hand on the door, and paused to brace himself before he stepped through. The rows of stained glass windows admitted the moonlight in discoloured beams that cast fractured light amidst the pews leading up to the simple altar, upon which sat silver Hussariyan Cross. For a moment, Sigismund stood in the distorted light, sword in hand, staring at the altar. “Are … are you there?” He spoke in a quiet, hoarse voice, but the Palace itself was so silent that it felt like his question echoed. “Are you there, God?” he went on. “Are you listening to me right now? If you are, then … then give me a sign.” Silence. “Come on,” Sigismund pleaded. “Do something. Do anything.” Nothing, besides the distant hoot of an owl beyond the stained-glass windows. The leather of the sword-grip creaked as Sig’s hand clenched it. The scabbard quivered in his shaking hand. “Come on! If you really are all-powerful, all-merciful, then prove you exist! Prove you’re there!” Sig’s shoulders shook with silent, mirthless laughter as he pressed his free hand to his face. “You want to be worshipped, to have lives devoted to you, and lives taken on your behalf … The least any of us deserve,” his voice dropped to a scarce whisper, “is to know you exist. That … that this all means something.” “All of those who will die in this war … and everyone who has died in every past war and every war to come … with your name on their lips. Was there a meaning to any of it? Are you nothing more than a pawn, God?” With a rasp of steel, he bared the longsword, and the stained moonlight gleamed on its edge like a bleached rainbow as he brandished it at the altar while the scabbard fell at his feet. “Or are you real?” The blade shook in his hands, sending fragments of light across the room. “Are you real, and just watching as we suffer?” “Did you watch as the Rimetrolls tore apart this land when I was boy, when thousands starved and an entire race was genocided? Did you watch when the Nachezer parasites crawled out of the Attenlund and terrorized Haense? Did you watch and do nothing?” “Or what about when your own clergymen, men who had sworn their very lives to you, were cut down at the Red Diet? Did you just watch?” “Did you watch when my son died in my sister’s arms … and chose not to help?” His laughter echoed throughout the Chapel. “And now it’s all going to happen again. Thousands will die, and your name will be draped over the battles like a veil that makes it all acceptable. And what do you about any of it?” “Well?!” Sword-clenched in both hands, he glared at the Cross. “What will you do as the world tears itself apart?!” “ANSWER ME!” As always, God was silent. But that did not vex Sigismund. Instead, as his voice echoed throughout the room, he suddenly found that the sword had gone still in his hands. He was no longer shaking, and the anger that had bubbled inside him had vanished without warning. The sword was dead-straight in his hands now, levied accusingly at the Cross. “I knew it all along.” Sig’s voice was soft, now. “I knew it as my son lay dying in Petra’s arms. I knew, God, that if you weren’t going to save the life of an infant boy who had done no wrong …” Slowly, his eyes opened. “ … then I knew you were never going to save anyone at all.”

