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  1. MAAN I VE KOENG FUNERAL OF ALEKSANDR II “WE COME AS CROWS” Issued by the CROWN OF HANSETI-RUSKA On the 11th day of Wzuvar ag Byvca of 523 E.S VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, THE KING IS DEAD, LONG LIVE THE KING. Holy Godan has seen fit to reunite their Royal Majesties in the highest heavens. King Aleksandr II has succumbed to wounds sustained whilst undertaking an Oath Hunt alongside the Brotherhood of Saint Karl. He and his late Queen served the realm dutifully for forty years, the longest reign of any monarchs in the history of this Kingdom. We weep for them, as do all the peoples of the land. Thus does the Crown declare 523 E.S. to be a year of official mourning. In three months time, on Gronna ag Droba, the bells of the Everardian Basilica shall toll. The Cardinal Westerwald shall lead the Haeseni in mass, and a funeral service. All the subjects and allies of the Crown shall be welcomed within the walls of Valdev that they might pay their final farewells to the fallen King. GODANI JEST WIELKI, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, Ivan VIII, by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Hochmeister of the Order of the Crow, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Slesvik, Solvesborg, and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia, and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Markev, Nenzing, Siegrad, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Astfield, Buck, Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, and Rytsburg, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector and Lord of the Highlanders, etcetera. HER ROYAL MAJESTY, Nataliya Leopoldina, Queen-Consort of Hanseti and Ruska, Princess-Consort of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duchess-Consort of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margravine-Consort of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Countess-Consort of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscountess-Consort of Varna, Baroness-Consort of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, and Astfield, Lady of the Westfolk, et cetera.
  2. this guy built his castle with his own two hands. can u say the same??
  3. "And so it begins," mused the Hauchprinzen van Kusoraev.
  4. pfp goes hard, can i ss?

    1. indiana105

      indiana105

      no i bought it send me 10 ETH and you can rent it for a month

    2. ferdaboy
  5. @Greehnnext mod admin??
  6. "Alright, but where's Tylos?" Ivan asked the Prince of Reinmar over a candlelit dinner.
  7. JOVE WIELKAE VE HERZEN I GALAHAR THE DUKE OF GALAHAR “WE COME AS CROWS” Issued by the CROWN OF HANSETI-RUSKA On the 10th day of Joma ag Umund of 516 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, THE HAESENI ARE A SUPERSTITIOUS FOLK. In my youth the strelt women who tended my sickbed oft entertained me with the stories of old. Tales of the sun lord warring with the moon, of three-eyed crows and the great wyrms that stir beneath the earth. Nonsense, the lot of it. I am not partial to the nattering of hags, nor do I find much interest in pagan tradition. There is only one Lord, and He is Godan. For all my life I have known this, yet I am but a man. And man is weak. It is true that during the war in the Midlands I disgraced myself and the vows I swore unto my beloved wife. I have sired a bastard. In my weakness I found comfort in an outlander, yet I felt nothing but emptiness. The light of the Lord had left me, or rather, I had turned from it. Only when I lay bloodied and festering from the righteous blade of the Bishop Westerwald did I return. My penance has been made through the clash of arms and the suffering of sickness. But from suffering must come relief. Let it never be said Holy Godan is cruel. He, in his infinite mercy, has seen to bless my lady wife and I with child once more. A son was born at the dawn of the 19th of Msitza and Dargund, 516 E.S., under the sign of the Wopperklaw. He is Bihar in all things, save for the bright eyes of his mother. We name this boy in honour of the Patriarch of Jorenus. A leal shepherd to the northern flock in these times of southern strife, who has devoted his life to Godan and no other. Peace be upon him, and the child who bears his name. HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE DUKE OF GALAHAR, JOSEF STANIMAR BARBANOV-BIHAR GODANI JEST WIELKI, His Serene Highness, Ivan Aleksandr, Grand Prince of Kusoraev Her Serene Highness, Nataliya Leopoldina, Grand Princess of Kusoraev
  8. Ivan Aleksandr rises from his sickbed . . .
  9. Ivan Aleksandr stood atop the parapets of Valdev. There would be peace, for a time. But war is man's nature.
  10. "And so we return to the Westmark." Ivan bowed his head, and traced the cross of Hussariya over his scratched breastplate. "Let us avenge that greatest of shames."
