Proddy

THERE IS A LIGHT THAT NEVER GOES OUT The Count of Rochefort with Laurence August Pruvia (left) and Winston Rothesay (right), circa 1763. As the clocks struck twelve in the afternoon, an outpour of clergymen burst from the Basilica of Exalted Godfrey in Providence. Led by his Holiness Owyn III, four priests of the assembly would carry an embalmed black coffin above their heads. Progressing down to the gates of Providence, the procession would meet with the deceased's eldest grandson: Robert Foltest Helvets, in the flesh. And so would begin a lengthy journey to Redenford, where few words would be exchanged on the trip. There would be a feeling of deep solemness and quiet mourning amongst the group and they all opted to travel in relative silence. As they would reach the foothills of an unnamed hill just upon the outskirts of Redenford, the coffin would be laid upon the ground and opened for all to see - the corpse would be headless, yet clean and finely dressed in preparation for his last rites. And so began the private funeral of Richard Victor Helvets. The first and only eulogy was given by Robert Foltest - the young Kaedreni paced forth into the centre of the group, resisting tears and forcing himself to remain strong and cohesive in memory of his grandfather. "I would like to tell you all that I knew my grandfather well… that I learnt much from him, experienced much in his presence and that I had learnt so many valuable lessons from him. But that would not be the truth of it at all. The truth is that he rode off to his hunting lodge in the outskirts of Owynsburg just shortly after my birth. An illness was taking hold of him, and I think he wanted to spend his final years in the place he had enjoyed most. Deep in the forests embrace, far away from the meddling stench of the Helenite bureaucrats that had practically overran the town he had spent much of his life to establish. I like to think, in his little spot in the forests, with the raw beauty of nature around him and not a scheming Imperial to be seen, he found solace there. A solace he could never have found otherwise.” "I lived vicariously through stories of my grandfather throughout my formative years. I remember so vividly my father would sit me on his lap and regale me with tales of a man who was not always good and righteous of heart, but who possessed an unwavering loyalty and duty to his countrymen and his home. He would never turn his back on the Kaedreni as long as he drew breath. He was stubborn… to a fault, even.” "But to all those true Kaedreni who hold firm and true, scattered by the cruel winds of time and circumstance from their homes and their identities and still longing for the glory of days gone by. For those Rhoswenii whose passion burns to see Kaedrin restored to its former self, like an ashen phoenix rising from a blazing inferno - they will never forget the name of Richard Victor Helvets, and nor shall I. "There is a quote from a book that I enjoy greatly… it goes something to the effect of ‘perhaps God punishes people for no reason at all’. And my grandfather was certainly punished. For many things in his life, at many different times. But we cannot judge a man’s legacy in his final moments compared to a lifetime of achievements. My grandfather was in pain before he died, and now his soul has been freed.” "In his last fleeting moments before his execution, I saw a certain… glimmer in his eyes as he looked upon me. Was that a hope for the future? A moment of clarity in realisation of the crime so heinous he had tried to commit? I hope that if there is a life after death after all, I will find that truth one day. And I hope that wherever he may be now, he has found the peace in death he so desperately craved in life. Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.” And then he shifts away without a word - his tears uncontained now, falling down his cheeks like a rapid waterfall. Duty done, the High Pontiff brushes away his grief-filled tears with a handkerchief, and at last calls for closure. “Abbot, Monsignors, you may lower the casket now.” And so Richard Helvets body was returned to the earth that day, the casket closed upon his body forever. In a final act of commemoration for a friend now departed, Owyn III pops open the lid of a bottle of Rochefort Scotch and pours a glass-worth of the whiskey onto the dirt and soil.