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTR II: LAHY A Lord of the Craft short story inspired by Ruskan Lore. Read Part I here. Lahy was the only city Mylah had ever seen, but she doubted there was another to rival it. As she so often did these days, the young woman slouched cross-legged in a wide stone windowframe in the upper quarters of Lahy Castle, and stared down at the expanse of onion-domed towers and sloping slate rooftops beneath her. Her home village - Karinov, out west - could have fit within Lahy’s towering walls fifty times over. In the setting sun of the spring evening, the fading light glistened off the tiled onion domes, and bathed the city in a soft golden glow. Mylah had tuned herself out from the conversation happening in the room behind her, and instead let the din of noise from the city - from the indistinguishable tide of talk, to the ship-bells ringing in the harbour - wash over her instead. Her trance, however, was broken when she heard a deep voice intone, “Enough, Szitibor! I have given my answer, and I have delayed court long enough,” before another man’s voice said, “Mylah, will you please tell him?!” “Tell him what?” Mylah did not turn around. Instead, she lazily watched a crow hop along the slate rooftops just under the window. “Do not forget yourself, niece,” the first voice said sternly. “If you are going to speak, then give us your attention. You are a Nzechovich -- show manners befitting your status.” Pfft. Some good my status is doing me now. With a sigh, Mylah wound herself around to face into the parlour. Standing amidst the ornate rugs and tapestries, the gilded darkwood furnishings, and the vine-patterned walls, was Szitibor, her brother, with frustration painted on his bold-featured face, and the evening light shining on his shaved head. Beside Szitibor stood their uncle - Lord Msitovic, Chancellor of the Raev Court, and the man who had driven Prince Barbov and Kosav into exile. He was a tall man with a hard, weary face, and the pale-brown hair that hung loose over his shoulders was streaked with grey near his temples. Though well into his middle-years, wide shoulders and a broad chest belied a soldier’s physique, and paired with his red-and-white fur cloak and tunic, he exhibited a regal aura. “Tell him what?” Mylah repeated with an effort not to sound curt. Msitovic was their uncle, and he had cared for Mylah well, but she had no patience for these debates. “Tell him we both came up with the plan,” Szitibor pleaded. Mylah barked a laugh. “Do you think Szitibor pressured me into this, uncle? If anything, it would be the other way around.” She ignored the glare that earned her from her brother. “Hmph.” Msitovic’s eyes were tight. Those eyes had a keenness to them that, when she was a girl, had made Mylah think he could tell when someone was lying. Sometimes, she still believed he could. “It is not pressure from one another I fear. Rather, I think you are both pressured by some nonsensical need to prove yourselves.” Mylah opened her mouth to protest, but her uncle raised a hand to silence her. “Do not deny it! You think that because you are distanced from Nestor’s blood, you need to prove yourself worthier than your cousins so that you will not be neglected.” Mylah exchanged a guilty look with Szitibor. It was true; the pair of them were part of the Nzechovich dynasty, the bloodline that had feuded with the Karovic dynasty for generations for the throne of the Raev. Though there had been brief peace between the families when the late King Karl took the throne and named Msitovic as his Chancellor, that peace was shattered when, on the eve of King Karl’s death, Msitovic had led the Nzechovich supporters in a coup that had ousted the Princes Barbov and Kosav -- Karl’s sons and heirs. While that made Szitibor and Mylah part of the ruling caste, they were distanced from the main bloodline of King Nestor V -- the boy that had been installed on the throne after the coup -- and though Msitovic was their uncle, they had a score of cousins to compete with for limited positions and power. I will not be sent back to Karinov to be forgotten. I will not. “You can prove yourselves in the main army with your cousin Vladrik,” Msitovic went on softly when neither of them spoke. “You shall be at his side when he secures Dules and brings control to the eastern and southern Boyars.” “Vladrik is a fool!” Szitibor moaned. “He only has command of the army because he’s Nestor’s uncle!” Msitovic gave Szitibor a frosty stare, but he did not deny it. “Do not speak of your own kin like an enemy -- we have enough internal divisions. I’ve given my answer, and we cannot delay the royal court any longer -” “Our plan makes sense, uncle!” Mylah cut him off. That freezing look turned on her, but impatience drove her on. “Let Vladrik secure Dules, the west, the south, wherever! Szitibor and I only need a small force to kill the Princes and take Osyenia.” When word had first reached the newly-reclaimed Nzechovich court that Prince Barbov and Kosav had begun raising an army at Osyenia to take back their father’s throne, mild panic had spread through Lahy. Mylah and Szitibor, however, had seen it for exactly what it was. A golden opportunity. Msitovic, however, shook his head as he began to stride out of the room. “It is a needless risk. Once Vladrik crosses the Huns, there will be nothing the Princes can do.” Outside the parlour, the tiled corridors of the upper quarters were flooded with the golden evening light from the open-columned wall that looked over one of the Castle’s courtyards. “None of the other Boyars will risk joining him when our army controls the midlands. Once the damned Electors yield Dules to us, the few supporters the Princes do have will abandon them.” Mylah subdued a growl of frustration, and shot her brother an urging look behind the Chancellor’s back. “It’s not a risk for you!” Szitibor insisted, then. “What has the throne got to lose? We only need to borrow a few hundred soldiers to supplement our retainers from Karinov! If it works, then we take Osyenia, we kill the Princes, and their resistance dies with them! If we fail, then you only lose a handful of soldiers, the Princes will be weakened, and Vladrik can finish them off.” “Not a political risk, perhaps,” Msitovic conceded. They passed a gaggle of serving women in kokoshniks who almost dropped the bedding they were carrying in their haste to bow their heads. “But I do not wish to send my niece and nephew to their deaths without purpose.” “It’s not without purpose!” Szitibor went on as they turned away from the sunlit corridor, and started a spiralling set of stairs. “Barbov and Kosav might not be a threat with their current numbers, true, but they could become one! It could take Vladrik months to make Dules accept Nestor as king, and in that time, who knows what tricks the Princes might pull? Barbov might be an idiot, but you mentored Kosav yourself! And they still have Stanislaw Horselegs and Ratibor Skysent! Not to mention the Mutt …” The Mutt … Even Mylah suppressed a shiver at the thought of Slavomir. As they stepped out of the stairwell into another set of tiled hallways. Down one of them, servants scrubbed tiles that were still stained with blood from the coup. Barbov and Kosav had been meant to die during the coup, but the story went that Slavomir the Mutt had carved through dozens of Nzech soldiers to let them escape. “You two are too young to risk your lives for mere glory,” Msitovic went on as they walked. Servants and courtiers alike crossed the hallways, and all of them favoured Msitovic with a deep bow. “Isn’t that why you risked all of our lives when you ousted the Princes?” Mylah had spoken in an absent-minded grumble as she stared at the floor, and so she did not realize Msitovic had stopped walking until she stumbled into his back. When she looked up, her uncle wore such an eerie look that even she flinched. “Glory?” the Chancellor said, his voice whisper-soft. “I did not risk our entire dynasty for glory, girl. I did it so that we would not have to endure another fool of a King who would abandon the gods of our ancestors for the drivel that is Canonism, a fool of a King who would not leave our borders open to invaders, and a fool King who would not rule the Raev like a tyrant. I had to cut Karl’s spawn out like a cancer for the good of all Raev … not for glory.” He finished in the same whisper, but it was as soft as steel now. The hallway passing courtiers in the hallway had stopped to look, and abruptly, some of them began to cheer and clap. Msitovic did not even seem to hear them. Mylah blinked at him in surprise. She had never seen her uncle like that before. She was still comprehending what he had said when he lay a hand on her shoulder. The momentary anger seemed to have deflated out of him as quickly as it had come. “I ... am sorry. I forgot myself, Mylah. All … All I meant was that there is more to life than status, and power, and prestige. Sometimes, we must do what is right for the world, not just for us.” “I … I see,” Mylah said at last. In truth, she was not sure if she did -- she had never enjoyed the intricacies of politics, and so she could hardly tell what was or was not right in all this. What she did understand was that if she did not distinguish herself, she would be forever overlooked for people like Vladrik. Whether he could tell she was lying or not, Msitovic nodded slowly. He seemed very tired now, as if the exchange had left him sapped. He resumed leading the way to the throne room, ignoring the echoing claps from the Raev who had heard his speech. Mylah flashed her brother an uncertain look, and received one in turn. For a time, they just walked wordlessly through Lahy Castle. As they neared the throne room in the heart of the castle, more Raev began to throng the corridor, from more courtiers in fine-cut coats and servants in kokoshniks, to Bogatyrs - the most elite Raev warriors - in their resplendent scale-mail and masked helmets tucked under their arms, and even a few Boyars in feathered fur-lined caps. All of them, Boyars included, bowed their respect to Msitovic, but the Chancellor seemed lost in thought. A few spoke up as if to speak to him, but Msitovic walked right on. “Uncle,” Mylah began softly, just quiet enough so that those around them did not overhear. “If you do want to help all Raev, why not make yourself king? Why put a six-year old on the throne?” At first, she thought she might have spoken too low for Msitovic to hear, but after a moment, he sighed, and murmured, “There are others, even within our own clan, who covet power and control. Vladrik’s father, Nestor’s mother, Boyar Eyzov … They accept Nestor as king because they think they can use him, and that keeps them docile.” Something about it gnawed at Mylah’s mind. “And what makes your control better than theirs?” Szitibor flashed her a warning look, but she ignored it -- this was an answer she wanted to hear. Msitovic’s broad shoulders shook with wistful laughter. “Because, dear niece, I have no choice but to believe it, else we would be at the whims of fools and tyrants forever. Why? Have you come to doubt me, Mylah?” She did not need to look at Szitibor frantically shaking his head. “No,” she answered honestly. “I only ask because I think you should be king.” At least then Szitibor and I would have our station secured. Msitovic, however, gave no answer. A few moments later, Mylah was surprised to realize they were nearing the massive set of doors that led into the throneroom of Lahy Castle. A din of hushed talk echoed from the doors, and a constant flow of men and women streamed into the doors. Scale-mailed Bogatyrs flanked the doorway on either side, cloaked and plumed in green, and stood rigidly with their bardiches in hand. “You are sure?” Msitovic asked under his breath as they approached. “About Osyenia. You are sure you are prepared to risk your lives?” Almost simultaneously, the siblings blurted, “Yes.” Msitovic looked at them over his shoulder. Hesitation was etched into the Chancellor’s weary face, but Mylah had to stop herself from smiling when he nodded. She knew he would not like that, and she owed him that much. “Very well,” he bristled, and then marched into the throne room. “Finally,” Mylah wheezed once he was gone. “Finally! We’re going to do it, Szitibor! When we kill Barbov and Kosav, they’ll make us Bogatyr ourselves!” Her brother’s smile was wry. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. We have to kill them first.” Mylah laughed dismissively. Of that, she had no doubt. Grinning from ear to ear, she and Szitibor joined the tide of Raev trickling into the throne room - the crowd had seemed to double once people realized Msitovic had arrived. The throneroom of Lahy Castle was much like the other decorated rooms and corridors of the Castle, only more colourful. A red carpet with golden spirals so intricate that Mylah could not make out what they began marked a wide path between gold-and-silver vinework columns that arched into a tall crimson roof, and what spaces of the walls were visible through the throng were colourful vistas of Raevir history. More bardiche-wielding Bogatyr stood in lines at the edge of the carpet, keeping the path clear, and so Szitibor and Mylah joined the packed wings behind the column. Mylah was taller than most women, and a good deal of men, but even she could barely see the dais through the crowd, where King Nestor V, decked in red-and-white-fringed furs, sat on a throne, his little legs swinging beneath him, his face round with baby fat. A child for a king, Mylah thought bitterly. I hope you can use him better than your rivals, uncle. For our sake. Those rivals in question - from Nestor’s stone-faced mother, to the fiery-haired Boyar Eyzov - stood around the dais, but only Msitovic stood next to the throne. Then, a gong chimed near the dais, and the Raev gathered in the hall bowed their heads in unison. “This Royal Court,” Msitovic proclaimed loudly, “is now in session. Long live Nestor V, King of Raev!” “Long live Nestor V, King of Raev!” the attendants echoed in unison. Szitibor frowned at Mylah when she did not repeat it, but no one else seemed to have noticed. Why should I praise him? He’s done nothing for his throne. Who cares if he’s the last son of Nestor IV? If I have to work for my station, then so should he. “My lord King,” Msitovic went on in that ceremonial drone. “I ask you for the honour that I may hold this Court on your behalf.” “Huh? Oh!” Nestor V looked up from playing with the bejewelled broach of his cloak, and look to his tight-lipped mother before he bobbed his head uncertainly. Bah. Mylah sneered. My uncle is the reason you’re fat arse is on that throne, boy. But Msitovic only smoothly answered, “Thank you, my lord King.” Only a flash of irritation showed on the Chancellor’s face as he addressed the court once more. “My lords and ladies, under the patronage of our lord King, we have driven the cravens Barbov and Kosav from Lahy, and spared all of Raevdom from a ruinous reign that would have spelt the end to our realm.” Though cheers began to rise, they were silenced when Msitovic went on. “But our work is not done. Not only are some of the Boyars in the south and east yet to accept our rule, but the Electors of the trade city of Dules have closed their gates and ports to all, and refuse to say if they will stand with us or against us. I speak for all Raev, and our lord King, when I say that we will not have brought peace to this realm until Dules is firmly ours. To that end, Lord Vladrik of Nzechia is called before the King.” The idiot in the flesh, Mylah thought as the cheers and clapping resumed as an armoured man proudly marched down the carpet. Vladrik’s scale-mail was gilded on the shoulders, neck, and breast, and thus he sparkled in the evening light as he knelt before the dais with a clang of metal. As their cousin, Vladrik looked similar to Szitibor with his bold-features, only he had a squarer jaw, and a neat crop of dark hair on his scalp as opposed to Szitibor’s shaved head. Nestor V had resumed playing with his broach, oblivious to Vladrik, as Msitovic continued. “Lord Vladrik. Our lord King is to understand that, by his order, you have assembled a great army of loyal men from Nzechia and our holds in the west.” “Yes, lord uncle. Thirty-thousand Raev soldiers and one-thousand mounted Bogatyr are ready to march at the command of my King.” “One-thousand Bogatyr?” Mylah whispered quietly under her breath. “Why so few?” “Because,” Szitibor hissed back, “most of them were killed in the coup.” “Then your duty is clear, Lord Vladrik,” Msitovic said. “You will cross the Huns River with your army and bring order to the lands that would threaten the peace of Raevdom with the threat of rebellion … chief among them the city of Dules.” “Nothing would bring me greater honour, lord uncle.” Vladrik slapped a fist over his heart. “I shall march with the sunrise!” The cheers broke out again and, as usual, Mylah did not join them. Instead, she stared up at the dais, and locked eyes with her uncle, who gave a single nod before he said, “Then prepare yourself well, Lord Vladrik. You, however, will not be the only army that marches tomorrow.” Almost immediately, the cheers began to fade with puzzled murmurs. Boyar Eyzed, Nestor’s mother, and the others on the dais shot Msitovic questioning looks, but the Chancellor did not look at them as he announced, “The lord Szitibor and lady Mylah of Karinov are called before his Majesty.” Mylah sucked in a breath, and she and Szitibor began to jostle their way through the crowd until they passed through the line of Bogatyr to stand on the central carpet. Mylah had never considered herself the nervous type, but the hundreds of eyes suddenly watching them was certainly daunting. Only the disbelief on Vladrik’s face soothed her sudden surge of anxiety. In unison, she and Szitibor started down the carpet, and smoothly kneeled to either side of Vladrik in front of the dais. Msitovic hesitated only for a moment before he began again. “The Karovic Princes have been driven from Lahy, and most of their cretinous supporters lie dead. However, to the south, on the border of Hanseti, the traitorous Boyar Olske has given them sanctuary in his castle of Osyenia, and from there they rally an army to strike back against us. Though this army remains small and of little threat, any babushka will tell you that a thorn is best pricked quickly, before the wound is infected. Therefore, my niece and nephew … you will ride to Osyenia with a force of three-thousand, and you will return with the heads of Barbov, Kosav, and all who stand with them.” This is it. Right or wrong, Nestor or Barbov, all of it be damned. This is my chance for greatness, and I will earn it, she thought as Szitibor smoothly answered, “It shall be done, lord uncle. On our honour.” I’m sorry, Princes, but I’m coming for your heads.

