tcs_tonsils_

LETTNA I LENSK LETTER OF RESIGNATION VA PAUMZ VE NAUEDLERVIK Issued by the KOMPTROLLER OF SETTLEMENT On this 5th of VYZMEY AG HYFF , 442 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ALDYLEVAR, I have grown old, as any man does. But it is not my age that weathers me, it is my sickness. I see my health withering every day, which has since affected my ability to work; welcoming new citizens into these incredible lands and helping those here find their place in society. It is no secret that the office has stagnated over these couple years. Things that should not, lay dormant. Therefore, I will take my leave and step aside for a new Komptroller to take my place and fill in the gaps that I have missed. It is with a heavy heart that I resign from the job that I so love after 16 years. It has been 16 years of time spent amongst the people; welcoming, interacting, serving, and helping them as they grow in the society. It has been an absolute pleasure working with each and every new face I have seen inside and outside the city. To the one that shall take my place, I wish you the most abundant success. Invest in the citizens of the land and you shall reap a harvest twice as plentiful. I shall watch with joy as another takes on the delight of the job. Being the one who is often first to greet and watch these new citizens has been among the greatest joys of my life. It shall remain for however long I have left. It is now that I bid farewell. Dravi. IV JOVEO MAAN, His Royal Majesty KARL III by the Grace of Godan, King of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duke of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margrave of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Count of Alban, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscount of Varna, Baron of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Thurant, Venzia and Astfield, Lord of the Westfolk, Fidei Defensor, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera Firr Iulius Vernhart

Hardworking and Supportive. Been very glad to get to know them through House Kortrevich and I look forward to the things we get to work on in the future.

“The lowly Hearsay of Haense.” A Savoyard chuckled some as he scanned the missive. “It is indeed funny to see all the people lusting after the Prince- seems they missed a key few.” He then folded he missive and placed it in his bookshelf. “Truly shocked that I was not mentioned once with everything that has happened throughout the last few weeks. Oh well, their loss.”

