BenevolentManacles

AS LONG AS WE DEFEND IT

Philip Augustus

The Burning of Al’Khazar

Centuries ago, in times long past, a people were threatened with extinction. The Undead, the minions of Iblees, the Devil Himself, wreaked havoc on the ancient lands of Aegis. As the Kingdom of Oren’s capital burned, a soldier mounted the parapet; singular and unwavering.

Little is known of the man we know only as Captain Martin. We cannot know all that he is, but we do know what he did this day. The sources from this era are largely unreliable and mostly nonexistent, though some has been passed down in oral tradition, and even some aged elves know of this battle; the Undead’s siege of Al’Khazar.

It is said that when Captain Martin mounted the parapet before the soldiers and denizens of Al’Khazar, of Oren, he shouted at the crowd amidst the roaring fires. Undead shrieks and screams of the dying. A few slowed their flee from the battlefield, turning their heads to the bark of the grizzled Captain. 

“Oren stands, as long as we defend it!”

Captain Martin’s Rally

At the word of the Captain, the fleeing soldiers resolved themselves. They rallied to his call, and though many of them died fighting for their home, and their country, not one of them died with regret. For what evil can be worse than that which threatens all of existence? What fight can be more righteous, more for the Lord’s glory than our own?

There is no more literal interpretation of Captain Martin’s spirit and struggle than our struggle against the demonic invaders. There is no man more suited to be this rallying call, to reach the depths of our hearts and speak to our undying love for our country, than our General.

As we rally our forces and continue our plans to halt the invasion of demonic forces, fret not. Many have told us it is foolish to fight against them, that each life lost is strength in their army, and so there is no use. They spread deceit, that we are throwing bodies at the demonic invader, where we have gained veteranship over combat with these creatures after only minimal losses.

Others will tell you that to fight is hopeless, yet fear not. The Lord gives us trials, and none are insurmountable. The time is different, the foe is different, even our country is so different than it was that time, so long ago. Yet still, we can recall the spirit of Captain Martin, a man whose struggle and resolve are so much like our own.

Oren stands as long as we defend it.

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Prince Philip scours the legal codex for precedence he can use to compel women to cover their shoulders again.

The Last Will and Testament

 of John d’Arkent

What a silly thing, to scribe what I have and disseminate it to my expansive clan in some way as if to say, this one gets this, and another gets this.  

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To my son and heir, Peter Baldwin,

Selm, and all within it, are yours. I also leave the medal I received as a veteran of the War of Two Emperors, and the cane that held up my weak bones for the last few years of my life. Do well with these, my son, my spirit will haunt you otherwise. I am eternally proud of you.

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To my granddaughter, Mary Lucille,

To you, I give the Sigil of Saint Wilfriche. You will find the silver ring in my study, in a glass case. I wore this as the Empire’s Archchancellor. You are a most reverant servant of our Empire, as I once was. I hope you continue down this path, and resolve yourself to be, at least in part, the good pieces of me.

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To my grandson, Joseph John,

To you, I give the lion’s armor I wore in the War of Two Emperors. You will find it in my study, between the two glass cases. It is an old suit, but I have kept it well. Not as fashionable as it perhaps once was, it will protect you all the same, though don’t wear it on duty. The General would not have it!

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To the rest of my progeny,

There are simply too many of you to name, and offer individually; such is our House’s natural fertility! Instead, I will remind you of the jubilee that is life. Each time I see each of you, my heart lights up, for I know that the spirit of our family, of trust and love in each other and our fellow man, can never falter. You must remain united against the turmoils of the world, for as anarchy and chaos will always come, we, together, must resolve ourselves to link arms against it. You will argue, and frustrate each other, but always return home to each other's arms.

Sir John d’Arkent, KCHE

Duke of Sunholdt, Baron of Selm

John d’Arkent breaks into a fit of uproarious laughter, plunging the geriatric judge into a coughing fit.

“Look, Edward,” he waves the missive to his bastard grandson, “The syphilis has reached their brains!”

dank

Philip Augustus, astride his horse in the sands of Korvassa, rears his horse. Sir Arcean and Sir Cassius with him, they survey the ever-expanding pit from which the demons made their encampment. The iron-clad brigadiers with him chatter as the Prince turns his horse, his eyes glaring at the doom at their doorstep. 