  11. ROYAL LETTERS FOR THE THE BARONY OF KOVGRAD KRUSAE ZWY KONGZEM Issued by the CROWN On this 16th day of Tov ag Yermey of 514 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, The House of Kovachev has had a turbulent relationship with the Crown for much of its existence. Our wayward cousins have been both leal bannermen, and reviled enemies to the Haeseni. Most living know only the latter. The gryphon has flown alongside the Burgundy standard in their heinous march across Canondom, impeding on Our realm and harrying Our subjects. These crimes are not forgotten by the Haeseni, nor are they forgotten by their Crown. It must also be said that We do not forget the absence of the Order of the Rychwald on the walls of Drusco and Fredericksburg. In the wake of the dissolution of the League of Veletz, the Patriarch of House Kovachev has come before Our heir, Grand Prince Ivan Aleksandr. He has professed his earnest wish to be free of the treachery of the Midlands and their usurper Duke. It is by Our mercy and Our respect for the deeds of his forefathers that We do accept this man and his household into Our realm. Such shall not come lightly. Lord Fyodor shall seek penance under the guidance of the Patriarch of Jorenus, and shall be baptized anew in the waters of Gamesh. The same shall be done for his household and a handful of his levymen, that they might be cleansed of their crimes in the eyes of GODAN. Once this penance has been fulfilled and their Veletzian titles relinquished, We shall pardon the House of Kovachev and Lord Fyodor of the crimes of Invasion and Banditry. We shall also see fit to enfeoff the Barony of Kovgrad to the House of Kovachev, and elevate their Patriarch, Baron Fyodor Kovachev, to be Baron of Kovgrad. His holdings shall be constructed upon the conclusion of the war in the Midlands. Until this time the House of Kovachev is permitted to encamp upon the site. DLUM EDLERVIKI, DRUZ ZVAERDI, HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, Aleksandr II, by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Hochmeister of the Order of the Crow, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Slesvik, Solvesborg, and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia, and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald, and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Markev, Nenzing, Siegrad, Torun, Toruv, Valdev, and Werdenburg, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Astfield, Buck, Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, and Rytsburg, Lord of the Westfolk, Protector and Lord of the Highlanders, etcetera. HIS SERENE HIGHNESS, Ivan Aleksandr, Grand Prince of Kusoraev Sir Fyodor Kovachev, Patriarch of House Kovachev, Host of the Rychwald
  12. WESTMARK TO WHITESPIRE THE BASTARD PRINCE “A warrior will sooner die than live a life of shame.” WESTMARK, 508 E.S. THE BATTLE WAS LOST. Banners of gold and black lay crushed beneath a mess of horse and man. They had outnumbered the enemy by ten thousand, but each man fielded by the Lodenlanders sat atop a warhorse. The foot of Haeseni, Heartlander and Dwarf could do little but charge in vain. They had been routed, pushed back into the forest. Men sunk into thick mud, screaming out before being silenced by roving bands of burgundian knights. Ivan pressed himself against the trunk of a great pine. He watched in silence as the men he’d led into the forests were peppered with arrows. Any lucky enough to survive the volley were lanced in the open field as they fled the wood. A thud sounded behind the prince. Another, at his side. Arrows had begun to whistle through the brush, burying their barbed heads deep into bark. They had spotted him, surely. The pounding of hooves drew closer. Ivan gripped the shaft of his pike so tightly it felt near to snap. “DIE, HAENSER DOG!” He pushed himself from the tree, and drove the steel head of his pike into the underbelly of the charging Veletzman’s destrier. It squelched as it slid through hide and flesh, sinking deep into the innards of the reeling beast. With a final whine it crashed into the sodden forest floor where it lay atop its rider, heaving and kicking. The prince’s relief was short-lived. Four men followed the horseman, clad in shining armour and burgundy tabards drenched in the blood of his