Proddy

NEW DAWN BECKONS Louis Maximilien de Savoie had awoken from his slumber just as he had many times before. Sweating, writhing, ailing… screaming. Sweat trickled down from the crest of his forehead toward his flaxen brow as blurred visions of the fevered nightmares that haunted him within the realm of his dreams flashed throughout his mind. Vivid phantoms that the young Ashford could have sworn stalked him beyond the corporeal realm… he would catch glimpses of them at times, observing them from the shadowed vestiges of his bedchambers. Horned beasts, skeletal horrors, monsters with fangs… Shaking himself from his frightful reverie and pushing himself into a seating position, Louis turned his head to regard the window. Luminescent light shone within, as birds chirped joyously and a gentle breeze roiled across the air. Outside… was life. The world, in all it’s astonishing glory and triumphant beauty. He only wondered how it all looked, beyond the protection of his home… he hoped with all his fibre he could see it all one day. Indeed, his troublesome health and ailing physique left him stranded within the confines of his bedchambers most days. Do not let this one leave home, nor mingle with strangers… the physicians had insisted on every check-up. Even a common cold could put young Louis in grave danger. And so with few other options, the infant de Savoie would experience life beyond the confines of Clermont in the only way he knew how. Brushing the sweat from his forehead onto his sleeve, Louis would swipe a hand beneath his bed. Taking a sturdy book into hand and setting it upon his lap, flicking open the cover as he’d begin to trawl through the pages… One page would become two. Two would become ten. Ten would become a hundred. As Louis read onward, he found himself whisked away into different eras, different centuries. Louis found himself reading of the Age of the Prophets - of the Exalted Godfrey and the Exalted Sigismund, their deeds and victories numerous and immemorial. He read of the Carrion Vochna, the Chivay Imperium. He read of his own ancestors in the form of Olivier and Guy, how they had lead the Order of Saint Amyas to providence through the bloody Dukes War and captured the hearts and minds of their countrymen. He read of the Horen Restoration, where the Ashen Dawn fell apart. And his favourite tale of all… Jon Renault’s confrontation, where three-hundred Savoyards had fell as martyrs in the throne room of Philip the Mad. As Louis settled back against his pillow, his cold fever subsiding, he would begin to consider… that even the greatest of oaks could sprout from the smallest of seeds.

(( posted as a new comment oopsie, delete this please ))

The infant Louis Maximilien de Savoie shivers and writhes in bed, beset once again by illness. A common occurrence for the flaxen-haired Savoyard, his immune system ravaged since birth by way of pure misfortune. A servant of Olivier Renault’s household irons his finest clothes in the meanwhile, with the prediction that the youngest of his master’s brood shall be hearty enough to travel for the preliminary feast at the Augustine and should fate favour the sickly youth, many more of the celebrations beyond that.

“Rochefort.” remarks a certain occasional scholar by the name of Friedrich van Haeger as he glosses through the tabloid, tossing it to the table afterward with a sigh. “Not Rochford. How is it that women with not a shred of literary competency keep endeavouring to become tabloid writers?”

no real questions as such, just came to say that this looks very based. good job 6ex @6xdestroyer

The youthful Franz Oswald de Sarkozy has his nanny iron his clothes in preparation, stuffing his face with sweet rolls whilst she's occupied.

Look after yourself bro. Never hesitate to pop me a message if you wanna chat

Peter Amadeus de Sarkozy weeps from the heavens. "No more Corwinites!"

Seated beside his elder brother as he fiddles about with a wooden figurine of an ISA Lieutenant, six year old Franz Oswald de Sarkozy blows a momentous raspberry. "Girls are stinky."

A distant and long forgotten figure scowls.

SECOND RESPONSE TO THE AL-FAHKR FROM THE OFFICE OF THE IZASLANIK VODACI ON THE BEHALF OF HIS SERENE GRACE, Andrik Vasovic, Grand Duke of Vasiyeva, Patriarch of House Vasovic, Defender of the Vasoyevi, The Prophesied One Dated; 5th of Godfreys Triumph, 1820 (Providentian Calendar) 5th ov Vzymey ag Hynk, 373 E.S. (Haensetian Calendar) 5th of the First Seed, 24 of the Second Age (Almarisian Calendar) For millennia, we Vasoyevi have taken great pride in acting as a pragmatic, forthright and earnest people. In our culture, to rescind upon one's word when a pledge is made between two groups or individuals is considered a heinous crime and a shameful display of malign and dishonest character. It is true that promises were made upon that day we met with you and your people, where you received us with a commendable display of generosity, warmth and hospitality. However, no pledge was made within that meeting in regards to the Vasiyevan government’s stance on foreign religion within the Grand Duchy’s borders. The Grand Duchy of Vasiyeva prides itself upon being a state of religious tolerance and acceptance. So long as these religious beliefs are not being utilised with the intent of bringing harm to Sava and her people, and remain within the jurisdiction of legality afforded to it, they are granted freedom and a right to worship. The Duchy indulges not in the ways by which foreign religions are practiced in the realm, when granted a right to do so. Furthermore, the alleged “spread” of this faith into foreign lands is adjacently no business of the Duchy, as the only faith that the Duchy of Vasiyeva officially endorses is that of the Canonist Church. With this said, our pledge to you that any denizen of the Al-Fahkr tribe shall be legally protected within the borders of Vasiyeva shall remain firm and unfaltering. Any man, woman and child of the Fakhr is welcome within our lands and may privately practice their faith as they so wish. The Kadaksleri are legal citizens of the Grand Duchy of Vasiyeva however, and by their swearing of fealty and service to his Serene Grace, the Grand Duke, have been granted freedom of worship and practice. And thus, we the Grand Duchy of Vasiyeva do hereby proclaim that any hostile action taken, offensively, against a Konchaki citizen of Sava by the Al-Fakhr shall be considered an act of aggression against the state. Be it in our lands or yours, the Konchaks are legally entitled to the same rights and protections as any Vasiyeyan citizen would be afforded. We expect the Konchaks to be treated with the same level of dignity and grace within your borders as we would treat a citizen of the Al-Fakhr within our own. Any deviation from such should anticipate a reciprocatory response from the Duchy of Vasiyeva. Let this be the last correspondence between us upon such a erroneous topic. Peace be upon you, HIS SERENE EXCELLENCY, Franjo Samardzic, High Envoy of the Grand Duchy of Vasiveya .