A LORD OF THE CRAFT SHORT STORY SONG OF THE BLACK - CHAPTER ONE A multi-part LotC Short Story based off Ruskan lore in the era of King Barbov the Black The sensation of driving his sword into the man’s heart made Stanislaw queasy. The resistance of the muscle, the crush of bone, and then the quick puncture - all of it made his stomach turn. Stanislaw. He ripped the sword free with a fleshy squelch, and the man he had stabbed - he was a boy, really - let his own blade clattered to the bloodied tiles, before he made a wheezy rasp, and collapsed down beside it. Blood bubbled through the rift Stanislaw had carved through the man’s gambeson, and drenched the red-green Nzechovich badge on the boy’s breast. Stanislaw! Stanislaw’s lungs laboured for breath. Unlike his attacker, he was dressed only in his nightshirt -- had the boy not made such noise kicking down the door, Stanislaw would have had his throat cut in his sleep. His heart thrummed in rhythm with the echo of shouts and screams throughout Lahy Castle. Staaanislaaaw! He stumbled down the corridor. He knew he had to act, he had to find the Princes, and he had to find who was behind the fighting. The moonlit corridor seemed to twist and distort around him, and before he had taken three steps, the door at the end of the hall opened. Men in gambesons with Nzechovich badges before to march through, each of them with death-glazed eyes, a bloody hole in their hearts, and the exact face of the boy that Stanislaw had killed. Stanislaw woke with a strangled growl. He leapt off the haybale he had fallen asleep on, and before he had drawn a full breath, his sword was halfway out of its sheath. It took him a moment to realize he was not back in the tiled corridors of Lahy Castle, but instead he stood at an empty coop in the corner of a green pasture. It was the cloudy night of the Coup, but instead a pleasant spring morning with a blue sky marred only by a few streaky clouds and a bright, worthless sun. There were no screams nor rings of steel this morning -- it was a din of distant chatter and smiths hammering anvils that echoed through the air. And, of course, the young woman with the dark, braided hair and the vulpine face in front of Stanislaw was not his enemy. The only weapon she had was a canteen of water, held with the cap unscrewed as if she went to empty its contents on Stanislaw. “... Vlasta? What are you doing?” “What am I doing?!” the young woman shot back before she hastily slammed the cap back on her canteen. “What are you doing? You almost drew your sword on me!” With a start, Stanislaw noticed he still held his sword half-bared. Hastily, he slid it back into the scabbard and let it fall loose around his waist. Shame swelled up in him at the reaction; his nerves had been frayed since the Coup. “And you almost drenched me.” “Yes, well, I thought you might be dead, comatose as you were,” Vlasta said stubbornly, though with a defensiveness that betrayed her guilt. “Hmph. Why did you wake me?” He reached up to his brow, and was not surprised to find cold sweat. “Why were you asleep in the first place? In a pasture, of all places, and at nearly midday?” Stanislaw only frowned as he brushed strands of hay off his gambeson and his good wolfskin cloak. The answer was that he struggled to sleep at night ever since fleeing Lahy Castle, but now he suffered nightmares even during the day. When he did not answer, Vlasta shrugged, and told him, “Well, you’ve been summoned, my lord. There’s a war council happening in the keep. It might have already started, since they couldn’t find you.” “That so?” Stanislaw found his feathered fur cap - the mark of a Raev captain - at the foot of the hay bale, and fixed it back on his head. “And why is the Boyar’s daughter running messages? We have squires for that.” “It’s something to do,” Vlasta grumbled, and crossed her arms over her padded jerkin. Since Stanislaw had come here from Lahy Castle, she had taken to dressing like a soldier herself. “This war business isn’t as exciting as I had hoped it would be, but that might be because my father will still not let me do anything. And besides -- Prince Kosav himself asked me to find you, and I’m hardly going to refuse him.” You half-brain, Kosav. This was not the first time Stanislaw’s liege and milk-brother had found an excuse to talk with Lady Vlasta, and Stainslaw knew that would lead to more trouble than it was worth. Still, he could not help but smile ruefully. “Very well, then. Lead on.” Stanislaw did not need directions to the keep, but he did not mind taking Vlasta for a guide; some company after that dream would not be amiss. Vlasta took off with a bounce in her stop, and after tenderly rolling his shoulders - sleeping in a haystack was not exactly comfortable - Stanislaw followed, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The spot Stanislaw had chosen for his nap was a farmer’s pasture just outside of town, and he was surprised Vlasta had even managed to find him here. On a bright spring morning like today, animals would normally have been grazing, but the cattle had all been bought up by the army when it had arrived from Lahy - and at an extortionate price, much to Stanislaw’s discontent. As he climbed the fence over a sty behind Vlasta, the town of Osyenia spread out before him. Farms, streaked by a distant river, cloaked the land around the palisade walls of the town like patchwork, and a small but sturdy keep rose up on a hill among the townhouses, flying the banners of the late King Karl -- King of the Raev. Osyenia was a march on the border of the Kingdom of the Raev, and its lord - Boyar Olske, Vlasta’s father - had earned his rank by defending the land against Hanseti raiders from the south for decades. Normally, the town was home to a mere few hundred, but now it bustled with well over a thousand. Clusters of tents blanketed the fields afoot the palisade, and more were erected every day as retainers came to Osyenia to pledge their support to Prince Barbov and Kosav, the exiled heirs of King Karl. Most that came did so under the banner of minor Boyars who saw the Princes’ exile as nothing more than an opportunity for power, but as Kosav had told Stanislaw, vipers made for better allies than nobody. To Stanislaw, though, the only ones he could trust were those who had come from Lahy with him and the Princes. “So, you are still expecting your lord father to give you command?” Stanislaw asked idly as they joined the main dirt road, scarred and pocked from generations of cartwheels and horseshoes, that led to the town gates. Peasants - most of them carting the last of the farms’ winter stores into the town - bowed their heads deeply as they passed. The locals were clearly intimidated by all the soldiers, but there was nothing to be done about that. Vlasta glowered. “I’m not expecting it, but one can hope. None of my half-brothers are old enough to walk, and my father is too old to command. I am the only one who can lead Osyenia, but instead my father just lets you and the Princes take all the glory.” Stanislaw laughed wistfully. “Well, Boyar Olske knows he has a winning hand. He’s earned enough reward by letting the Princes establish their court-in-exile in his castle -- he doesn’t need to do anything else.” Boyar Olske was no less an opportunist than the others, but he was an opportunist with a castle. Vlasta opened her mouth to retort, but remained silent when a cluster of soldiers gathered around a cookfire - in the standard mail coat, cloak, and cap of a Raev warrior - called out, “Hail, Horselegs,” in near unison. Despite the fact that most of them were older than Stanislaw, they saluted. The greeting was enough to make Stanislaw smile in spite of his mood, and he returned the salute as they passed. “Is it true they call you Horselegs because you won the last four jousts at Lahy?” Vlasta asked with renewed interest. “Five,” Stanislaw corrected. “And three at Dules. Everyone always forgets about the jousts at Dules.” A few more cries of ‘Horslegs!’ followed them as they passed through the palisade gates and into the packed dirt streets of Osyenia proper. Every corner was crowded with the retainers of Boyars who had earned the privilege of camping their men inside the walls, and every third building seemed to have a makeshift smith’s forge set up to arm them. “What if you took me to council?” Vlasta asked abruptly. Stanislaw arched a doubtful eyebrow. “Are you mad?” “I could be your squire!” “I have a squire.” “You mean Villorik?” she scoffed. “Everyone says he’s a craven! I heard he tucked tail and ran from Carnatian raiders up north last summer. They call him Villorik Turnheel, you know.” Stanislaw grimaced. He did not need reminders of his squire’s reputation. “Lord Villorik is … learning. He shows great potential.” And half of the soldiers in Osyenia were supplied by his father. “But I could -” “Your father will not allow it, Vlasta,” he told her firmly, “and not even Prince Barbov will risk angering your father. Not now, at least.” Vlasta firmed her jaw, and crossed her arms stubbornly as they followed the road through the square, and up to the castle. He was grateful to spot familiar faces manning the stone gatehouse in scale-mail armour and with masked, plumed helmets under their arms. “Hail, Miliv,” Stanislaw called as he approached. “Hail, Horselegs,” the broad-faced Miliv, captain of this watch, called back. He had more than a little grey in his bushy moustache, but like every other good Raev warrior, he respected Stanislaw’s rank despite his youth. “You’re missing a council.” “So Lady Vlasta tells me. Has the shouting begun?” “Oh, certainly,” Miliv rumbled. It would not have been a war council without Prince Barbov raising his voice. “The Elder’s mood is foul today.” “Hmph. I had better hurry, then.” He saluted farewell to Miliv and his company as he marched through the gate, Vlasta at his heels, and into the castle courtyard. More smiths worked in proper forges here, and crowds of soldiers in the same scale-mail and masked helmets - the personal guards of the Boyars - loitered around braziers outside the large, open doorway. Stanislaw could hear raised voices echo from within. “Maybe he’ll take me as his squire,” Vlasta mused, and Stanislaw paused to frown at what she was pointing at. A man had just emerged from a barracks adjoined to the courtyard wall, and he was the only Raev present that did not wear any armor at all. Instead, he wore a plain linen shirt under a cloak of blue wool that was as unremarkable as the cloth-wrapped sword at his waist. The only notable detail about the man was the dried blood splashed across his breeches. “I would not suggest trying,” Stanislaw grunted tightly. “Why? Why do you all call him the Mutt?” “Because all he is good for is being an attack dog.” The man in question was Slavomir. He was born a serf, as lowly as could be, but he had earned a spot among King Karl’s retinue through unmatched skill with a blade. He was liked by none in the court - how could a peasant be? - but he was begrudgingly tolerated for his value as a warrior, and he took orders only from Prince Barbov directly. Stanislaw did not care how good the man was -- he was a serf, and serfs did not belong in Princes’ retinues. “Whose blood is