countrymen. Ivan drew the sabre from his belt and parried the first blow that came down toward his helmeted head. Another strike caught him in the breastplate. The next in the visor. That proud blackened steel which covered his body found itself dented, crushed and otherwise mangled by the savagery of the Midlanders. This day was theirs. There had never been a defeat so grand, so total. As the men continued to rain down blow after blow, Ivan’s vision began to blur. The taste of copper coated his mouth, and its scent filled his nostrils. And then there was nothing. THE WILDS, 508 E.S. The foreign accents of the Aaunish cut through the moans of the wounded. An aged Heartlander with cropped grey whiskers and a spotted head loomed over Ivan as he lay on a cot. Perhaps not the prettiest sight, but it was better than the void. Through a flap of cloth Ivan could see only thickets of trees, sheltering the maimed and broken who shared not the luxury of a tent. Just beyond the brush lay a rolling field of golden wheat. The war had not ruined these lands. Not yet. The elder smiled with a mouth of yellowed teeth. “Lo! And so the Haensetian prince awakens!” Ivan had no sooner opened his mouth than a flask was pressed to his cracked lips. Cool water trickled down his gullet and into the empty pit that was his stomach. It heartened him. Though, only for a moment before a great pain seized his knee. Tattered bandages coiled up towards his waist, bloodied and foul-smelling. “Where is our host? What of the battle?” The whitebeard’s look was pitious; absent of the adulation ought be afforded the Prince of Kusoraev, he had his answer already then. “They had the best of you, Lord. And your fellows as well, down to the man.” Flashes of the battle caught at the back of his mind. Ivan had watched his father fall in some mad charge, Ser Garen and the Patriarch enraged, taking up the flank. “What of my father? My wife?” There came only a grunt in answer, and a vial of milky tincture put an end to his worries. Cold, wrinkled hands shook the prince from his sleep. “My Lord! You must awake, there is word from the Whitespire!” Ivan brought up his head, for it was all he might manage. The wound still ached, sapping at what little vigour remained to him. What few hours he lay awake were feverish agony, interrupted by the changing of his soiled bandages and cleansing through boiled wine. “Speak the news, then..” he muttered through clenched teeth. The apothecary cleared his throat, and spat a vile glob onto the packed earth after much effort. “Ah, yes. It is from your . . . Golden Cylinder? No, that’s not it. The Aulic Council!” With a quick flick of a knife the wax seal of the council parted from parchment, and the missive was unfurled. It was a demand that he remain in the Aaunland. The prince was childless, and Robert incapable. The succession must be protected. Ivan was in no state to disobey, yet still he raged. “I can niet stay here. I must ride! The Veletzmen march on Balian!” His venerable attendant only chuckled. Fattened gut teetered as he crept ponderously about the cluttered tent, reach for another of his accursed sleeping tonics. “Nonsense. Young Lord, you serve your people best here. What is a kingdom without its crown?” The old dolt was right, there was no other; Ivan knew this, yet still he longed for the sore of a saddle beneath him. A lance and banner in his hands. More than all he longed for the Motherland, and Her people. His wife, his kin. “Cease your stirring, prince of Haense. You’ll break my stitches.” Gnarled fingers brought a cloudy glass to Ivan’s lips try as he might, the heir was too numbed now to resist. The sweet taste of poppy’s milk numbed the mouth, and the mind. Then once more, a cloying blackness drew him back into restful oblivion. AAUNIC CROWNLANDS, 509-510 E.S. The bustle of an unfamiliar camp had awoken him early again. The blighted Aaunish horns had sounded all through the night, warning of wolves and raiders on the road. Now come dawn, it was the hammering of iron to anvil. The prince pressed a hand flat to his bedside, and faltered again as he made to stand; the lesion on his leg had swelled again, a putrid mass of raw and rotted flesh. This was not to be his fate, the Grand Prince of Kusoraev would not be confined to some ignoble end here. Nor would