THE HAESENI PAPYRUS: VOLUME ONE 5TH OF WZUVAR AG BYVCA, 441 E.S. NOTE: I have been writing poetry for over 30 years, and in that time, I had yet to seek out other poets and writers alike to learn from them as I have from the works of Feodor May and Van Jungingen. No longer. Over the last four years, I made it my task to get in contact with the vast literary artists of Haense so we might work in tandem together, publishing that which glorifies the name of poetry. To my joy, I have discovered very talented and gifted writers, which Haense should be thankful to have. Working diligently, we have strived to create poetry to be published to the Haeseni people so they might read and enjoy it. Therefore, the Haeseni Papyrus was created from the minds of those writers. I sincerely hope you find comfort and meaning in these words, as I have. -Borris Iver Kortrevich TABLE OF CONTENTS Poems I. Ode to Haense II. I Don’t Feel Anything Anymore III. Family IV. Why He Fights V. Godric Memoriam VI. Beside Brothers VII. The Prince’s Parable VIII. Rebellion IX. The Fall of an Enemy State Poems I. Ode to Haense In depth of the darkness we slumber, Inward our cards and warmth. Together, one in number Through sleet nor ice forlorn. With no hurried gait one hastens And no silence hark the horn. Great walls of blood red rings To whose many lives are sworn. The verdant valleys blooming Defiant in the snow, While our memory black still looming Of those fallen while we sow. No word of waste, nor slip of hand We vow to make Her great. Beneath our feet, our Motherland - To do as God dictate. ‘Neath burning wick our pale hands clasp To truth in soul and song Resolute we embrace our fate Our Lorraine still is strong. No plight forgotten, no post unmanned, We are to fight at Crown’s command. So let it come, so come what may, Face Death, our right-hand man. Haense, she holds our memories With heavy heart depart, Oh, sing me a sweet melody - I say unto the Lark. By His Lordship, Felyx Francys Colborn II. I Don’t Feel Anything Anymore What an odd experience it is. The feeling of nothing. Standing over the pit of what used to be a home, now an overgrown gravesite. Dressed up in a green evening gown, welcoming people to come take a look at the mess that once stood. A rickety old bridge hung from the trees that I used to climb as an act of defiance. If I fell from the tree back then I’d scrape a knee at most. maybe sprain an ankle. But now, if I fell from the bridge, I’d be welcomed to the graves. The lake our town was founded on now cascades down as a series of complex falls. If you listen closely enough you’ll hear the sound of bombs. Listen in even closer and you’ll hear my father screaming from a cave, trying to convince my brother not to light the fuse. My home, my country, wasn’t perfect. None of them are. By Firress, Ipera Antionette Ashford de Falstaff III. Family The soft, cool air enveloping me, The cold surrounded, making me a little numb, Though despite this cold, something brought me a little glee, The warmth inside me, not caused by alcohol nor rum, The feeling within me, one that made me feel rather free, This reasoning inside me that brings no reason to be glum, The bloodless feeling of family, That brings me joy like a guitar’s strum. By Firr, Euleriphis IV. Why He Fights A forlorn boy, trudges off to war- His head dips down, thinking he will drown- He has nothing for which to fight- So he marches to die. The boy raises his sword- His muscles strain, blood stains- He does not know for what he fights- He is to die in vain. A battered boy, sunken low- His body shook, fear took- He knows not for what he fights- So he will now die. The king took pity on a deprived child- Rushes to give aid, bravery displayed- The man knows why he fights- So he did not let him die. This redeemed boy rests- His body taught, safely caught- There is nothing left to fight- But he will not die. Now that grown boy works- His muscles strong, endurance long- He knows for what he fights- So He will not die. A courageous man marches off to war- His head raised high, eyes to the sky- Never unsure for what he now fights- So He will not let his kingdom die. By His Lordship, Borris Iver Kortrevich V. Godric Memoriam ‘Twixt glades and leaves we wait. O, the hurried games we play. So far from home and yet so late - The hour is nigh too great. Before we start, his striding gait, The mind that never falters. No kin, nor man, nor God forsake He stands, before: unaltered. Nature has walked her course And no lips shall stay elated. With games of tag in hedges deep Life has no pace dictated. Bow in hand, and fishing rod, We practice in the sand. To start a journey, oh so slow One’s childhood doth disband. Recourse runs deep, no help to sleep, A tribute nigh melodic Of words goodbye and sand drifts by, Love attribute: my Dear, Great Godric By His Lordship, Felyx Francys Colborn VI. Beside Brothers Crows above and Brothers below, Surety and safety as fruit of their will. Might found in a black and golden glow, Protecting all with lance and crowbill. Shielding the visage of the Queen of Queens, Lady Haense herself do they preserve. Pity the poor soul who intervenes, For surely they shall receive what is deserved. Glorious are they upon the foothill, Sword and shield lofted toward the skies, Strength and valor do they instill, Into even the unwise. By Her Royal Highness, Klara Elizaveta Barbanov VII. The Prince’s Parable Hojik iv ve sunerise ain heerzen triek va lanzi uken oeer. Poch iv ve hag lapae laangaskervar dailyo broth. Zalibask kömea drazativsk, ludr zwyen eo waz usaer loevarev. Ea loemar waz drazativsk dlum ve nashej hag Voez ter drazativsk dlum vasr auwen wiehr hag. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Early in the morning a noble stirred from bed. Later in the day he ate his daily bread. Work could wait, or that is what they say. I say what waits for one day Does not wait for just one more day. By Firr, Hieromar of Karosgrad VIII. Rebellion The rhapsody of rebellion isn’t as comforting When the freedom turns into captivity. More humble is the one that is able to look Rebellion in the eye and tell her no, leave her to wilt. Powerful is the rebel who pulls back from the crossfire with Their dignity intact, jewels placed precisely in each Crease of their smile-line. As faulted humans do, they will stumble, wishing for Their own demise before someone else can bring It upon them. But that is not the rebel, that is the coward. Powerless is the coward who hides. By Firress, Ipera Antionette Ashford de Falstaff IX. The Fall of an Enemy State Forsaken as their blood ran cold, They rest upon bitter earth, All lay here dying, too many, dearth. Disregarded like those of old. Pooled blood covers the floor, Fools lost in unrighteous ire. Consumed by an undignified fire. Dispersed as the dead men of yore. For only God they thought they fought, These looming doomed souls. Moved to fill in the holes. Yet hope they had but naught. What good do the odes hold now? What blessed song could save them? What blissful story could deliver them? They are at the end, to death they bow. See the once proud people abandon them, Their faith dropped so low, It would deal a fatal blow, Poison seeped into the stem. With cracked foundation they’ve fallen, Eyes were set upon the skies, But all they found were lies. Their lives soon to be forgotten. By His Lordship, Borris Iver Kortrevich SIGNED, Her Royal Highness, Klara Elizaveta Barbanov His Lordship, Borris Iver Kortrevich, KML His Lordship, Felyx Francys Colborn Firress, Ipera Ashford de Falstaff Firr, Euleriphis of Karosgrad Firr, Hieromar of Karosgrad