that, Slavomir?” Stanislaw called to him as Slavomir passed them on his way to the keep. The other man blinked and looked around, as if it took him a moment to notice he had been spoken to. “Hm? Oh. Deserters,” he answered absent-mindedly. Slavomir was Stanislaw’s elder by six or seven years, but there was a grizzled look chiselled into the deep lines of his lean, weathered face that made him look much older. “Some men from Lord Berislav’s service fled during the night.” “That was for Lord Berislav to deal with.” Slavomir only shrugged. “Barbov commanded me to hunt them down.” “Prince Barbov, serf,” Stanislaw corrected him sharply, but Slavomir hardly seemed to have even heard him. The older man resumed trudging to the keep in his bloodstained breeches before Stanislaw had even closed his mouth. “Now you see why he’s called Mutt?” Stanislaw hissed to Vlasta. “He sees no issue tending to his liege while drenched in blood. That’s what keeping serfs as guards gets you.” “Careful, my lord,” Vlasta drawled. “It almost sounds as if you don’t like the man. So …” her eyes flashed to the doors. “Shall we?” “Nice try. Be about your duties, and stay clear of the council.” “I don’t have any duties!” Vlasta called behind him as Stanislaw followed Slavomir inside. “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you!” The great hall of Osyenia Castle was a long span of flagstone floors and arched columns, and rugs, tapestries, and trophies of battles from long ago hung from the wall to alleviate the dull grey of the stone. Braziers burnt between the columns, and most of the fireplaces built into the wall were lit, though all the tables before them were empty. The only gathering in the great hall was near the dais beneath a row of tall windows at the back of the hall, where the Princes’ war council gathered around a round table laden with maps. “ … any strategy must revolve around the ultimate goal of securing Dules!” insisted a bellowing, familiar voice as Stanislaw arrived. “There is no point dancing around that fact! Mejen, Kurwen, Brativar - they’re all a waste of when we can take the Nzech by surprise now!” “Without Mejen, Kurwen, and Brativar,” a calm, measured voice responded, “we have no foothold over the Huns River, and without control of the River, any siege on Dules is suicide. Not to mention, we need those forts as defensive positions so that the Nzech cannot use their numbers to force an advantageous battle in the field. If we just …” Only a few looked up at Stanislaw’s approach, and one - a boy with long, black hair that might just barely pass for an adult - flocked to his side and began to hurriedly whisper. “Prince Barbov called the council suddenly. I tried to find you, my lord, I did, but -” “It is alright, Villorik,” Stanislaw cut him off in an equally quiet voice. He peered over the shoulders of fur-clad Boyars to the maps spread across the table, and the fat wooden carvings placed on them. “What have I missed?” “Not a great deal, lord,” his squire whispered back. “Prince Barbov wants us to move on Dules immediately while the Nzech have yet to secure control in the north, but -” “But Prince Kosav wants to take the River first, ai,” Stanislaw finished. “So nothing has changed.” “Most of the Boyars do not come because they think we have no chance,” the first voice was urging as Stanislaw listened back in. That voice belonged to the broad-shouldered young man on the west side of the table, clad in a deerskin jacket and with a mane of raven-black hair spilling across his shoulders to frame the bold, proud face of Prince Barbov. “If we strike at Dules,” the Elder Prince went on, jabbing a finger at the riverside tradeport on the map, “if we take Dules, then not only will the Boyars know our strength, but they will know the Nzech days are numbered.” Across the table from Barbov, Prince Kosav spread his hands. He held traces of his brother, but he was leaner, thinner, and his eyes almost had a gaunt cast. “Maybe we can take Dules. Maybe the Nzech haven’t consolidated their forces there yet, and we can force our way in. Maybe the Electors will even side with us and yield the city.” “Exactly!” Barbov exclaimed. “That is -” “Or maybe they don’t,” the Younger Prince went on coldly. “Maybe the Nzech already have fortified their garrison. Maybe the Electors side with them, because they offer stability for trade, which is what the Electors have always valued. And if that happens, dear brother, our entire resistance is done.” He leaned forward, pressing bony hands against the table. “We cannot take needless risks. It will be slow, but if we take a few months to secure as far as Mejen, not only will the rest of the southern Boyars join us, but it gives us a much safer foothold to push north. From Mejen,” he dragged a finger across the map, “we can cut off the River from Lahy, and isolate Dules by ranging as far east as Ingeslaw. If we do this right, we can end the war at Dules -- the rest of the Boyars will see Nzech as a lost cause. We may not even have to fight a battle for Lahy.” Rumbles of agreement rippled across the gathered Boyars and captains, and Barbov’s jaw clenched. “What do you think, Villorik?” Stanislaw whispered quietly to his squire. “I … I do not know, lord.” “Come, boy,” Stanislaw grumbled patiently. “You are a student of war. Try.” “Well…” As Kosav began to talk about the potential of raids from Hanseti from behind, Villorik chewed his cheek as he eyed the map. “The Nzech have most of their support from Boyars west of the Huns, but the rest are loyal only under threat of force. It seems too risky to strike right at Dules when instead we can build a resistance in the south first that can threaten the Nzech’s hold over the rest of the Boyars.” He turned doubtful eyes up at Stanislaw. “...right?” “Good. You have a sharp mind, boy. Use it more.” Villorik’s smile was both apprehensive and pleased, but Stanislaw’s attention returned to the meeting as a weedy voice belonging to a portly, white-bearded man who sat on a high-backed chair upon the dais spoke. “My lord princes, the Hanseti have always taken advantage of turbulence among the Raev to press their claims on our border. Though they have lost their mettle since your lord father - God rest his soul,” around the table, men traced the cross in unison, “crushed them at Lahy, but who knows what the fiends might try now if we do not keep a strong presence in Osyenia?” “We are well aware, Boyar Olske,” Kosav intoned grimly. It was clear from the look on the Younger Prince’s face that he did not have an answer for that one yet. “A problem we would not need to fear if we moved straight to Dules in force,” Barbov input stubbornly, but when he glanced around the table, he threw up his arms in defeat. “Alright, fine! We will focus on Mejen and control of the Huns firstly, and Dules secondly. But mark my rotting words, as soon as Boyar Vitomir arrives with the last of the levies, we march!” Barbov did not wait for any acknowledgement, and immediately turned to march off with a grunt of frustration. Within seconds, Slavomir was at his side, and after exchanging a few uneasy looks, some of the Boyars did, too. “ … That will be all, then,” Kosav said grimly as he watched Barbov vanish deeper into the Castle with a procession of Boyars. The Boyars that remained muttered farewells and support before they gradually began to dissipate. Before long, the only men left at the table were Stanislaw, Villorik, Olske in his chair, and Kosav himself. “A most wise plan, my lord,” Olske grumbled. “I must admit, I am glad we have your level head to rely on. Prince Barbov is, ah … most brave, but …” “But he is rash, impatient, and does not think things through,” Kosav finished. “Yes, my lord, so I have come to learn.” Olske’s entire form seemed to bounce as the stout Boyar laughed. “Your words, my prince, not mine.” “Still,” Kosav’s eyes slid to Stanislaw, “I could have used some help convincing him.” Stanislaw smiled apologetically. “You had it well in hand.” Kosav snorted. “Boyar Olske. Would you leave us for a moment?” The old man frowned for the briefest of moments - even though Kosav was his liege, this was his castle - but he obliged with a nod. He hoisted himself out of the cheer, off the dais, and then leisurely waddled down the hall. “Villorik -- you will go see to feeding Iskje now.” Villorik’s mouth opened to instinctively complain about tending to Stanislaw’s horse, but a curt look with Stanislaw killed the complaint before it was voiced. Villorik nodded, and a moment later, Stanislaw and Kosav stood alone at the table. “Not like you to be late,” Kosav began as he leaned back against the dais with a sigh. “Yes, well … I was catching up on sleep. You can forgive me, I hope.” Kosav arched an eyebrow. “You are still …?” He did not need to finish -- Kosav was the only one Stanislaw had trusted with his nightmares. “Yes,” Stanislaw said with a sigh of his own as he joined Kosav by the dais, “and I fear they’re getting worse. Each time is more vivid, like … like I am really back there.” Even as he closed his eyes, Stanislaw could picture the Nzech traitors rushing through the Castle, cutting down men and women blindly. “We’ll have our revenge soon enough. Don’t worry.” “Revenge?” Stanislaw scoffed in half-hearted amusement. “You’re sounding like Barbov now.” “What do you want me to say?” Kosav closed his eyes as the beam of light from the window fell on him. “That we’ll restore strong administration, rule of law, stability? Because we will, but the Nzech promise to do the exact same thing.” His eyes opened on the map again. “And they possess the greater, ah, territorial means to do so.” Stanislaw's own gaze looked at a fat wooden figure placed over the bold dot labelled ‘LAHY’ on the map. “I still just don’t understand,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “Chancellor Msitovic and the Nzech served King Karl to build this kingdom over these last decades … they regained their honour, their respect … why oust his heirs as soon as they can?” “The Nzechovich have challenged Barbov and I’s forefathers for kingship of the Raev for generations,” Kosav answered absently, as if by rote. “They saw an opportunity, and they took it by trying to kill us in our sleep.” The look Stanislaw gave his friend was wary. “Do you really believe that? Some of the Nzech would leap at the first opportunity to seize power, but … God, Kosav, you know Lord Msitovic is not like that. He values more than just the pride of his people.” “ … I know.” “So then why would he lead a coup to drive you out?” Stanislaw almost wished Kosav had said anything else besides, “I don’t know.” Before Stanislaw could ponder any further, though, Kosav pushed off the dais and ran a hand through his hair. “It doesn’t matter now. You heard Barbov - before the month is out, we’ll finally be marching on Mejen. I think that calls for a drink. Don’t you? Stanislaw?” Stanislaw blinked as if waking from a trance. He nodded along politely, and followed as Kosav began to lead the way to his chambers, but his mind remained at the table. His mind remained on the table, and the fact that he could have sworn that when Stanislaw asked why the Nzech led their coup, Kosav had been staring at the spot where Barbov had stood.