“The Lord gives us trials, and by design, they are surmountable,” he laments nervously to the Knights with him. He turns his horse, and the trio ride back to Al Faiz, to the garrison, to assist the Sultan’s warriors in inspecting the defenses. 

Philip peels back the cloth wrap that shielded him from the desert sun, sweating inside the walls, before Sir Arcean brings word to him. The Prince dismounts his horse, seizing the reigns with one hand, and the message with the other- an epistle, a letter of admonishment. 

He glances between the soldiers with him and the gates to Al Faiz, trembling with anticipation.

“This tyrant killed my friend, but these creatures would kill God himself. Vengeance will not bring us peace while the Inferi scour the earth.”

The Prince and the brother Knights return to their inspection of the walls, though he is distracted in prayer. This crusade would be an impossible task without the rest of the Army here. Philip’s conversations with the Sohaer and the Sultan made him sure of that. Preparation, decisiveness, and the Lord’s grace were all that stood between the world, an annihilation.

Mr. Skingaard,

If you are unhappy with the ruling on a case, you file an appeal to be submitted to the Supreme Court. If you wish to sue the Ministry of Justice, we will consider this a subpoena for that matter and that matter alone. File an appeal seperately.

Sir John d’Arkent

In the absence of an available Circuit Court Justice, John d’Arkent of the Supreme Court will individually be ruling on this case.

((Time set for Monday 2 PM EST.))

Your Holiness,

Your words are a comfort beyond what you can know. I have studied closer the Proverbs of Godfrey, and am nearly resolved now that there is no decision I can make which will be sin, for I have insurmountable faith and trust in the Lord. I need not determine whether I am sinful for when and what I choose to fight for, so long as I know there is Godlight in the soles of my shoes, taking me where He would guide. I have the freedom to choose to know the Lord’s word, are to know that I am a sinner, whose path will be righteous only when I am resolved that the Lord is with me, wherever I go.

Yet even so, nothing is absolute. Is doubt the nature of we sinners? 

The war rages on, and in reserve, we perform police actions within the city. A child, accosted by her supposed father, held hostage. He was an enemy combatant, and so I called my officers to take the reigns of the situation, and we pressed on. 

I smashed through the glass of the shop he had used for his escapade, and leaped in aside my friend, Erik Ruthern, a Recruit. We landed behind the vagabond, my crossbow prepared to fire. Though I was unsure. Sergeant Markus and Sergeant Felix insisted that we should talk down the combatant, get him to release the girl, and they tried. For an hour, back and forth, to no avail, they attempted to convince the man to release the girl, till the unthinkable.

Captain DeNurem ordered that I fire.

Before the Lord, and before a dozen of my fellow soldiers, my bolt struck the girl held hostage, killing her. I had rendered this young life forfeit. You would say that my intention was true, and that to follow the direction of my superior was a display of duty. Yet surely this is a stain on my soul, even so, for what life is more precious than a child’s?

I killed her, Your Holiness, and then we killed her father. Sergeant Markus and Sergeant Felix were enraged with me, though I told them only that the Captain ordered it of me; but did I still make the choice? I knew there was great risk, and I followed instantly, without hesitation, and killed her.

I took her corpse, buried her, and prayed before her grave for hours, hoping only for forgiveness, but mostly hoping I could take it back. I remembered the Proverb you so aptly quoted.

“The righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.” (Proverbs 3:12-13)

Could this be righteous, Your Holiness, to slay a child by mistake, by my Captain’s command? Lord help me, I am torn apart.

With all of my grace,

Philip Augustus

Ruling on the Appeal of The Crown v. Vyronov

THE OPINION OF THE COURT 

We have examined the evidence laid out by the appeal, and what documents and records were available regarding the trial itself. The question must be asked, should an appeal be accepted a decade after the fact?

The Supreme Court has determined that there is no statute of limitations on appeals so long as they are grounded in significant legal basis, and so we have accepted yours. However, we find the case you present wanting.

On the guilty verdict;

You claim there was a lack of evidence beyond the circumstantial to convict the defendant. Our survey of the evidence does not agree. We do not have eyes and ears in every hall, near every home. It is a miscarriage of law to set the bar of proof too high to achieve, else justice may never be carried out for a lack of direct evidence. If we can only carry out justice when you have ‘no reasonable doubt,’ then we can only carry out justice when the Judge himself is a witness to the crime. The Court will not overturn this guilty verdict.

