BenevolentManacles

The Bastard’s Ballad

"The wind cuts harshly here,"

A boy, with a patchy beard that struggled to save his chin from the icy air, pulls a thick cloak of elk hide tighter around his shoulders. He speaks only to himself, grinning as he recalled his tutors inciting him to cease the nonsensical self-narration he was so prone to when alone, or when he thought he was.

His boots were well made for the trip, but he'd grown weary, singing songs to himself to keep from wandering thoughts of the cold. The road had been drowned in snow for days now, his only markers being the stars when they showed themselves between the curtains of the clouds. A pair of kindly Fenn had found him shivering next to his well made fire and gifted him hardtack and the cloak he now clutched, but he was not used to this.

He laughed at the thought that those Fenn may have saved his life, where he may have gladly let them die had he found them in the same predicament. Perhaps he would find them later, and thank them with wine from the Emperor's cellars, or whichever cellar he could get into.

The miles stretched on, until he could feel the cut of the wind subside, and the snow thin. He could see the cobblestone of the road reveal itself as the patches of snow evolved into a steady stream and a mere brisk breeze. Though now the sun was setting, and the journey to Ves from the rim of the snowy fields would be safer to walk in the day, and if the Pertinax found him on the road he was unsure he could convince them of his common blood, not while he carried the sigil of a fiddle on his breast.

Within minutes, his practice from pilgrimage produced for him a roaring fire once again, though now his climate was more temperate, as was his distance from the flame. From his satchel he produced a small leather-bound book, and unclasped it. Opening it for the first time in weeks, he had a few laughs over his younger self's ignorance and naivety, and wondered if in a few years he would laugh at himself, now.

~ The Sun’s Smile, 1715 ~

Love of Man

Veronica,

I am in a beautiful place. Ves is a city like no other, bustling streets and the constant noise of laughter, and comical strife. Their Prince is a fine man who loves his people, but unlike any other Prince I've met. He seems to hardly do anything at all, besides praise his city and run the meetings. The people of Ves care for themselves. They vote for their laws and on decisions that affect them all. I wonder, then, does any man have the right to be Emperor, if such love and adoration for one's fellows is best fostered through unity in rule?

Yet GOD has sent me here, to be sure, and no pilgrimage would be complete without the reconciliation of the demons which haunt me. I wonder now if the disappointment my father felt when I abandoned him to walk the path was all in my head. He took me into his arms when I saw him, and embraced me, as though every day I was away from him, GOD had reminded him of his love for me.

Oh, how father has aged. He's shaved his head clean, surely to avoid his courtiers mocking his hairline, as I so loved to do. He seems wiser, and more confident, but I know him better than to think he is without flaw. And an Emperor? I would never have thought he would be in a position to push his claim, but it appears his support is overflowing. He seems to feel safe in the courts of both Haense and Ves, a testament to not only their loyalty, but willingness to sacrifice their independence for the greater good.

Don't be upset with me, dear, but I think I'm going to ask father for one of his subject's Princesses. Wouldn't that be grand, hm? Now you know I'd marry you in a heartbeat, but here's my life now, the son of an Emperor! Be proud for me. The women in Ves are fine indeed, free-spirited and willing to listen. Not to mention, they all seem to think I'm much older than I am, thanks to my beard. This thing has done my wonders indeed.

I'll write you again soon, with great love,

Love,

John

~ The First Seed, 1715 ~

Honor the Enemy

Dear Veronica,

I carried out a sentence for my father today. A member of the Pertinax family was captured by father's subjects in Haense, and I was a member of the jury for the trial by random selection, along with the King of Haense, whom the Pertinax call Marius the Meek. Meek he was not, though he was quiet, it struck me as thoughtfulness more than anything. His decisiveness was not questionable.

Despite the rows of Haense cheering half of the time for their victory over Marton Pertinax's retinue, it was a well orchestrated trial. Father denied Marton of the right to trial by combat, proclaiming this a new age. I think this was a more important moment than many of the denizens of the court realized, but all the same, he was tried fairly. The Prince of Ves acted in his defense, and was valiant in his effort, proving clearly that Marton could not have committed treason against an Emperor who he did not swear to.

All the same, we of the jury determined Marton guilty of murder, and my father sentenced him to lose his sword hand. I took the man outside, along with a comrade in arms, Maly'thill. The man, Marton, seemed calm overall. Clearly he had disdain for my family, but he lacked not in reason and even honor. I took his hand while Maly'thill held him, and struck him on the head to render him unconscious.

I was ordered to arrest him, but instead, after Maly'thill bandaged his stump, I tossed him outside the city walls to fend for himself. If he had the strength to survive the trek to his Pertinax brethren in that condition, then GOD had surely gifted him with some purpose beyond a dungeon cell. Surely father will be upset, but we could hardly force him into the cloister practically.