“Let justice be done.” remarks Franjo as he sits at his desk. A quill in hand as he ruminates over the prospect of chartering his own letter to the Fakhr Tribe and the Emir. With a sigh, he rubs his palm across his forehead, discarding his quill back into the pot from whence it came. “Though the world perish.”

In the aftermath of the battle, Franjo Samardzic would sit with Andrik in the comforting embrace of the Granj Vojvoda's tent. Seated at the table, they drink copious amounts of Vasoyevic rakija as they mull over the days events. For once, Franjo's expression would look entirely serious and stern - lips pressed into a firm line as his fingertips brush against his hairless chin. "We must keep a cautious eye on these Konchaks." the Izaslanik Vodaci would advise the Grand Duke with affirmation, tones devoid of any humour or mirth. "They could become a boon just as easily as they could become a blessing. Only time will... but Godan willing, they shall stay true to their oaths. For if not, make no mistake your Grace; we must not afford them the same mercy twice."

@Lionbileti "My lord..." remarks a young footman of Luciensburg of the name of Hans Koomer as he watches Olivier de Savoie cut down a Norlandic youngling with a greatsword. "You killed a child..." he murmurs in shock, jaw unhinged akin to that of a vipers and eyes widened in a mad frenzy of shock. After a few moments, his look of shock fades as he gives a strong thumbs up and an approving nod. "Amazing! Mission complete! That's why you're the best, milord."

Walter de Lolcow sharpens his blade, ready to fight for the glorious supreme leader Simplicus.

close tie between @Cracker and @Milenkhov tbh

FOR TIME IMMEMORIAL Vasoyardic settlers gathered around the fireplace near Kamp Dragomir, 1818 As night fell upon the lands of Almaris, a sizable caravan troupe pushed forth into the darkness. The wheels of the wagons that accompanied them screeched and groaned with the weight stored upon them as they rolled ever forth, joined in union with the hefty galloping of a dozen horses hooves. At the head of the procession rode two figures perched atop gallant steeds. Foremostly was Andrik Vasovic, the newly elevated Grand Duke of Vasiveya. He cut an imposing figure as he rode ever forward upon a stallion of raven black, draped in regal crimson cloth with the golden Vasovic eagle embroidered upon his back. And at his side was Franjo Samardzic, his leal Izaslanik Vodaci and right hand man. The High Envoy of the Vasoyevi looked more placid and calm as he eased into his saddle, mirthful eyes cast upon the long road ahead. "This is it, Franjo” the Duke would regard to his closest confidant as they pressed forward at a steady pace. “The last great migration of our people. This is a historic day.” he regards with grandeur, a great and mighty gleam of determination embedded within his light brown orbs. Franjo would turn his head at that, his prized feather cap perched comfortably upon his head. A wide and joyous grin would come to bare upon his lips. "You are merely fulfilling your destiny, your Serene Grace. The destiny foretold to you by the Sigismundarosie, that you shall lead us all unto glory and triumph anew.” "Indeed” the Vasovic would remark, a knowing grin prevalent upon his features. “This land is ours. For time immemorial.” The pair fell silent as they strode onwards, and it was little time at all before they came upon that splendorous land of yonder promised to them by the Great King of Urguan. Rolling green fields set by a calmly flowing river, where nature had been left unbridled. The entire caravan troupe would steadily come to a halt as their leader would signal for a pause. Rearing back on his horse as he turns to regard them all. A mixed blend of men, women and children stand amongst them all, awaiting the Grand Duke’s guidance. "Those of you fit and strong enough to work, ready and pitch the tents. Those strong enough to lift an axe, gather as much lumber as you can carry. We must not rest until the women and children are accommodated, at least." And thus those diligent Vasoyards got to work, toiling for the good of their people and their fledgling settlement. Every tent would be mounted before the night was done, and as dawn would break the first stones of Sava were laid upon the earth.

Robert Helvets rolls in his grave.

Peter Amadeus de Sarkozy welcomes his old ISA comrade into the Seven Skies... if Ostromir's soul were even bound to the Seven Skies and not the Void for his perpetual wickedness, that is.

Franjo Pavle Samardzic, Izaslanik Vodaci of Vasiyeva gives his stamp of approval upon these cultural publications. He wipes an emerging bead of sweat from his brow, chafing beneath the warm summers heat. His mind and heart thumped and ebbed with ambition and hope - there was so, so much to be done.

Franjo Pavle Samardzic toasts his cup of Raikija to Andrik as he reads over the finalised publication of the treaty, seated in the small study of his caravan within the Vasoyevi troupe with the leader of their people. "To your health, Granj Vojvoda. Dugo ziveti Vasiyeva!" @Quantumatics