On the stripping of titles;

This Court agrees that it was not within the power of the honorable Judge Merentel to strip the defendant’s titles. However, in your appeal you state the Court offered a recommendation that the title be revoked. As such, it was the Crown of Hanseti-Ruska which stripped the title, who at the time assumed privilege over peerage, whether you believe it had that power or not.

Today, the Crown of Hanseti-Ruska resolutely and without exception has no privilege over the Imperial Peerage besides that it must grant it’s approval that a peer be landed within it’s property. This power belongs only to the Emperor, with the House of Lords serving as an advisory. Therefore, only the Emperor may return the title.

In summary;

1. The guilty plea shall not be overturned, and remains as it was.
2. The Justice’s sentence was outside his jurisdiction, and so the Court shall revoke the judicial request by the Justice Merentel to revoke the defendant’s title, but this does not grant his title back.

Sir John d’Arkent, KCHE

Duke of Sunholdt

Chief Justice of the Supreme Court

Notice of Legal Death

16th of the Sigismund’s End, 1777

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To the Lady Mary Lucille d’Arkent,

This letter is to inform you that the Imperial Courts have judged your father, George “Green” Carrington, to be declared dead in absentia. As a missing person for over a decade, precedence demands such.

By Imperial Law, as his eldest daughter where he has no sons, his titles shall pass unto you requiring no further legal affirmation. Any other properties of his shall also pass unto you, lest he has a will stating otherwise. 

Sir John d’Arkent, KCHE

Name: John d’Arkent

Age: 78

Current Residence: Selm, the Crownlands

Are you a Citizen of the Holy Orenian Empire?: Yes

Are you a convicted criminal or wanted by federal or provincial authorities?: No

Race: Human

First Submission:

Earth Burn

I can hear the lilies sing a silk song

And the river flows

Stronger than before, since the season passed

Ice flows, it cracks

No word from the earth this year

Flesh on fire, lakehouse like a carcass

Same trees as before

Find the first flower

Let the ice flow, earth burn

Let the ice flow, earth burn

I can hear my liver sing a sad song

This dependent growth

Stronger than before, since the season passed

Ice flow, it cracks

No word from my wife this year

Flesh on fire, my heart at it’s hardest

Same thing as before

Find the first flower

Let the ice flow, earth burn

Demonstrate resolve

Women always lie

Take your face or cry

Just a fact of life

Let the ice flow, earth burn

Now I’ve reached the mountaintop

And I meet everybody for the last part

Of the journey, a last chance I’ve got

Second Submission:

Honey

I have nothing in common with her

I hate to think, the prophet was wrong

He said; she’s going to smell like jasmine

And look like she’s been through hell

Sure thought, I’d never make that mistake again

To keep close to me, what sleeps all day

Dreaming of what more I could be

It’s not a dream though, it’s the way

She loves to sleep with the next most charming thing

Even if he barely sings

Maybe she’ll find peace in a new fling

But nothing will sting quite like me

It starts, with a voice in my head

My blood is honey, and my heart is sick

I perform another dark ceremony

With my own blood, oh the blood

I lose my breath, and get sickly pale

I develop a stutter

I obsess, know where she is

Know where’s she’s been

Know who she’s with

Does he have something

That makes you feel safe

Could I ever make you feel safe

It starts, with a voice in my head

My blood is honey, and my heart is still

I should’ve known better

This couldn’t be real

For my wife, and to honor my father’s love of poetry.

Warden of the Pale

An Orenian soldier ambushing a lustful Hangman as he attempts to seduce an unwilling Orenian woman. – circa 1777

“In Aldemar,” an exasperated elf cried out between deep breaths, his legs exhausted from the run that brought him to the gates of the Bastille, “Tresery, surrounded.”

A young Cadet furrowed his brow at the suggestion. The Hangmen had infiltrated Aldemar, and taken it’s prospective warden by surprise? If it were true, it would be destructive to their efforts to rebuild the Pale’s eminence. A stain on his grandfather’s honor, and on the plans of the Archchancellor to create a domain where elves may live free and practice their ways, without the anarchy of the realms outside the Empire.

Philip nodded once to the elf, who named himself Leatherback, and approached the bell nearby. Beside him, a soldier protests.

“A trap, Cadet. There is no use, if he is surrounded, and in the Pale. They will turn tail and run with him, or they will catch you in their maw with some trick.”

“Am I forbidden from going then, Sergeant?”

The other soldier does not respond. He simply shakes his head and returns to the street, disinterested in the Cadet’s ambition.