Iulius Vernhart let out a violent cough, one that broke him, forcing him down to his knees a he gripped the tables. His throat hurt constantly now, as did his legs mouth, and legs, and well- pretty much everything hurt now. He watched as yet another man fell from the the grips of their physical lives. It didn’t matter if they passed or merely slept, they are fell into the slumber. An eternal pause. Iulius knew his time was soon- it had to be. The aged man, now watering blankly at the missive, simply crossed the Loraine. He was too week to get up and go see his sleeping friend, he was too weak to rise to grab his cane. He was too week to even make it to his bed. The man sat their, blood dripping from his bottom lip, staining the rug under him. “I’ll see you soon… soon.”

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 17 6th of Msitza ag Dargund, 439 E.S. Untitled Black crow flies on wearied wing, Yearning for hearth and home. Inbetwixt the fight and fray, The golden soldier finds hope. Northward fly, O’ bazen bird, Let now your sunken head rest, When yon tender touch met feeble hands, Amass into peaceful tranquility. Savagery - Extended You twist the words I use into a weapon to wield against me. Then use that morphed verbal dagger To murder my hopes and dreams. Tell me what path I have chosen wrong, What words have offended you so? That you would attack with such brutality, What lyrics have brought you to hostility? You take that which I birth with ink, Then mangle it to fit your own dilemma. That which was pure in it’s own right, Has not been defiled, used that unintended. Vile and cruel,deformation of language past. The elegant and beautiful words, Woven in such delicate array, Now smashed beyond the mold. What lies in Battle is Written by the Victor Memories of old Two visions unfold, Two stories unrolled. Two tales untold. See terrors foretold, All hope annulled Our victory sold. We go cold. Or Victory bold The glorious behold All the gold To be extolled. The winners controlled The entire mold. Influenced and cajoled One story told. This to then uphold. One story is told. One story is unrolled. One story is told. Gone - 839 E.S. Rewrite It dipped into the depths, this last light of mine. Entrenched in the darkness, I waste away. I shout, but the noise is consumed, Drowned by the splashing of waves on the rocks. Nothing remains, for all shall fall into ruin. And just as the sun disappears behind the sea, So too shall you disappear under the earth. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich, KML

I like songs, but what song?

Iulius Vernhart gripped onto his daughter, Juliana, rubbng her back in small circles as the two of them watched the motionless body which laid upon the cot. He stood silent, the drying tears leaving a dark stain upon his cheek. His eyes were red and puffy. He opened his mouth to speak, but he has naught the strength to say anything. So he simply thought. "And so goes another, this one, more dear to me than any." His thoughts however were interrupted by the sounds of heels clicking, someone entering the clinic. He turned to see who it was, his face numb- he felt near to death. Was this is what it felt like to lose someone who you loved? Apparently it was.

AULIC COURT OF THE KINGDOM OF HANSETI-RUSKA Krawn z. Kiramira 15th of Gronna ag Droba, 439 E.S. Jovenaars Firr Iulius Vernhart Prosecution Lady Isabel Baruch Defense Firr Wu Kiramira Testimonies None THE FOLLOWING CHARGES WERE BROUGHT AGAINST THE DEFENDANT; VII Let he who slays another outside of battle be guilty of Murder. XIII Let he who intrudes on the land of another, be it fief or building, be guilty of Trespass. (Jura I Kirma) THE FOLLOWING CLAIMS WERE BROUGHT BY THE DEFENDANT; The defendant, Firr Kiramira, admits guilt to all crimes proposed. THE FOLLOWING IS THE RATIONALE FOR THE DECISION FROM THE PRESIDING JOVENAAR; Jovenaar Iulius delivered the opinion of the court on the topic of guilt: The defendant is found guilty for all charges claimed. - Murder and Trespassing - Jovenaar Iulius delivered the opinion of the court on the topic of punishment: The defendant, Firr Kiramira, will be executed via whatever form of punishment the prosecution wishes. Therefore, the Defendant will be shot with an arrow, then fed to the gorillas. It is so ordered.

Iulius Vernhart, a long time Jovenaar and supporter of the office nodded as he saw the missive. “Adele Ludovar, I remember when she was only a yay big. Now look at her, Countess, Lady Speaker, and a High Justiciar.” The aged man then coughed deeply, spots of blood dotting the cloth as he wiped his mouth. He sighed, tossing the cloth over to the waste bin. “I look forward to watching her for however long I can.”

Ballad to the Haeseni People 9th of Wzuvar ag Byvca, 439 E.S. Written by Borris Iver Kortrevich Composed by Hamish Markus Kortrevich A ballad commissioned by His Majesty, King Karl III of Haense to celebrate and honor all the people who have strove to promote strong morals and firm foundations throughout these last 100 years. Hark the jovial tunes of Haense, Melody ripe with pride! The people dance, the merry sing, The music hits its stride! O’ how wonderful is the song, That echoes off of the red walls! Behold now, the culture great, Thriving in these halls! See the many Haeseni rejoice, Praising all who came before! For no kingdom could e’er stand, Without strength at its core! From battles fought, to labor wrought, We have been set apart! It is your fire that we admire, Shone from the very start! One hundred years have passed, Passion flows through your veins! So to you the praise shall be, O’ Citizens of Haense! No great deed doth presents itself, Bold hands need to guide it! This arduous task of advance, You shall never quit! On a field of battle or duma hall, For stability you’ve fought! How could one ever repay, Such a deserving lot? People of the golden crow. On each other, rely! Here is to one hundred more years, Hold your honor high! Signed Borris Iver Kortrevich KML, Battle-Bard of the BSK, Knight’s Bard, and Court Poet. Hamish Markus Kortrevich

The Silver Crows Anthology 8th of Gronna ag Droba, 438 E.S. Table of Contents Knights of the Crow - Bogatyr Period Tale of Ser Karl Amador* Tale of Ser Erwin Bishop Tale of Dame Lynette Mendez Tale of Ser Elimar Mondblume Tale of Ser August Barclay Tale of Ser Emil Barclay, Dame Emelya Kortrevich, and Dame Marie Ruthern Tale of Ser Abraham Rutledge Tale of Ser Reinhardt Barclay Tale of Ser Walton Tale of Dame Mariya Vyronov Tale of Ser Conrad Barclay Odes of the Fallen Ode of Konstanz Barclay Ode of Josef Ludovar Lament of the Fallen Squire Additional Poems The Unknown Knight A Glorious Future Awaits Knights of the Crow - Bogatyr Period The Tale of Ser Karl Amador* @giambro To defeat a Rimetroll, that was my quest. So, with sword, bow, and shield, I set out. Across the dense snow I searched far and wide. I reached a mound, one which was oddly shaped. Carefully raised my sword, then stabbed the hill. Much to my surprise, a troll laid within. Smacked off to the side as the troll stood tall. Raced to my feet, carefully eying it. The troll loomed, towering over my form. Quickly I lit a Carrion Cocktail, And threw it before the troll could react. Aimed for the head, but the beast raised her arm. Then with her right hand, grabbed me and gripped tight. Felt my ribs cracking under the pressure. I then tricked her into letting me go. It worked, the Rimetroll tossing me to the snow. Gear fell from my shoulder, into the cold. I climbed to my feet and gathered my stuff. Another cocktail I lit, aiming for her face. Even as I released it, it was too late. Flames cooked her legs, but she still ran towards me. Barely able, was I, to draw my sword. