Proddy

As he makes his preparations for army enlistment, William Trissingham comes across the missive. Sighing with shock and disbelief. "How could the vicar of God betray us?"

William Joseph Trissingham evaluates his calendar in an attempt to translate Stone Days between Saints Days. Smiling as he comes to the realisation that he will be of age to enlist in the Imperial State Army and join with the Emperors fury against the Dwarven excursion. "For God, Empire and Country.." he murmurs to himself, gazing from the window of his chambers in the Carrington manor.

The odd, eccentric Duke of Drusco prepares for his wedding in haste.

A certain auburn-haired, grey eyed adolescent by the name of William Joseph Trissingham would hear word of an upcoming festivity within the Empire during his voyage to Almaris from Aeldin. Holed up in his cabin as he awaits a passing storm, he stares into a small handmirror. Frowning self-consciously as his gaze centres upon the port wine stain birthmark etched upon his face.

That bejewelled, bedazzled Prince Louis of Drusco prepares his finer armaments of war - swords and arbalests all provided to him handily by his higher status and world in this bedevilling game of life. Turning to the mirror, the Duke gazes upon his own crooked reflection, adorned in ebony Ashford armour where the golden sun of Savoy glistens at his chest. "Humanity falls to peril and the world turns to chaos. Such rampant and disgusting sin, death and flames will scourge the earth just as it has so many times before. I will bask in glory and triumph through every moment of it. Long live Philip III. Awaken Mihyaar." Claiming his winged helm, he pushes it beneath his arm and paces out from his chambers. A new mission had begun.

Louis Maximilien hears news of the burning Augustine gardens whilst riding one of his prized donkeys about the Savoyard countryside. ”What a devious lick.” utters he as he trots onward.

As far south as south can go, in the lands of eternal sand and blistering sun, a lone figure trudges through the Oasis. Whistling an ominous tune as he presses forth, he juggles a skull up and down in his left hand. His feet guide him ever forth 'till at last, he reaches a cliffside. Craning his neck, he peers down... down and down... he stares to the abyss, and the abyss stares back. Word of Vladislav's death had made him wistful, mournful even. What was a Mad Dog without his Beast of Buron? And to perish in such auspicious, unfortunate circumstance... he was destined for so much more. The Lord Drusco tosses that skull up one last time, letting it land upright in his palm. "Much obliged, my good friend. I thank you for teaching me how to be free."

“They’re correct that we Savoyards and Orenians are not alike.” regards The Duke of Drusco as he sits within the Palazzo Aggrade playing dominoes with a poor Akritian boy he had accosted off the streets. “In Savoy, we do not marry and plough our cousins.”