he live some pitiful existence as a malformed cripple, incapable of standing without the aid of some tiresome greybeard. Ivan grit his teeth and wrenched himself from the bed, a spasm of pain sent searing up his right side. He managed barely to grasp a hold of the canvas flap and tear it away. It was a grim sunrise, grey and gloomy and the rain fell hard against his face. Then something buckled, and he was falling and there were shouts around him. Then the mud, and the dark came up to greet him. The prince awoke again under a canvas, but was full to bursting. The wailings of the wounded and the dying filled his ears, his head sat hard against the flat of the cot. There were others too, crowding him and speaking in hushed whispers. One looked to him and murmured as he stirred, it was a look he had grown uncomfortably used to. Ivan made to speak, though all that he managed was a heaving wheeze. “Speak. . the leg. .” He needn’t have waited for an answer. She had a kind face, but could not find the will to smile. “Your Highness, if we do not - it will only fester. What little strength remains to you. .” He hissed, dismissing her with a wave of his hand. “Nie, I cannot lose it. Where is the old man?” She glanced downwards briefly, and reached for the potion rack. “Gone, my Lord. Camp fever.” The prince made to raise a hand, but she did not cease, and then he was swallowing. White and red swelled overhead. They kept him addled, he knew. But, had not yet proved brave enough to act against his will; the will of a king. What a king he would make, crippled, beaten and the last of his line. She ought have come to him by now, might the oracle have offered up some falsehood? Then, pain again - and the prince’s courage had deserted him. With a grimace, he pressed a palm to his brow. His head was spinning, and the world around it. Pale faces over Ivan blurred and twisted, blurring the fevered visions of his mind. He was flying then, and now aground, now drowning. Then he was alone against the shore, where the crashing waves carried only the cries of the mournful. “Lost? Nie . . It cannot be.” His mother’s cold visage was swollen, bloated where she lay upon the sands aside his father. “Ivo. .” He sputtered, but his man offered no reply; crabs nipped at his navel where the spear point had opened him. Nataliya, not her. He could hear her voice still on the wind, but could find only bones. It was lost, he knew. Naught remained to him but misery and blissful sleep, and so he slept. All the agony seemed not to matter now. And so they had come. He was alone when he woke, save for the bodies at his flank. They had come in number, he knew, to put an end to it. Pale sunlight seeped inside the tent as the armed men threw it open under the cover of daybreak. A grey tower, on black. Renatian men. His father had welcomed House Tiber not so long ago, but war made a mess of men’s fealties. Ivan eyed his sabre wearily. Its point was driven into the dirt, just beyond the reach of his failing grasp. There was no use. “Cut my throat and be done with it.” They only regarded him oddly. The air had grown thick with dread, each man exchanging wary glances. Then, from between them stepped a woman in stark white, parting the knights alike a swan on the water. She took a knee at his bedside, and pressed a soft hand flat against his arm. “I am Cecily of Beaufort. You knew my father, I think.” She wore a sweet, chilling smile. “We come not as foes, Serene Highness.” Ivan had known her father indeed. A true knight of the Aaunish and leal advisor to the boy-king Edmund. He had been a close friend to his own father, taking up residence in their halls whilst the Whitespire fell to madness. “Vy’re Ser Gawyn’s, then?” He affirmed with a short nod. “Yes, my prince. My father took a liking to you crows . . . It would be grim of me to leave one here, rotting in the mud as you are.” A strange thing this was. Hers was a line of tyrant’s blood, of conquerors and warmongers of centuries past. He needed only to meet her gaze to know this. That same dull grey had watched his broken forefathers kneel, yet in this moment he found in them an inkling of comfort. “I might charter a carriage for you. There are finer apothecaries in the capital, Highness.” Anything was better than another week festering in this tent, and