With luck, Philip’s call is answered. George Galbraith, Lieutenant DeNurem, several other soldiers and even a few elven refugees accepted Philip’s call and rallied. He gathered them around, and allowed Leatherback to tell them what he had just told Philip.

Within the hour, the retinue had departed with Leatherback leading the way.

“They have locked the gate, but there is another route,” he insists, the speculative soldiers glancing between each other incredulously. Philip remains stalwart. If this were a trap, then he had enough soldiers to ensure a safe retreat. Any murmurs of a lack of confidence would only serve to dampen their resolve.

Leatherback found them their path; a stone cliff which climbed from caverns underneath, precariously, into the open city itself. They clambered up the cliff side cautiously, though now the protests had ceased. They were committed to whatever they would find at the top.

At the top of their climb, their pace hastened, and within seconds, the retinue had grounded itself within the city walls, and the sight was just as Leatherback had suggested. The unmounted brigands had the fabled Tresery surrounded, and vastly outnumbered. Philip had brought enough to give them a three to two advantage. A short standoff ended with Tresery retreating to the safety of the Orenian retinue, and the bandits digging their heels into the ground and fleeing.

Not fast enough.

The bandits divided their forces, attempting to harass the Orenians from two flanks. A foolish maneuver, and brazen from fighting less organized forces. Once one of the flanking forces had pushed themselves too close to the Orenian force, a full charge was ordered. With the rest of the enemy forces too far to the other flank to assist their comrades, or execute any sort of maneuver, several of the enemy were immediately cut down, surprised by the sudden charge. The remaining force fled along the road to the Hangmen’s keep from Helena, the Orenian retinue giving chase.

At their fort, they hid inside, attempting to draw the Orenians into the traps they had built as escape routes. They failed, and instead it was they who were drawn into the trap. Philip directed the retinue,

“We retreat. They will follow, thinking they can harass our rear, hoping to pick off stragglers.”

Of course, the enemy’s pride got the better of them. They sallied out, and from a distance, attempted to pick off the Orenian’s rear guard. Too close, though, for when they were drawn too far from their cowardly traps to hide, the Orenians executed their flank. 

The remainder of the Hangmen’s forces were decimated, leaving the brigands to slink back into their stone hut with their tail between their legs. Some great warriors they were, so totally defeated, without the sense to safely hide when outmatched. With forty Hangmen casualties and merely ten Orenians, victory was absolute.

The Orenian retinue returned safely with Tristin Tresery in tow, the bandits thwarted, and Aldemar and it’s Warden saved.

Philip takes himself to the Church, offers confession for the bandits they had slaughtered, and  prays for the Empire’s continued success as well as the Pale’s future prosperity.

[!] A private letter arrives for His Holiness, James II, from the Prince Philip Augustus, bearing the seal of the House Novellen [!]

@VIROS

Your Holiness,

I write to you from the front.

Do you recall when you told me to consider the purpose of the sword I would wield? I was a young boy then, even younger than I am now. You told me that I must determine when that sword is used to purify, and when it is to sacrifice.  The front is not pure, Your Holiness, but it is livening. Battle makes my blood boil. I’ve killed several of the enemy, dragged my blade through them, and felt nothing. I feel as though, in pitched battle, my mind considers them animals to know no remorse for.

I grieve for my conscience. These men have lives of their own, and yet I cannot compel myself to show them mercy, or consider them creatures of the Lord when I swing my sword.

My comrades bleed and die next to me, the battles are pitched. So how can I claim that now I must purify, when so many are sacrificing?

On my return from the front, where the relief forces began to hold the line, even then there was no lounging to be had. I spoke briefly to my brother before the Lieutenant Colonel rallied the reserves to the assistance of High Elven delegates. The scene was grotesque. A dozen elves, torn to pieces by some demonic, towering creature. Lieutenant Stafford and I were mounted, and we charged to assist the dying elven retinue. I thought only that this was some servant of Iblees, and that here surely my sword should purify.

As the creature battered the Orenian retinues, severely injuring the Lieutenant Colonel, I was compelled to wield a spear of light. An elf forged for me this strange weapon. It was crafted of some deity’s magic, and with it, I struck the creature. The Lord’s hand was on my spear, Your Holiness, and even then, with some foreign magic an embodiment of my passion for God and His purifying light, I was resolved in my faith. It struck so truly that I was nearly blinded by it, and the flash of light rendered the creature helpless to my Lieutenant’s fatal blow.