@venclair@Aedephon It had been a warm late summers afternoon when Phanagoras had come into his chambers to grant his master his supper - a starter of beef bourguignon, and a main course of venison and potato. And, much to the adamant surprise of Robert Foltest Helvets, a formal looking missive with his name and noble styling scrawled across the top. "Thank you, Phanagoras. You may leave me now." he offers his serving man with a weak smile, and the herculean, one eyed Rhenyari would silently oblige. Robert was finding him brass and gruff, and a terribly slow learner when it came to memorising courtly etiquette and mannerisms. But good company nonetheless, and a trusted confidant that the young Helvetii lordling could vent to - anything from his menial frustrations of the day to his deepest and darkest secrets. As Robert would open the envelope and slide out the parchment within, a misty look fills his eyes as he reads the message inside - and the sands of time shift within his mind. He is young again, younger than he is now - and they are in their favourite place. Their special place. A young flaxen haired boy sits in the Augustine gardens reading a childrens penny dreadful, and a young girl of earthen skinned girl sits and paints to her hearts content. There is silence between them, yet an understanding between them both - a kindred fusion between their spirits, their destinies intertwined as though the winds of fate and time had mandated. Willing herself to look to her painting, the girl peers up from her drawings. "Robert..." she hums, an anxious weight drawling in her tones. The young Kaedreni's attention is caught, and he looks up to find her pinky extended to him. "Do you promise we'll always be together, no matter what?" "I do." he tells her with certainty, and their fingers intertwine. And so continued their beautiful friendship, even to this day. A vow fulfilled, a promise kept even through thick and thin. "Vic..." murmurs the young Rochefort as he returns to the present, talking to his dearest friend as though she were there in the room with him. "I shall be there. I swear it." "Phanagoras!" he calls out, and his ox of a serving man obliges, opening the door and ambling in with a small yet swift bow. "Prepare my finest suit, and take some marks from my cabinet and buy yourself something too. We've a party to attend."

Pontificial Chamberlain Carlos Clericus Hyspia frowns deeply with concern as he overhears of the missive, his orbs gleaming with a zealous fervour as he falls into deep prayer - seeking the wisdom and assurance of God in such trying times for the faith. 'O' Lord, forgive them, for they know not what they do... el en pecado hay lecciones." he murmurs.

The Pontificial Chamberlain Carlos Clericus Hyspia signs the Lorraine across his chest fervently, the Couentrerian and former missionary settling in to begin his work anew.

NEVER FADE AWAY @Draeris Late in the nocturnal hour, as the clock would strike midnight, Robert Foltest Helvets jolted upright from his bed. Sweating profusely, the youthful Helvets gasped for air as though he were a newborn given life anew, his clammy palms brushing against his forehead as visions of a recurring nightmare flashed within his mind. In his sleep, his consciousness finds itself drifting back to Haense, on that fateful evening in the Karosgrad square. He watches as his grandfather is dragged in chains from the courtroom - a grandsire he had never known before today, though had been regaled with stories of throughout his turbulent youth. He had been told of a man skinny and frail of build yet imposing and threatening in his demeanour and words, uncompromising in his acts and at times even downright terrifying. But yet, as Roberts father had recounted the deeds and misfortunes of his own progenitor to his youthful son, whether through letters exchanged consistently or even when Robert would sit upon Adrians lap and seek his comfort and advice as he would often in his infancy, Lord Adrian Helvets still decreed his father to be the greatest Kaedreni who had ever lived. Because for all his faults, Richard Victor Helvets would never settle for anything but the best for his people and his countrymen, and never dared once to sacrifice the integrity of his homeland for his own gain or glory. From what he knew of him, the first Count Rochefort was a man who could have had it all - Imperial honours, prestige in the capital and a comfortable office within the Orenian Government. But it was Richard’s own stubbornness and unflinching loyalty to his country in the face of opposition and adversary that had dismantled any of these prospects. Though his name was reviled amongst the common Orenian people and the upper echelons of high Imperial society, in the hearts of those true Kaedreni who dreamt of the day their homeland will be restored and their people unified by the ambition of their former glory, he was held near and dear. He was a villain upon one side, yet a hero and a true patriot to the other. Such is the duality of man, Robert realises, for our hearts and minds are so feeble and wanting. Robert remembers his grandfather being paraded down into the Karosgrad square, a wrathful mob gathered to see vengeance enacted upon the attempted kinslayer as Richard muttered obscenities and jumbled nonsense to himself. In his old age, the elderly Count Rochefort’s dementia and senility had deeply progressed - his mind had been all but gone by the time of that ill-fated day. Robert suspected he had no idea who he even was, where he was, what he had tried to do, how far gone the old man had become…. In a way his death was a mercy, yet to meet his grandsire as he were for the first and last time - it tore Robert’s fragile spirit asunder. He remembered with horror when the armoured executioner had raised his sword, bringing it down in a terrible swipe at Richard’s neck - and then, for a brief moment, there was silence. A degree of shock had hung in the air amongst the crowd - but it soon subsided, and many were satisfied to see the cruel old goat of Helvets finally vanquished at last. Most of all Theodora Angelica Helvets, Robert’s aunt and Richard’s unfortunate target in his most abominable act. Robert did not hold her to account, for she was a victim in this terrible circumstance. Somehow, Robert felt as though he could relate to that… The young Helvets remembered how he had felt in that moment where his grandfathers head was dislodged from his neck - the ringing in his ears, that tears that had flooded his eyes like an unrelenting waterfall. How he collapsed to his knees, the fight within him banished as all he could do was look upon the sky and scream his silent damnation to the heavens…. Stirring himself from the pained memory, Robert rescinded himself from his bed in his Trissingam quarters - stealing himself to a mirror nearby. He had been offered such prestigious accommodation only recently, in the aftermath of his grandfathers execution - he and the Duchess Helena with the assistance of a sympathetic Haenseni knight by the name of var Ruthern had brought the headless corpse of Richard across the border and into Providence, where they lay his body in the mourning room of the Palace Augustine. Robert and Wilhelmina had shared a moment of grief, then - him for the realisation that a man he once thought a hero had become a monster in his old age, and her for the uncle and second father she had lost. In their shared woes, they had found a moment of comfort amongst eachother - and she had promised him lodgings within the Palace of Trissinghams and servants to wait on him as though he were an Imperial Prince of her own womb, so that no longer he would find himself going wanting. Indeed, she had struck true to her promise, but it did little to ease Roberts soul - in these past few weeks, he had found his heart becoming a deep and inescapable pit, in where an irreparable hole had taken shape that could never be hope to be mended in this lifetime. As he stares deep into the mirror with his sunken eyes, the young Rochefort discerns his own appearance - blonde hair, blue eyes, pale skin and a small and slender build. He was a spitting image of his forebears, yet his own dilemma had been tugging at his mind for these past many weeks - the question of his own moral fragility. Was he doomed to one day tread that same path, slowly descending into the madness and depravity of his grandfather and in some ways, his own father? Was this the curse of his bloodline? Would the same legacy and fate one day become his own? Robert concentrated hard upon the advice his guardian, Lord Carrington had gave him not so long. “Man is the maker of his own destiny…” he had said. But in that moment and this, and throughout many situations in the Kaedreni’s short twelve years on this mortal plane, it did not seem to be this way. Richard did not choose to go senile and mad, nor did Adrian choose to be cruel and negligent. With a great loathing and a feeling of worrisome dread, Robert silently wondered what will he could one day become. Pulling his eyes away from his mirror and unto his desk, Robert strode forth as he seated himself upon his familiar chair, lighting a candle as he recovers a parchment and pen. There was a letter he needed to draft with haste, and sleep could wait another hour or so - it wasn’t as though he got much rest the days or for any days of his life, besides. He puts pen to paper in one sharp motion, scribbling in the mailing address as the office of the secretary of his Holiness, the High Pontiff. Your holiness, I would wish to you that you would be receiving this letter of mine in good tidings, but I know that to well be far from the case. Though I’ve little involvement or interest in the politics of the church, word spread fast and wide of the Karosgrad riots. I did not watch the riots with my own eyes, only saw the aftermath - the smashed and broken merchants stalls close to the Basilica that had been destroyed in rage by the proponents of these violent protests, the glass that had littered the floor from the Basilicas windows that had been shattered by brick and concrete, and the unrelenting anger and fury from those that remained - a wrath directed at you and your followers. Standing amongst the loiterers, I could almost feel their hatred and rage burning inside me as though it were their own… I am not the holiest of young men, but nothing to me about their spirits and demeanours looked or felt pious nor faithful to me. I do not know the circumstances that led to this travesty taking place. As I have pre-faced this letter, I am not involved nor intrigued by the inner machinations of the church and nor will I ever be. And whilst I am sorry for the damage inflicted upon the Basilica in Karosgrad, and am glad to hear that you are alive and unscathed, I send you this letter so late into the night to talk about a more delicate matter. I'm certain you know by now of the execution of my grandfather, Count Richard Helvets. I saw him die with my own eyes - watched unflinching as he was dragged into the Karosgrad square and beheaded for all to see. I never knew him well, only grew up on stories of the great man he once was. And it disgusted me, seeing what he was and what he had become on his last day in this world. I feel sorrowful for my aunt Theodora - no daughter should ever have to endure such a deadly wrath from her father, and I want to apologise to her eventually on his behalf, if I can. But I know the moment is sensitive now, and some things are better off left unsaid. I even got the chance to speak to him before his execution - to look him in the eye, and say goodbye. I think he may have recognised me or, for a brief moment, saw me even… for I could swear on all the saints that his face softened for a moment, and he did not look angry or afraid. I wonder if, mayhaps, there was a chance - a chance that I could have saved him from his fate. I think that is a question I will be pondering upon until the very day I die. I know you both knew eachother well - I heard many stories in my youth from my father Lord Adrian about the bond that Laurence and Richard had shared, as they nurtured Owynsburg in its infant years. And through their bond and genius in governance, how Owynsburg would go on to become one of the largest suppliers of tobacco, cotton and wheat produce not only within the boundaries of the Holy Orenian Empire, but across the plains of the known world. I know you knew him better than I ever could have, and I am sorry you had to lose a man that was close to a brother to you. My only request to you, your Holiness, as the future inheritor of his legacy and assets is that he be given a funeral proper and true - a public funeral, where those who want to come and mourn him for the man he was before he lost his mind may come and pay their respects and homage. He should be buried in Redenford - where many of the Kaedreni live and toil now. It is far from his home, but it is as close as we can get. Yours in trust, Robert F. Helvets.