A girl, my cousin apparently, named Matilda saw me take the man's hand. She was less than ten, I'm sure, and I felt sick having shown the girl something like that. She insisted that her uncle, Commodus, who is also my uncle, told her that if she was to grow strong, she must learn not to turn away at such things. I've not met any girl with such desire to grow unladylike, but it was becoming her tenacious nature. I trekked with her home to Ves, and thought of Marton on the way.

If he survived, and deep down I surely hope he did, I can not wait to cross swords with him in a way befitting men fighting for their families, and their honor. Stay beautiful, my love.

Love, 

John

The Deacon receives the letter, happy to have begun to generate some clerical response from the lethargic of the clergy. He smiles, penning a short response,

"The scrolls teach not of hate, but of admonishment. While all you say is true, that does not dissolve the necessity to purge the wicked and unrepentant. I fail to see where you contest with my thesis, besides that you have more relevant doctrine to attach to it."

He does not sign, or write a header. He sends it with a courier to be brought to the Society of St. Everard.

A Deacon in Metz offers a quiet prayer.

A Thesis on Purity

By Charles of Nauzica

It is the forge of creation, the heart of GOD's will, which birthed all that we know. The same fire, to us, invokes passion and fury.

Yet the word of the GOD gives fire one name; the purifier.

The realms of GOD's children have been plagued, centuries on, with those who would pervert the faith. From heathenous mali and men who would forsake the sanctity of wedlock and respect for GOD's law, to those children of Urguan which have been corrupted to embrace their greed and shame themselves not.

They are not wicked, but admonished, for they show no love for Godlight and forsake prayer. Those who would seize GOD and His word and twist and pervert it to suit their will; they are wicked beyond the basic corruption of mortal sin. The Rurikid are the perfect example of savagery and the forsaking of GOD.

They preach of fire for sacrifice. Fire for blood.

We must teach those who would defy the teachings of Owyn and GOD the purpose of Godfire. We will begin with the Rurikid, turning those who refuse the peace of GOD to ash. Make them a lair on the stone they revere in their heathenous chants.

Henceforth, I shall carry a flask of pitch at my belt.

Where resides the wretched who defy GOD and seek not repentance, I shall pour it, and strike the flame.

Where resides the heathen who slays men of GOD and seeks not repentance, I shall pour it, and strike the flame.

Where resides the weak who stand idly as the word of GOD is perverted, I shall pour it, and strike the flame.

And when the world is pure, we may dip a blade in pitch and strike the flame, and there shall be our monument to the world's wicked creatures. By fire, be purged.

A thesis on Orenia,

Charles of Nauzica

Love for God;

Each person who lives in this world now, elf, orc, dwarf, human, kitten, or otherwise, loves what they believe in. Be it the GOD I so firmly adhere to, the faiths of Norland or Malin, or nothing at all. We survivors of Orenia are not unlike you. I live each day hoping for a happy tomorrow, where my family and friends are safe.

But our history was conquest. Our way was to mount a figurehead who was ambitious, for only ambition could achieve our throne. That seat; a seat that, to all nations and cultures of Oren, was revered and lusted for. For centuries. In Oren, the GOD I love so dearly was bastardized, set beneath the seat of human rule.

We nations are shells of what we once were; the armies we all field now compared to the 18 Years War are less than half the size.

To me, the fracture of humanity, over and over, broke the balance of power when it became more permanent; the most permanent being the ones promulgated by Norland and Courland in our histories. Where Ashford, Carrion, de Sarkozy, Chivay and others argued for the throne over and over, the divisions they caused were almost always reunited. Ultimately, our God brought us together.

Love for Country;

We are not weak, and we never will be. The legacy we inherit is wonderful to us. We feel our history, and the power we have wielded when we dominated the world, speaks volumes for the character of the Orenian body. We are tenacious, ambitious creatures who seek only to be remembered; to become immortal in the annals of history, for we are cursed by Iblees to short, fragile lives.

This idea unites us at our core. I fight for Orenia and her successors not for hatred, but for love and glory. I defend it because I fear the loss of her splendor and tradition.

The Empire’s foundation has crumbled. A young boy was murdered. Canonius has come from nowhere and destabilized us with bandits. Now the nations of the world turn, smelling blood, and seeks to damage us irreparably.

Canonius came to the King of Haense and told him if he did not yield, he would allow the dwarves to attack and destroy Haense’s dynasty.

He slew a boy and held up his head for show. He will tell you he has the right to do it, or even that his ability to do it gave him the right to do it; but what did he do it for? Greed. To gain power.

What must be understood, is that the Oren many fear; the Oren some have fought their entire lives, is not the one your swords are aimed at. Canonius is a spirit of the First Empire, the one which destroyed Malinor and broke the world’s balance. If he seizes what he desires, you will surely find that he will turn his expansionist, ambitious ways towards others.

Reformation;

We successors of Orenia stand on the precipice of reformation. The line of our revered Horen dynasty is lengthy and resilient, but we can no longer truly call ourselves an Empire. Now only unity with faith can hold humanity together. His Holiness is wise, and with him and lords and leaders of Orenia, we will secure our place.