I have returned to the front, after the ordeal.

Your Holiness, you taught me once that you are not all knowing, and that many of my questions to you are questions I must answer myself. This war, and these demons, they are so different. I defend my country from bandits, and my blood boils with rage and vigor. I slay real, true demons, and instead I find myself closer to the Lord. Perhaps this is a holy war, Your Holiness, but these vagabonds are not the demons of Iblees... Or are they, an amalgamation of the Lord’s enemies, pagans and heretics, given flesh form to test us? I will not trouble myself too much. I must have revenge for Peter, but I must seize it with the hands of a Saint, and learn the Lord’s mercy, even in my rage, as my blood boils. 

But how, Your Holiness, when we are all such sinners?

With all of my grace,

Philip Augustus

Lieutenant Nyseia kicks a fresh recruit who drags their feet while  they brag of their martial prowess.

“Loyalty’ll get you farther than any skill with a sword you have,” he mutters before the recruit scurries back to the line.

Prince Philip Augustus prays quietly for the salvation of those the Empire and it’s armies would send to the grave.

“Edward!” The aging, withered Duke Sunholdt slaps his now adult bastard grandson on the wrist with his cane. “Edward, I married a Princess, and this one a Baroness. Bastards as we are, I expect you to do something similar.”

He proceeds to drone and drink about exploits which never existed and could never exist, before falling asleep in the chair in his study long enough for Edward to slip away.

Philip Augustus sits quietly, dragging his hand across the only wolf pelt he had managed to salvage. The dire wolf had chased them out of Underselm. It would have killed them, had Stafford and Brashton not beat him back. They could have died.

Yet if the Army did not put an end to this infestation, who would? There was no choice. The pack had been damaged severely. They had killed all the pups they found, and put down almost twenty with the explosion and with their crossbows. At least a dozen remained, cornered, terrified, more dangerous. And the dire wolf, their sovereign.

The Prince lifts his crossbow, his cap. He clasps his own breastplate. The swordbelt then, and off to formulate their next plan of action. These wolves would terrorize no longer.

Lord Samba pledges fealty, dawning his technicolor dreamcape.

A response will come for the legal representatives bearing the seal of the Supreme Court.

Sir,

The Supreme Court has voted, and accept your appeal for the review of sentencing. We will move forward with determinations on whether a trial is necessary to make a ruling, and will call you and your team should we decide such.

Chief Justice,

Sir John d’Arkent, KCHE

The Chief Justice observes the treatise with interest, before knocking his grandson on the head with his cane.

“I don’t think she read the law,” he informs his grandson before taking a hefty sip from his whiskey.

Sir John contemplates dawning his old lion pelt for the occasion.

<=> The Birds of Helena <=>

Philip Augustus

I am enchanted, in an eternal way, by the nature of birds. They can do every thing we humans cannot, and often many things we can do, they surpass simply by the nature of their inherent and inalienable majesty and mystery. I am compelled to publish this, in hopes that the people of Helena and the whole Empire may know better the nature of our avian comrades which make Helena and the surrounding lands their home.

Crowned Jay

My favorite local avian, by far. You cannot find them often inside the walls of Helena, except perhaps at bird houses in the yards and balconies of the metropolis. I find their nests in the treelines outside the city. Once, I came back to a nest every day, to watch the small birds grow from hatchlings with naught but down, and see the blue flush into their features. They fly often in pairs or small groups, and so I depict them as such, searching out their favored treats amongst the local acorn trees.

Ruby Pigeon

I cannot go ten steps in Helena without sighting this avian pest. Yet despite their massive numbers, and how they bombard us with their droppings, by themselves they are singularly beautiful. I find myself in d’Arkent square from time to time, dropping pieces of soft bread. When they begin to clutter in massive flocks, I find it difficult to resist chasing through them, as if I were a giant routing an army. For the best. Most consider them pests and would find my compassion for them distasteful. I depict them here in a more elegant form, a tree branch with sweet berries, ripe for the taking.

Ari Duck

I find these birds most often in the Lake Helena, and River Ari adjacent. They are less a nuisance than our pigeons, but just as much enjoy my breadcrumbs. I insist on visiting them when by myself, where they are most amicable to my approach. My parents insist I must remain within the city when without guard, but I have managed to sneak away to offer them my solitary care from time to time. They are known to mate for life, and so I depict them in their matrimony, partners in a daytime swim.