VALKSKEJ I DENLICHTE KAROVIC THE CARRION BLACK AGREEMENT Agreed of this 11th day of Jula and Piov of 404 E.S. I Daeland will receive an payment of 3,000 minae for their participation in the war to assist the Grand Kingdom of Urguan with one thousand soldiers upon entry of the first battle. Half shall be paid up front and the remainder upon completion of the war. II For every 500 additional soldiers that arise to the call of the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska, an additional 1,000 minae will be awarded. III Daeland will receive a bonus of 500 minae upon victory of the aforementioned war in its entirety IV For every major battle, Daeland will receive a bonus of 500 minae major contribution judged by his Majesty, Sigismund III V The adherence to Haeseni law and heed to the Marshal and Field Commander of Hanseti-Ruska will be required by Daeland within the Kingdom's lands and any of Her offenses and defences in the aforementioned war. VI Daeland shall terminate their agreement with the Orenian Empire dated 1851 F.A. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Fidei Defensor, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera. Beannachadh Dhè, Malcolm de Chlann (of Clan) Douglas, Hound of Daeland and Chlann Douglas, Sionadh of the A' Ghàidhealtachd Gowther de Chlann (of Clan) Douglas, Stag of Daeland and Chlann Douglas, Sionadh of the A' Ghàidhealtachd

VALKSKEJ I GRASZ EMASAND THE GREENER GRASS AGREEMENT Agreed of this 11th day of Jula and Piov of 404ES I The Sons of Nagg will receive an payment of 3,000 minae for their participation in the war to assist the Grand Kingdom of Urguan with one thousand soldiers upon entry of the first battle. Half shall be paid up front and the remainder upon completion of the war. II For every 500 additional soldiers that arise to the call of the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska, an additional 1,000 minae will be awarded. III The Sons of Nagg will receive a bonus of 500 minae upon victory of the aforementioned war in its entirety IV For every major battle, the Sons of Nagg will receive a bonus of 500 minae major contribution judged by his Majesty, Sigismund III V The adherence to Haeseni law and heed to the Marshal and Field Commander of Hanseti-Ruska will be required by the Sons of Nagg within the Kingdom's lands and any of Her offenses and defences in the aforementioned war. VI The Sons of Nagg terminate their agreement with the Orenian Empire dated 1851 F.A. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Fidei Defensor, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera. Warboss Fishbreff

ZREKSAN I VE PRECCAVZ APPOINTMENT OF THE PREVAILER KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 4th day of Jula and Piov of 404ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK War has come to Almaris. It is not a war our Kongzem had ever sought, yet no longer can we stand idle as our ally - whom, upon our honour, we have sworn to defend - is aggressed upon after they had explicitly ended their war with Philip II, seeking no quarrel with Philip III. No longer can we stand idle as our Church is attacked, and our Kongzem is accused of conspiring against it by the Orenian Archchancellor. No longer can we stand idle as our roads fall under threat from Orenian highwaymen who cannot hold their own roads, and even our Highlander brethren in Orenia live in fear. No longer can we stand idle as those who orchestrated the attempted coup on the sovereign nation of Savoy stand alongside Orenian raiders with impunity. No longer can we stand idle. Make no mistake, Almaris, that each and every step that has led to this conflict was a product of tyranny by those we once considered dear friends. Thus, as the Kongzem prepares to honour her defensive alliance with the Grand Kingdom of Urguan and her allies in the Ferryman Company, the Crown sees fit to make the following appoint: AILRED VAR RUTHERN, THE PREVAILER FIELD MARSHAL OF THE BROTHERHOOD OF SAINT KARL @biggestdon While Lord Johann Barclay is charged with his duties of overall organization, management, and leadership of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl and the defense of the Kongzem, it shall be the duties of the Prevailer, as Field Marshal, to utilise his fabled battle experience - garnered throughout the Rimetroll War, Sutican War, and Haelunorian War - to lead the Brotherhood and the forces of Haense in battle. May you show our enemies the error of their ways, Prevailer. May you return peace to our lands, and cast off the shadow of tyranny. May you exemplify what it means to be Haeseni. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Fidei Defensor, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

"Is this the kind of intelligence that led you to deposing Everard, I wonder ..." Sigismund mused to his hearth. "Fool you once, shame on them, but fool you twice ..."

Vzreif Edar i ve Herzenir i Reinmar ROYAL LETTERS FOR THE DUCHY OF REINMAR KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 9th day of Wzuvar and Byvca of 403ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK We, the Haeseni, find ourselves in turbulent times. The Orenian Empire attempts to despose the High Pontiff Everard VI, bonds are broken between the men and realms of the south, and the shadow of war looms over central Almaris more iminently than ever before. In times of uncertainty and turmoil, there is no greater virtue to be found than that of loyalty - of men and women who are not only dedicated, but reliable, dependable, and trustworthy. Oftentimes, a monarch may go their entire reign searching for liegemen with this sacrosanct virtue, for supporters who can be trusted when backs are turned and eyes are lidded, for fellow Canonists who do not scheme for personal power, and share a genuine bond to build a greater kingdom for all. The Kongzem of Haense is beyond blessed that we are land of many such men, and today, the Crown wishes to honour one. Growing up, I had many friends within the crimson walls of Karosgrad. In our youth, we played, as children do. We shirked our lessons and responsibilities in pursuit of fun, but there was one of my peers who did not. From a young age, Lord Johann Barclay donned the black-gold gambesson of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, and from that moment on he was a soldier. Where Kaustantin and I laughed and played in the streets, Lord Johann stood at the gates of our city, day in and day out, and it was from that moment I knew I had come across a man dedicated beyond all others, and a friend who would never falter. As time has progressed, Lord Johann has reiterated this impression year by year, not only through his own actions, but that of his House, from his work as Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl to the festivities hosted by the House of Barclay such as Kretzenfest, to the most recent adamant support given Friendship and duty does not beget reward -- men do not do these things because they seek gain, but because they believe in the realm they are building, and the future they are building. Because of this, I do henceforth return unto Lord Johann Barclay the Duchy of Reinmar, and decree that he shall be known as His Grace, Duke Johann of the House of Barclay. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, FIDEI DEFENSOR, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

"Words are wind."

King Sigismund buckled on his cloak in his office as he prepared for the day ahead. It was morning, and pale winter light filtered through the open balcony, bringing with it a chilling gust of wind that carried the noise from the city beyond. If not for the pine logs burning in the hearth, he would have been frozen to the bone. As he fixed his cloak on with a silver-crow brooch, he looked up to the Hussariyan Cross hanging above the fireplace. "Vy have a strange sense of humour, vy know that?" Godan gave no answer to that.

NAKROV I VE HERZEN I SCHATTENBURG BIRTH OF THE DUKE OF SCHATTENBURG KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 17th day of Vzmey and Hyff of 402ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK The King and Queen's record of birthing safe and healthy children remains intact, though I touch the wood of my desk as I write this. An hour after High Bell, her Majesty Queen Emma, in the company of her husband and their now-experienced team of birthing midwives, gave birth to a fourth boy weighing just over five pounds. The baby's light weight prompted initial concern, but it soon became clear that the baby was, despite its weight, healthy. It was born crying loud and clear, with the strongest lungs yet of the royal children, and the Crown thus fears for the safety of its sleep as its sobs continue to echo throughout the Nikirala Prikaz. Nonetheless, the Prikaz is blessed to announce the birth of: HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF SCHATTENBURG JOSEF FREDERIK BARBANOV-BIHAR @Sarmadonn Upon the newly-born Royal Highness, the Crown bestows the titular Duchy of Schattenburg, and grant him the Face of the North amulet from the Crown Jewels as his personal badge and seal. Godan has to be thanked for the continued safe births following the initial tragic death of the newborn Edvard Arjen, Grand Prince of Kusoraev. Princess Klara, and Princes Karl and Sergey have since grown to be hale. The Princess Klara shall begin her formal education as a Princess of the Kongzem soon, and the Twin Princes shall be exhibited at the next sitting of the Royal Court now that they have both reached five winters. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

HVEIZA I VE ORAZVI I MAENVESTIYAEO APPOINTMENT OF THE COURT ORACLE KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 17th day of Wzuvar and Byvca of 402ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK Prinzen Franz Leopold Barbanov Bihar - the Oracle Knight, and Duke of Schattenburg - has served the Kongzem throughout his life as Knight, Grand Maer, and Lord. Though now he is old and ashen-haired, rumours have followed the Prinzen since his infancy -- rumours that the Prinzen is capable of seeing things that other men cannot, threads of the past, present, and future, and the visages of those long dead. It is for this reason that he took the moniker of Oracle upon his dubbing as a Knight of Haense. Scepticism of the Prinzen's Godan-given power has since been dispelled. The Crown vests full faith in the soothsaying abilities of the Prinzen following a number of prophecies that have come to pass, that include: I. The demise of Ruslan Valwyck, the Duke of Valwyck; II. The bountiful grain harvest of 399ES; III. A particular aggressive Thorqal mating season in the Staalmarsh, which warned Attenlund farmers not to graze near the marshland; IV. The balding of Aleksandr Ruthern; V. The breaking of Prinzen Sergey's fever; VI. The outcome of the Karosgrad Crow's Bucketball game against the San Luciano Saints; VII. The death of Prinzen Edvard, Grand Prinzen of Kusoraev. The Crown thus decrees that Prinzen Franz Leopold shall no longer hold the title of Duke of Schattenburg, and instead appoints his Highness to serve as Court Oracle of Maenvestiyaeo, and charge him to serve the Kongzem as seer and soothsayer. His duties shall be to: I. Attend sittings of the Royal Court, and speak of his prophecies before all the Kongzem; II. Assign Knight's Quests to Squires of the Knights' Table as their final trial before dubbing. The Oracle has requested that he make his home in the ruins of Krusev, surrounded by the great trees and spirits of the dead, and the Crown sees fit to grant him such. While it is dubious as to whether the gifts of the Oracle shall manifest themselves again, the Crown rests well knowing the Oracle of Maenvestiyaeo deciphers the threads of fate. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

THE FAMILY DINNER EDICT KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 12th day of Msitza and Dargund of 401ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK Since the infancy of Haense in its ancient cradle of Siegrad, the line of Barbanov has endured centuries, during which time the other great Descendant bloodlines have fallen to ruin or disgrace, harkened back to memory only occasionally by some wayward claimant invoking it from the grave for brief acclaim. Not the line of Barbanov, though; its persistence through these centuries of hardships poetically characterises the adamant spirit of the Haeseni people themselves, and in doing so, has maintained unsmirched prestige to stand as the greatest ancient bloodline of today. Such prestige is hard-won, not only from the trials weathered through Haeseni history, but also from simple internal maintenance. It befalls the Crown, as the Lord of the Royal House of Barbanov-Bihar, to ensure that no misguided or malicious offspring bring dishonour to the family name, and by extension, the Kongzem of Haense itself. A lack of maintenance is like a slow poison, deadly as much for its subtlety as much for its erosion, and thus, the Crown sees fit to scribe this Edict with a view to maintaining the integrity and prestige of the Royal House of Barbanov-Bihar. Thus, the following is decreed. ____________________________ I: ON THE TITLES OF PRINZEN & PRINZENAS Chief among the future issues facing the Royal House is an unanticipated increase in members, owing to the descendants of King Sigismund II and King Heinrik II siring male lines. Until now, the informal law of the Royal House was that any child, sibling, niece, and nephew of the monarch took the title of ‘Prinz’ or ‘Prinzenas’. Until the expansion of the Royal House under King Heinrik II, this law was unproblematic, but now no longer remains tenable. The Crown has determined that over a dozen members of the Royal House assuming the title of Prinz or Prinzenas is to the detriment of the prestigious nature of the station. Therefore, upon execution of this Edict, only those with immediate relation to a monarch of Hanseti-Ruska shall be entitled to the title of Prinz or Prinzenas, and the address of ‘Royal Highness’. This shall include the siblings and children of any Haeseni monarch; not just the current one. All those born outside of this category shall be entitled to the title of Lord or Lady, and the address of ‘Highness’. ____________________________ II: ON MALE OFFSPRING In generations past, it was unwritten tradition that a male son of the monarch, besides the Grand Prinz of Kusoraev, would not sire a large family of their own, for the Royal House differs from the Noble Houses in that it does not pursue constant expansion. Instead, the Crown takes the view that the Royal House should instead be an exclusive, model echelon. However, since the reigns of King Josef I and King Heinrik II, this has begun to change, with each of his male sons having sired at least one child to date. With a view to maintaining the prestige of the Royal House and control of its members as claimants to the throne of Hanseti-Ruska, the Crown espouses the policy that no male Prinz, besides the Grand Prinz of Kusoraev, should endeavour to sire more than two or three children. ____________________________ III: ON ROYAL CADETS Throughout recent history, there has typically existed a Royal Cadet House derived from the Royal House, usually sired by a sibling of a monarch. Originally, this was the House of Ludovar, before decades have distanced them too greatly from the Royal House, and then the House of Alimar prior to its incorporation back into the Royal House, and today it is the Royal Cadet House of Morovar, sired by Franz Leopold, fourthborn son of King Sigismund II. While the existence of a Royal Cadet House serves to supplement the Line of Succession, the Crown must outline the policy that the continued creation of Royal Cadet Houses, which necessitate the siring of many children - and, in other words, many claimants - is undesirable. The siring of Royal Cadet Houses is therefore prohibited without the blessings of the sitting monarch, as the patriarch of the Royal House of Barbanov-Bihar. ____________________________ IV: ON SLOTHFUL ROYALS Having read the provisions of this Edict, one might be inclined to question the exact prestige sought by the Crown. In essence, the Royal House should represent the pinnacle of Haeseni strength; while the Royal House rules through the right of their ancestors, the deeds of the past must be supplemented by the worthiness of those who rule in the present. It cannot be expected that the Haeseni people shall bow their heads to the Prinz, Prinzenas, Lords, and Ladies of the Royal House if such respect is not earned through deed. Therefore, the Crown proclaims its readiness to punish members of the Royal House who shirk the inherent duties of their esteemed station. Whether it is through service in the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, seating on the Knight’s Table, patronage of the Royal Duma, publication of scholarly works, or anything of comparable nature, the Royal House must continue to toil for the worthiness of their bloodline. ____________________________ V: ON THE APPLICATION OF THIS EDICT This Edict is penned in response to the current status of the Royal House, and the Crown thus recognises that there may come a point in the future where the number of members of the Royal House is sufficiently low so that the titles of ‘Prinzen’ and ‘Prinzenas’ may once again be extended to more distant relations of the Crown. If such a time ever comes, a subsequent Edict ought to be published. The provisions herein on Royal Cadet Houses and slothful royals, however, should remain intact forthwith. ____________________________ IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

Cultural appropriation 300 m

semi armour 200m cultural appropriation 200m con.or

Letter to the Royal Duma: THE CHURCH KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 11th day of Tov and Yermey of 401ES VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ALDYLEVAR Since the unanticipated death of Anders Cardinal Jorenus - Godani rest his soul - the Crown has considered the role of the Church of the Canon in the Kongzem. The Crown naturally recognizes both the autonomy of the Church and also the need for symbiosis between it and the Kongzem; it appears, however, as if the current direction of this symbiosis is unclear. Therefore, the Crown compels its Royal Duma to debate the matter as to what role the Church should play in Haeseni society beyond standard sacraments - if any - and what efforts in return the Crown ought to make in support of the Church. In light of the scheduled debate on the rewrite of the Jura i Szlata, the Crown advises the Royal Duma that this debate is not a matter of urgency and can be conducted in a future session. IV JOVEO MAAN His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

"Call off the raid, Johann," King Sigismund says to his Marshal with a small, satisfied smile as he reads the news. @Frymark

Sigismund.

VE DRESIR BORSAZEN I VALTA KARL THE THIRD BROTHERHOOD OF SAINT KARL VA LENS EA DZIENMAR MEA BORSA, VA VE WICACZ EA DZIENMAR VE AKOV From atop the Krepost Palace, the despair of Markev was laid bare before King Sigmar. Soldiers - survivors of the defeat at the Three Hills - lay sprawled on the streets leading to the Hospital, which for days had had no beds to spare, and from those wounded survivors came constant coughing. Peasants, expelled from their homes by the battle, harassed every passing burgher - most of whom had begun to employ armed guards - for alms and coin to feed themselves. Worst of all, the air in the city following the Battle of the Three Hills felt stale and wrong, like decay. “Not a pretty sight, ai?” came the drawl of the Lord Rhys var Ruthern, the King’s Marshal, as he joined Sigmar by the battlements, his grim face enwreathed in pipe smoke. “No,” Sigmar agreed gravely, “it is not. But we will endure, and next time we shall not lose.” “Maybe,” the Marshal answered idly as he exhaled a stream of smoke. The smell of it was a welcome break from the air of wrongness that otherwise hung over Markev. The King cocked his head towards Lord Rhys. “Maybe? Have you turned defeatist on me, Lord Marshal?” “Craven, you mean?” Rhys scoffed, smoke curling out of his breath as he shook his head, and took to surveying the Red City below. “No. Our defeat at the Three Hills has opened my eyes, though. We need change, lord King.” “On that we are agreed,” Sigmar rumbled. He watched in distaste as in the square below a passing squadron of Vanir levymen glared at his own Royal Guard as if they were enemies. Tensions ran high. “I will call the Royal Duma, and it is there that I will have the Lords expand their levies, and have them equipped with more than spears and leather. With that, a higher grain tax -” “No,” Rhys cut him off softly. “No, my lord King, I think not. The change we need is not of levies and armies.” “Not of armies?” Sigmar guffawed, and were it not for the gleam in Lord Rhys’ eyes, he would have thought him mad. “Then what, Ruthern? Then what?” “Perhaps,” Rhys went on calmly as he watched the soldiers shout below, “It is not an army we need, but a Brotherhood.” - Creation of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl THE BROTHERHOOD DLUM OHN IV VE MIRRINE, ASERE FITSK DLUM VE HAUZNA I ZWY LUND _____________ In a world whose history is marked with bloody wars and calamities, a proud army has always been the cornerstone of the Kongzem of Haense. Whether in the Kongzem’s fledgling years under King Petyr of Karlsburg or in its vengeful might of the Scyfling Invasion beneath King Sigismund the Soldier, warriors have always stood at the heart of Haense. It is natural throughout the steeped history of the Kongzem that its army has taken many forms -- in the days of yore, the Lords of Haense would raise their own levies to ride at the King’s command to war before King Marius the Good formed the first centralized Haeseni Royal Army. Throughout the decades and Kings that followed, the Haense Royal Army became the Brotherhood of Saint Karl at the outbreak of the Vaeyl Wars, until it was reformed into the 2nd Brotherhood after the War of the Two Emperors. King Sigismund II reverted the armed forces into the Haense Royal Army, and so it remained throughout the reign of Josef I, until, under the patronage of King Heinrik II, Lord Ailred Ruthern - the Lionheart - rechristened it as the 3rd Brotherhood of Saint Karl in recognition of the soldiery’s bond as brothers and family. So it stands today that the army of the Kongzem of Haense is the 3rd Brotherhood of Saint Karl, and this book shall detail its structure and workings. THE OATH OF SERVICE STATRY GODAN, ASERE OMARV STYUARD I ZWY BIRODAL _____________ All men must have a code, and the warriors of the Brotherhood are no exception. In contrast with the dedication of the Knight’s Table to the Code of Chivalry in which they assume the burden of living for others, the Oath of the Brotherhood is a more fundamental tenet in which a soldier accepts the call to defend their home, the one place in the harsh world carved out as their own, and the Brothers and Sisters they share this task with. It is one of resilience and persistence, sworn upon formal induction into the Brotherhood proper before the icon of Saint Karl himself. To my left I see my fellow Brothers; to my right I see the same | Va lens ea dzien mea Borsa; va ve wicacz ea dzien ve akov For all in the world, we fight for the peace of this land | Dlum ohn iv ve miirine, asere fitsk dlum ve hauzna i zwy lund Through Godan, we are stewards of this realm | Statry Godan, asere omarv styuard i zwy birodal Through stewardship, we gained diligence and prudence | Dzeb styuardin, asere bazoir kasokar ag previtz Through diligence, we may conquer all without fault | Dzeb kasokar, asere monn conquna ohn ticzik fazna And should I falter in my duty, send me never to the Skies | Ag zwyc ea mzider iv mea caezkas, vsric eam niedy va ve Skiz If I should succeed, bestow unto me His blessings forevermore | Iz ea zwyc bocsaz, veann eam lapaes lenddya aestrimir For now I march into a valley through which there is no path | Dlum ij ea gromon halvin dzeb tieg tamort oe nie sech And the stones cascade behind me to seal my retreat | Ag ve stonz trehmse zater eam va dresc mea ornk Though in this valley, I find my Brothers | Est iv zwy gromon, ea occna mea Borsa Now I am named Guardian of my Homeland | Ij ea omar nim lauzta i mea harste Should I falter, my shield shall turn to ash | Zwyc Should ea mzider, duyvi szal skrehedren va azsh But I shall not falter | Denn ea szalmar ter mzider RANKS AND DUTIES DZEB STUARDIN, ASERE BAZOIR KASOKAR AG PREVITZ _____________ RANKS OF COMMAND Those chosen for their merit, experience, and skill, encumbered with the lives of the soldiers beneath them. THE CROWN The Brotherhood serves the Kongzem, and it is the Crown - the reigning King or Queen - that leads the Kongzem. The legitimacy of the Brotherhood, as do all other institutions, as sole army of the realm derives from the Crown, and so they are the highest authority - they are the Grand Hetman. For time immemorial, however, the Crown has delegated direct command of its army to the Marshal. THE MARSHAL Of greatest appointed military rank in the Kongzem is the Marshal (Naumariv: ve Kengzhetmenn), who the Crown entrusts with the greatest of responsibility to lead the Brotherhood in defence of the Kongzem and its honour. The Marshal, therefore, oversees the entirety of the Brotherhood. It is they who select the Officers, it is they who dictate strategy, it is they who ensure the Brotherhood functions like oiled clockwork, and it is they who carry the Iron Bulava as they lead the Brotherhood in battle. THE CAPTAIN Second only to the Marshal in appointed command is the Captain. As they serve at the pleasure of the Marshal, the Captain is their right-hand-soldier entrusted to assist the Marshal with their great burden as leader of the Brotherhood. It falls to the Captain to undertake tasks which the Marshal cannot attend to personally, oversee and train the younger Officers, and train and lead the Brotherhood in combat. LIEUTENANTS The Lieutenants are ranks of command who lead their own regiment - Banner - beneath the Marshal, and therefore their duty is to keep their Banner well-drilled and fit for purpose. Though this is their foremost focus, the Lieutenants assist the Captain and Marshal in maintaining order in the Brotherhood, organizing training, and counselling on strategy. SERGEANTS The most junior of commanding ranks are the Sergeants who train soldiers and variously assist the Lieutenants, Captain, and Marshal in organizing the Brotherhood. Often a Banner will host one or two Sergeants in service of the commanding Lieutenant, equipped to assume command themselves should the Lieutenant fall in battle. Sergeants are typically entrusted with small commands, such as patrols, training, and investigations. RANKS OF FOOT The backbone of the Brotherhood; the defenders of Haeseni people; the backbone of the Kongzem. ARMIGERS As senior veterans, Armigers do not hold command but are instead ranked in recognition of service and dedication to the Brotherhood, and is most often awarded to soldiers who do not seek a promotion to command. Despite being a rank of foot, the Armigers are relied heavily upon by command for strength and stability across the Brotherhood. ARMSMEN The rank of Armsmen is that of the tried and tested soldiers of the Brotherhood who have served beyond the basic term of Oathed. Armsmen form the common standard of the Brotherhood as juniors to Armigers, and serve in the Banners at the command of the Sergeants, Lieutenants, Captain, and Marshal. Armsmen are regarded as fully-trained soldiers, capable of handling most situations. OATHED The junior rank of the Brotherhood, consisting of those who have sworn their Oath of Service to become a true soldier of the Brotherhood. Despite having completed training, Oathed are soldiers who are largely untested in true battle and combat and thus continue to learn the way of a true soldier as they progress towards the rank of Armsman. INITIATE Those who come seeking to join the ranks of the Brotherhood are enlisted as Initiates, who are yet untrained and untested. Initiates are given no formal responsibilities, and instead are tasked with training until they triumph in their Oath Hunt to become an Oathed. CADET The corps of Cadets are for those too young to fight in true battle, but one day aspire to do so for the honour of Haense. Until that day comes when they are a man or woman grown, they may train in the Cadets beneath the tutelage of a Sergeant, or in some cases a higher rank, to begin to learn warfare and soldiery from a young age. SPECIAL RANKS Extra ranks that work in tandem with the existing rank for those with a particular skillset. QUARTERMASTER The soldier - usually of at least Armiger rank - responsible for maintaining sufficient stockpiles of food, weaponry, armour, and arrows to equip the Brotherhood whenever necessary. The Quartermaster also manages specialist equipment, such as siege engines. CHAPLAIN The warrior-priest of the Brotherhood and an ordained clergyman of the Church of the Canon who blesses the soldiers before battle and performs funeral rites, both for the vanquished foes of Haense and the fallen of the Brotherhood. BATTLE-BARD The Battle-Bard is a soldier who is also a musician or poet who is charged with commemorating the deeds and the fallen of the Brotherhood in song, verse, and art, so that they might never be forgotten. The Battle-Bard is usually the soldier to maintain the Black Banner. STANDARD-BEARER A rank of sacred honour usually given as a reward to a soldier for distinguished service. The Standard-Bearer, who can be of any main rank, carries the flag of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl into battle. QUACKS Quacks are medics trained specifically to carry out emergency surgery during combat, unlike their non-combative counterparts in the Hospital of Saint Amyas. While Quacks fight in battle alongside their Brothers, their duty becomes to tend to wounded soldiers in the backlines if casualties begin to mount. BANNERS OF THE BROTHERHOOD DZEB KASOKAR, ASERE MONN CONQUNA OHN TICZIK FAZNA _____________ Within an army as large as the Brotherhood, there naturally exists regiments and units. These regiments, which have changed over time with different iterations of the army, are today known as Banners, each of which is commanded by a Lieutenant. While all soldiers of the Brotherhood are unified as a single army whose driving purpose is the defense and growth of the Kongzem, soldiers will often join a Banner to develop their skills and knowledge of warfare. Each Banner of the Brotherhood exists with a specific purpose, and they are as follows. THE EBON BANNER Swift like the wind, and strong like the gale. _____ Beneath the black-wing standard of the Ebon Crow, the horsemen of the Ebon Banner ride. These riders are lightly-armoured lancers, and are by far the swiftest of any force within the Kongzem. In times of peace, the Ebon Banner patrols the roads and are the first responders to any threats reported on it, while in times of war they make an ideal scouting force that can quickly map enemy movements while using their speed to evade confrontation. In battle itself, the Ebon Banner works in tandem with the Ghost Banner to harass enemy forces, and in particular, break formations. THE STORM BANNER Lightning need never strike twice. _____ The Flame of Sigismund flies above the deadly shock-troopers of the Storm Banner. Heavily armoured and drilled to never flinch, the ruthless brothers-in-arms of the Storm Banner are the Kongzem’s foremost tactical unit deployed for offensive raiding. They act as the Brotherhood’s vanguard in battle, forming the unbending backbone of the Haeseni formation, while they otherwise operate as a small army to raid the enemy’s of the Kongzem. Typically, the Storm Banner hosts only the hardest of soldiers, for they strike first, and hardest. THE GHOST BANNER The dead fall where the dead walk. _____ Acting as the scouts and rangers of the Brotherhood, the Ghost Banner confuses and harasses the enemy force by striking from behind or the side and creating openings for the rest of the Brotherhood to strike. Befitting their name, the Ghost Banner takes no heraldry in battle. CULTURES AND CEREMONIES AG ZWYC EA MZIDER IV MEA CAEZKAS, VSRIC EAM NIEDY VA VE SKIZ It is fitting that an order as old and storied as the Brotherhood hosts many ceremonies and traditions, both old and new. THE OATH HUNT An ancient tradition, the Oath hunt has a great symbolic meaning for the Brotherhood. It is after this hunt, that the Initiates who’ve completed their vigorous Initiation training can become fully oathed brothers and sisters. The point of the Oath hunt is not usually to kill a large beast or a monster, but to symbolize a bond of brotherhood between the initiates. THE BLACK BANNER The Black Banner of the Brotherhood is an enormous banner embroiled in a golden stitchwork. It is this Banner that holds the entirety of the Brotherhood’s history since its earliest encounters. Each time the men of St. Karl marches into battle, a mark is made to the banner, detailing the battle and its conclusion. The banner is usually seen over by the Brotherhood’s battle-bard, though be the position of Battle-bard ever vacant, this responsibility falls over to the Lord Marshal. RELEASING OF AN OATH After serving their time in the Brotherhood, one holds the right to come before the Lord Marshal and ask to be released from their Oath to retirement. Just as the brother or sister was oathed in front of the Statue of St. Karl, so are they released from their oath in front of the patron saint of the Brotherhood. IV JOVEO MAAN His Grace Ser Ailred var Ruthern the 'Prevailer', Duke of Vidaus, Margrave of Greyspine, Count of Metterden, Baron of Rostig, Lord of Druzstra, former Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, Fifth Knight of the Table The Right Honourable Lord Johann Barclay, Count of Reinmar and Kretzen, Baron of Freising and Sigradz, Lord of Wilheburg and Freisburg, Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl His Royal Majesty SIGISMUND III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera.

VALKSKEJ I GENBOR THE AMATHEA AGREEMENT AS AGREED BY His Royal Majesty, King Sigismund III and His Royal Highness, High Prince Evar’tir Oranor. ON THIS 14th of Vzmey and Hyff, 400 E.S. | 14th of the First Seed, 51 SA Four years ago, the city of Amathea, capital of Elvenesse, was razed by the Arch-Drakaar, and has since then stood in ruins. On this day, the High Prince of Elvenesse petitioned the King of Haense, requesting a sum of six-thousand minae, to aid the Crown of Elvenesse in it’s efforts in the reconstruction of it’s nation and it’s capital. As a matter of honour and goodwill, the following is thus agreed: 1. The Kongzem of Hanseti and Ruska shall loan the Crown of Elvenesse six thousand minae. 2. The the Crown of Elvenesse shall repay their debts to the Kongzem of Hanseti and Ruska before their debts to any other nation, settlement, or group. WJEIK ZWE LEKONSKER IV SANGKRUV His Royal Majesty, Sigismund III, by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera. UELL ITO MARUTHIRAN His Royal Highness, Evar'tir Oranor, High Prince of Elvenesse, Prince of Caras Eldar, Praetor of Elves, Adjudicator of Malchediael

"COWABUNGA" Sigismund.