THE FORSAKEN ONE ALDUUN HAS FALLEN; AEDEL SHALL NOT. FROM ASH WE ARE BORN AGAIN. TO ASH WE RETURN. Ricardo de Perez was, as a rule, not an overly worrisome man. Having seen half the world twice over by the time he was twenty-five, his travels had made fear and loathing of the unknown an almost foreign concept to him. Yet as his beloved ship the Silver Dawn advanced at a steady, grovelling pace toward the San Luciano harbour, foreboding tugged at his heart as though a gargantuan fist were gripped about it. The merchant had been promised basking arrays of sunlight and comforting warmth that could make an Akritian wilt. The entirety of Southern Almaris however, seemed to have been blanketed by a harsh, unrelenting tropical storm. Rain fell all about him in heavy droplets, the sounds of hustle and bustle from his working crew only broken by periodic booms of scornful thunder. “Mierda!” Captain Perez curses aloud as his calloused hands grasp firmer about the railing of his ships, spitting down into the murky waters below. “Perhaps I should have stayed in Countre after all” the weathered trader considers. Meaty fingers brushing over his greying beard as he stares toward the impending shore. THE DARK SUN RISES; SALVATION RETURNS; HIS CRUSADE BEGINS ANEW; “Tomas!” the Captain calls over to a nearby deckhand - a thin, smirking young ruffian with dark hair and olive eyes. “Captain?” Tomas pauses from his duties instantaneously at his commanders beckoning, turning to him as he awaits instruction. “Is our guest awake?” Perez inquires, head inclining towards his subordinate with a gently lofting brow. “Nay, Captain. He has not left his quarters in almost three days now.” A small grunt emitted from Ricardo. Indeed, their passenger was quite the enigmatic and mysterious figure. Aside from collecting meals and rare lonely promenades about the deck, the aloof man had hardly left his quarters for the entire duration of their six month journey. Indeed, he was more of a stranger to the Captain than his ex-wife. Andrea! Perez’s mind strays into spite, teeth grating somewhat at the thought of his former marriage. Damn you to hell, you and that bastardo Manuel! Groaning as he clears the thought away from his head, Ricardo’s hands tightly clasp behind his back. His passenger was a strange one surely, and the Countrerian held little trust or affection for him. His crew shared much of the same sentiment. Despite this, he had been paid a hefty sum to ferry him home to Savoy. Enough to buy a second ship, or even consider an early retirement - and if nothing else, Perez was a man who respected a good and honourable barter. “Give him a knock and tell him we are about to reach port.” the Captain bids of Tomas. The deckhand bobs his head in obedience, swivelling upon his boot as he starts off for the galley's hold. THEIR SHIELD IS WEAKNESS; HIS SWORD REJECTS IT. THEIR SWORD IS FEAR; HIS SHIELD REJECTS IT. THEIR LIES SUSTAIN THIS WORLD. HIS TRUTH SHALL CLEANSE IT. TO ASH WE RETURN. Tick tick, tick tick, tick tick… The ominous hum of the beating stopwatch is abruptly broken by rasping knuckles upon the chamber doors. In the center of a feathered bed, a flaxen haired, rhumey eyed young man sits up from his slumped, cross-legged position. Startled by the intrusion. The door slides open with a deafening creak, Tomas’s olive orbs settling upon the rooms occupant. “We’re about to port and weigh anchor, senor. I’d grab your things and come topside when you are ready.” the deckhand bids. But almost instantaneously and in an incredulously slow motion, the passenger’s head inclines in a bemused tilt toward his intruder. Lips pursing with ample confusion. “We have… arrived… already?” his voice hithers forth in a quiet, steady drawl. His accent and tones were implacable - his nasally intonation hinted at connections to aristocracy, perhaps. Though the gaunted, flaxen haired gentleman could just as easily pass as a commoner of a wealthy and well-imbursed house. His striking, piercing eyes of grey practically stare right through his soul. Most prominent were the lofty bags embedded deep beneath his countenance. It granted his visage a certain morbid hauntedness, and Tomas could not stare upon his pallid cranium for too long before a slightly disturbed feeling overtook him. Tick, tick, tick tick… the stopwatches rotating hand would continue on. Marching forth like a soldier on the battlefield. It’s only purpose, to fulfill it’s cycle. Death, then rebirth… “Ah… si..” Tomas would break the silence with a slight sigh. And then, the fair-haired man’s lips would upturn into a smile. Crooked and thin, and without warmth - it would seem almost strained, nearly inhuman… as though it were forced rather than felt. “Good…” he cooes quietly. “This voyage was supposed to take us… 182 days, but we have… made it in 180.” he tells factually in a callous manner. Legs unfolding as he rises from the bed, soles of his feet planting firmly against the sturdy wooden frame of the ship’s floor. “You will tell the captain… I will be with him… shortly. In approximately… ten minutes.” he instructs Tomas. The deckhand would nod, swiftly making his exit from the room. As the estranged passenger would begin to gather his prized belongings, stuffing them into duffel bags unceremoniously, the striking sounds of the stopwatch upon the table would march ever forth. Tick tick, tick tick, tick tick… INTO THE NIGHT WE RIDE. THEIR WHISPERS PERVADE. HEED NOT THEIR CRIES; THEY ARE DECEPTION. HEED NOT THEIR WARNINGS; THEY ARE MADE IN FEAR. TO ASH WE RETURN. Light streamed from the blistering sky as the storm would begin to clear, the torrents of rain fading away into naught. The flaxen-haired passenger would loom nary the decks railings like a withering ghost, hands wringing behind his back imperiously as the Silver Dawn would begin to pull into the San Luciano harbour. All around him, crewmen and deckhands would work vigorously to facilitate the ships landing. Furling and tightening the masts with intensity as the wheelman pulls the vessel close to the wooden docks. Slowly, Captain Perez would sidle up to the flank of his passenger. The portly, stout sailor observing his guest with curiosity. “Do you intend to stay in Savoy for a long time?” the merchant inquires, a lone brow flickering upward. “Indefinitely.” the guest answers, sharp and succinct. His rheumy eyes do not even turn or swivel toward the captain, persisting in their distant stare toward that city of yonder. San Luciano; his home. The city of his childhood, yet it felt strangely unfamiliar to him still. “This is… my home… I must be here… to fulfil my mission. It must… occur here.” the Savoyard continues onward cryptically, as bemusement only grows more prominent upon the captain’s wrinkled face. “Your… mission?” And with that, the slender, porcelain-skinned gentleman turns ever so slight toward his host. Expression stoic and laconic, he rests a hand upon his shoulder. His grip firm and vice-like despite his slender and spindly form, his strength seeming unnatural for a man of his build. “Thank you… for your… warm hospitality…” he thanked Captain Perez laconically. Turning to descend the ships bridge unto the docks without another word. OUR ALLIES FEAR OUR ENEMIES. OUR ENEMIES FEAR US. WE FEAR NONE. TO ASH WE RETURN. A brief turn about the city square of San Luciano only proved to the gentleman just how much had changed. The place had not lost its charm, nor its bustle and hectic pace. Population wise, it seemed to have grown since his youth - with more inhabitants and cityfolk than there ever had been. Yet, so much of his surroundings seemed new - the colosseum, amendments to Alstion Hall… indeed, the city of his youth had changed just as much as he. It all felt familiar and nostalgic, yet… altered. And none recognised nor recalled his face. Not yet. Though he knew this would be but a temporary reprieve from notoriety. Once his return was announced, he knew chatter would swirl about the Royal Courts like wildfire. He had to treasure his anonymity whilst it was still an option afforded to him. As he drew near to the gates of the Palazzo Aggrade, Louis de Savoie would pause. Hand sinking into his pockets as he withdrew his gilded, ornate stopwatch. Tick tick, tick tick, tick tick… That ticking. All he could hear… the TICKing. It thumped and thrustled within his head like a roaring beast. There was so much more he must become, so much more he must achieve to fulfill his prophecy… and time was of the essence. “There is much to be done.” he mutters as he strides slowly toward the Palazzo. THE DARK SUN FALLS. HIS ENEMIES FALL BENEATH HIS LIGHT. TO ASH WE RETURN.