Ruby Hummingbird

I wonder more often than I wonder of more important things; how can it flap his wings so quickly? Such wonderful strength, muscles that, to scale, would serve a hundred times the strength of a man’s. They dart from flower to flower, often in the gardens of Selm and the surrounding fields, feeding on their sweet nectar. Here, I depict them in still form, but stillness misrepresents them, and so I am almost sad to do it.

Bird of Providence

So wise, these creatures. A very common pet in Helena, and the Crownlands; the first of which were imported from the Spice Isles some fifteen years ago by a ragged Rhenyari merchant ship. Many escaped, as it were, and you can find them rarely in the trees. They hide perfectly, not unlike the more shy of my friends, their feathers offering them perfect camouflage, except where their colorful heads are revealed. Their calls are very distinct, ranging from repetitive clicks to piercing screeches. Some can even be taught to utter words from our languages. I named mine ‘Sigismund,’ for I often feel his primitive form of wisdom offers him clairvoyance beyond any human capacity. Intensely social creatures, here I depict them congregating en masse.

Auburn Hawk

Perhaps the rarest to spot in the wild, but a fine bird for hawking. I myself have hawked with them several times, and with confidence I can say their affinity for the hunt is unmatched by any living thing. To see one is the wild is only to spy them far above your head. To see them in their most natural form is to witness a predatory dive. They fly like an arrow from heaven’s bow, but never without purpose. They always return to the sky with their prey in their hands, lest one of their kin seek to seize it from them; not an uncommon occurrence with the recent draught of small game. So, I depict them arguing over a freshly caught prey.

Great Petrine Owl

If eyes could see a soul’s nature, it would be these. Stoic creatures and vicious predators, who tell long stories with their forward gaze. Entirely nocturnal, spotting one in the light is a nigh impossible task. You are more likely to catch their glowing eyes from the treeline, where they spot small critters most suited to make their meal. I have seen one in daylight only once, clinging to a tree nearby the Roussard estate, hiding its face from the daylight. I tossed a stone at the trunk of the tree to gain it’s attention, and from there I depict its curious glance.

Emperor Pheasant

A particularly small type of pheasant, though named for its glorious color and proud gait. These avians are full of a natural energy, dashing across the treelines of the Emperor’s forests in search of tiny insects on which to feast. When I am not hawking, I am hunting these tiny creatures. Their flesh is particularly tender, and difficult to overcook. A Crownlands delicacy, I often eat with a puree of chickpeas or carrots. Though I am spoiled in that I’ve the time to hunt, and the cooks to bring out the flavor. I depict them here on an afternoon stroll, fearlessly crossing an open field.
 

Ruberni Snipe

These odd looking creatures inhabit the wetlands and muddy terrains along the Crownlands, the River Ari, Lake Helena, and River Rubern. My research reveals they are a relatively new native to the lands. Speculations abound that the countless bodies found in the rivers from battles and wars of the Troubles gave way to a bloom of swampish flora, the perfect environment for these dainty things. Here I depict them hiding amongst the mudgrass, either lounging in safety or in fear of some great predator.

Joey’s Hawk

Can the nature of a bird be evil? I should think so. The largest bird in my book, with wingspans taller than me. This condor’s primary food is carrion, and in the Troubles, I have read, they were so commonly seen that they grew to be named ‘Joey’s Hawks’. They nest in the mountains surrounding the basin in which the Lake Helena sits, and when they soar overhead, their shadow cast can frighten you into hiding from what would seem some otherworldly drake. Here I depict this frightening creation hunched over in some maniacal pose, in hopes to capture its dastardly omen.

Western Crow

The second-most common avian in the Crownlands, besides the Ruby Pigeon. These creatures fly in large flocks, feasting on whatever they can find. Unlike their eastern cousins, however, the Western Crow is somewhat of an adept fisherman, and I have caught them on more than one occasion feasting on river-crabs and small fish. I depict them here, feasting on their most recent tiny prey. 

((I write this in homage to John J. Audubon, one of my favorite artists. Please donate to the John J. Audubon society if you appreciate these pieces and the creatures depicted as much as I do.))

Bjorn Ironside raises his stone axe to the sky after sacrificing a collection of baby seals to the Allfather, “I hate Helena!”

Sir John drinks alone, his House uninvited despite a Cathalon being his granddaughter.