so Ivan motioned weakly. “Then I shall. These men are yours, the Veletzmen and their Uruks have grown bold as of late.” Her fingers slid from their place on his shoulder. “Goodbye, prince of Haense. Until we next meet.” Her lips tugged into something of a grin, and she slipped through the canvas into the dawn. WHITESPIRE, 511 E.S. It felt good to put his boots to ground again. The wound had closed, and the pain faded but the leg was near dead. His gait was awkward, lame and limping like some speared hart. The whitewashed halls of the spire left him to roam alone. The lords and their bannermen had marched the week past, taking the King’s Road to the southern marches. Most the Tiber host had joined them, few as they were. But Cecily had seldom left his side since their arrival in the capital. By all rights it was a shameful thing. Both knew it. She had been promised to the murdered boy-king, and Ivan left to skulk as better men fought his battles. Perhaps it was this loneliness that bound them, the prince could not say. He had set her aside in the apartments that night, for some green squire had hurried him to the aviary at the urging of some grave missive. A crow had come, bearing the seal of his house. It was a notice of the Covenant’s defeat without him, surely. Such had always been inevitable. This time he peeled the wax from the missive himself. Godan had judged them righteous. A grand army of Veletzmen and Greenskin, numbering some eleven-thousand, had been cut down to the man on the shores of the Balianite coast. The Covenant marched north once more. Ivan stuffed the missive into the furs of his coat. He must join them. For too long had he lounged in these summer-lands, wallowing in sweet wines and the comfort of a foreign woman. “Fetch me a horse, Aaunishman. See it to the gates.” Ivan commanded the squire. The boy obliged with a bow, and scurried off down the spiral steps. The prince was slow to follow. There was a part of him that longed to stay, despite it all. He could not face Nataliya. He had dishonoured himself. He had dishonoured her, but his first duty was to the realm. The prince left one fleeting glance at the Whitespire and its raging flame. Then, with a slow exhale climbed atop the black mare that the squire had brought and spurred her onwards. EULER’S STEPPE, 514 E.S. “Ivan? Vyr Highness?” The Lord var Ruthern laid a swift kick into the side of Ivan’s harness. He lay among a pile of motionless Veletzmen, or Adrians as they now called themselves. “Have vy some deathwish, Prinzen? We lost vy in the trees.” He dismissed the Duke with a languid wave, tasting iron on his tongue. “Stay vyr tongue, Herzen. Come, help me up.” Their steel gauntlets clattered as they met, and the aged Duke wrenched him from the mud. “Dobry. Now go, Lord. I tire of vyr wailing.” He left his dented helm atop the mud, sable hair matted in stale blood. He took up his shattered lance and began the slow march back towards the forward camp. The victorious Haeseni gathered loudly about their fires, and hulking kegs of Carrion. The prince was in no mood to partake. He had no appetite for Carrion, nor for their gaudy celebrations. His wife stood among them, clad in bloodied plate with a bottle in her hand. He could spy her searching for him in the crowd but Ivan could not bring himself to see her. He was to find no honourable end among the dwarven cavaliers, despite his best effort. Godan would not grant it. Ivan flung open the canvas to his war tent and sent a lobstered gauntlet crashing against the heavy table. There was a gasp, and he spun on his heel. The Lady Cecily of Beaufort regarded him in trepidation, for at her side cowered a boy no more than three, grey of eye and black of hair.
  13. Ivan Aleksandr stared blankly at the missive that had been brought before him. Two sentences of apology for the lives of thousands of Haensemen. This rat had not lifted a finger against his liege throughout these years of war. These councilmen had been loyal servants of Gaspard and his foolish ambition. They had marched in warbands, murdered his people, and laid waste to their fields. Now they cowered behind cross and parchment. The prince set a candle aflame. He prayed Winburgh was next.
  14. Ivan Aleksandr was most displeased.
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