His Highness Louis Maximilien quakes and cries at the thought of having to engage in social interaction for an evening, or even potentially having to dance. Regardless of his woes, the boy would have a servant iron his finest suit.

"A-Ave S-Savoy!" cheers the stammering Louis Maximilien de Savoie.

Far from the Greater Alpine in a house of exquisite splendour, a reclusive Armiger kneels in prayer. Invigorated by his fastidious faith and his resolve to serve THE LORD, spindly hands fold together in unison as he utters a prayer for the afflicted. "Deal favourably, O Lord, with Thy subjects, who are afflicted by terrible illness and plague. Spare us, thy people, from Thy father, and, for those who do die, grant unto them mercy and the eternal reward of Heaven." For unlike many, he had known of the hunger that afflicted these accursed souls. He had known the pangs that drove them to insufferable madness, the craving of ichor, the insatiable thirst that corrupted even the greatest of men into unrecognisable monstrosities. For he also knew... the greatest mercy they could ever know was a swift end to their suffering, and the hope that GOD may forgive them for their sins so their souls might be ferried into his kingdom.

Damn bro...

Rest easy, Gargerad.

Friedrich van Haeger weeps profusely at his lack of invitation. He then returns to intense prayer shortly after.

R

"Ah. Very nice." mutters Athilius Visaj as he glances over the missive, giving his sister a hypothetical thumbs up of support.

"Let the die be cast." murmurs a particular Visaj by the name of Athilius, ruminating over the missive over a glass of red wine. Arising from his seat, he quickly returns to work at his makeshift forge. It was a sword he avowed in promise to Adreniel, and a sword he shall have...

Athilius Visaj prepares his sleekest toga in anticipation for the occasion.

Louis of Savoy continues to sleep.

BABYLON WAGES WAR ON BABYLON BABYLON VANQUISHES THE EVIL OF BABYLON BABYLON FALLS AND BABYLON RISES. Seated alone within a musky old tavern, feeling more alone than he ever had throughout his life, the news would spread to a decrepit and tainted figure - a man long forgotten by the cruel fates of time and circumstance, only a slithering vestige of his humanity remaining intact and pertinent. His virulent green eyes awash with a deep mirth as the tidings reach his ear - cracked lips upturning into a crooked, horrifying grin. "She's dead... she is... truly... dead." cometh hither than voice in a cold, resounding motion. Open palm clutching at his chest as a slow cackle would roll forth from his being - quiet and mellow at first, his cackiling would steadily roil and grow into bouts of hysterical laughter and mania. SHE IS BANISHED FROM THIS WORLD SHE PERISHED IN PAIN AND HERE I STILL STAND. Corrupted bellows of laughter drain away the night, but as the elusive stranger would step outside and peer to the dawning sky, a tinge of sorrow would fill his core. Fragmented memories flood through his brain. broken from the cumbersome annals of time. Of a love lost, and never recovered. Of possibilities extinguished, never to return. Of a legacy once almighty, crumbled into dust. His joy turned to ashes in his mouth. For Milena Ipera had been granted the sweet release of death, and he was cursed to live... forevermore.

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