Robert Foltest Helvets overhears the news of a newly crowned High Pontiff - one distinctly familiar to his house and family. Though they had never met personally, Robert had been told stories in his youth by his father of Laurence August Pruvia, now Owyn III - stories of a formidable friendship between he and his grandfather the first Count Rochefort, and how the now Leader of the Faith had contributed immensely toward Owynsburg both politically and materialistically in its juvenile years. Though not particularly religious or pious, the young Helvetii shows a rare instance of zealous proclamation - crossing the holy Lorraine across his chest in a biddance of good fortune to one of his deceased grandsires oldest friends.

John Frederick Armas-MacDroch, Representative of the House of Commons and staunch National party loyalist, sternly nods as he reads the missive. Having been already informed of the news some weeks prior to the missive, he pours himself another glass of Rillsworth Scotch as he takes his pen betwixt his fingers, returning to his planning and drafting of several bills he intends to bring before the commons in the coming years. There was much work to be done...

Word spreads quickly of the Duke of Cathalons death, and soon catches the ear of one Robert Foltest Helvets - the estranged eldest son of the Count Rochefort living worlds away from his father in the Palace Augustine. The young Robert, now of eleven years and sprouting into adolescence , ponders deeply on the inevitability of death and the futility of not being able to achieve all you desired in life. He shared no fond memories with his great-uncle Henry, having never even met the man formally - he only encountered him at several state functions, though no words were ever exchanged between the pair. All Robert knew of him were the hushed court rumours that circulated and what little his father would reveal to him in the letters he would send him some years ago; a tale of two familial lines torn asunder over envy and hate, and a silent war against the Lords Cathalon and Rochefort where one was intent to destroy the other completely. That night before Robert retires to bed, he lights a small candle vigil at his windowsill - not out of any love or admiration for a great-uncle he'd never known, but out of a quiet respect for a kinsman now gone from the world.

aye

Stood beside his grandfather, the Prince of Alstion and his mother, Peter Amadeus de Sarkozy peers down from the Seven Skies with a fleck of pride for the accomplishments of his niece. Though he quickly returns to brooding over his umtimely death, murmuring something about that 'murderous scab Corwin'.... @LithiumSedai @Axelu @libertyybelle Confined within his chambers due to a cold, Robert Foltest Helvets prepares a fine suit in the event that he feels well enough to go. Sending written letters to his closest friend to keep her up to date on his health. @venclair

Within the seedy bellows of the Spider Web pub, John Frederick Armas-MacDroch raises a toast to the National Party and his fostering career within it.

-accidental repost, please delete-

SURNAME: Armas-MacDroch FIRST NAME: John Frederick ADDRESS OF RESIDENCE: 4 Reden YEAR OF BIRTH: 1777 Are you registered and eligible to vote in the Southern District? Yes Do you have any other title, peerage or military service that may conflict with becoming a Member of the House of Commons, as per the Edict of Reform (1763)? No If yes, do you understand that you will be required to resign or abdicate from this position should you be elected to the House of Commons, and if this does not occur your seat shall be considered to be vacant?: Yes. ((MC NAME)): proddiusmaximus

yes

Robert Foltest reluctantly prepares his best shoes and outfit for his first ball, not keen on the prospect of socialising but being begrudgingly forced to attend.

Robert reconsiders his future career prospects.

guy de bar @Altiakmiss u homie

Robert Foltest prepares his finest suit.

why not

better be someone good

Within the courts of the Imperial Palace of Augustine, court gossip and rumours been to spread about how the Lady Pruvia had been freed from the shackles of marriage with 'the Monster of Rochefort'. This gossip soon fills the ears of their infant son Robert, and after finding out what the concept of matrimonial dissolution means, he immediately flees to his chambers and does what he does best; puts pen to paper. The next time a courier would stop by the palace grounds, the flaxen haired youth presses a letter into their hands, for special delivery to Adrian O. Helvets. Dae Dear Father, Sorry my writang writing is so bad. My twotars tutors say I'm improving, but that I have a long way to go still. I don't know what has happened with you and mother. I wish you would stop feeting fighting and we could be a family again. I still love and miss you very much. I hope you well will come visit me again soon. Maybe sometimes I cud could come and live with you sometimes too. I made a littel little drawing for you. I hope wun one day we could live in a hose house like this and be happy. FROM ROBERT

Having come across the letter upon Charlottes bedside whilst chasing down his rambunctious pug Lucky, the infant son of the Count of Rochefort grips the parchment tightly betwixt his little fingers. Staring out the window and onto the courtyard of the Imperial Palace, weeping quietly as he silently hopes his beloved father would walk through the gates one day to meet with him once more. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Later in the eventide, as the skies grow dark and the owls hoot, Robert Foltest would drop the letter the lap of his mother as she would tuck into a prestigious meal of beef bourguignon. "Will you write to him?" "Perhaps, my dear boy....for you." "Then you must tell him that I love him, and that I miss him very much."

KIDNAPPING OF ROBERT FOLTEST An arrow would pierce through Adrian Helvet’s mare, toppling the Helvetii as Isabel Franziska gallops away from the group. Then, another arrow would find its way to Ailred Barclay’s stomach: he too now collapsing to the ground. As Charlotte dragged herself over the floor to reach her weeping husband, the young Robert, firstborn of Adrian, would cry and freeze in confusion. As Cyril Halcourt would help the wounded Ailred back onto his feet, as Charlotte dragged her weak husband from the ground: Robert would rush towards the back of the altar, hiding there. A ghastly, knightly creature would stand on top of the hill: looking down upon them while holding a grotesque blade. Before the group could articulate a response, the creature would launch himself forwards: his large blade lunging towards Cyril & Adrian, who stood beside each other. But then, nothing happened, and suddenly the creature stopped. Adrian summoned his rapier as he turned to Ailred “Perhaps we.. Can we fight it?”. His reluctant question was answered by a stressed laugh “I don’t think so, governor.” Two inferni would suddenly appear from behind the creature, flying over the group to reach for Robert Foltest. As the little child whimpered, the Inferni grabbed him by his clothes: lifting him up in the air. Despite the screams from the group, who sprinted towards them in an futile attempt to intervene, the boy was taken into the night sky. Robert Foltest Helvets was gone, but to where?

Governor Arbaaz Simhari nods, preparing his finest Rudrani turban for the occassion.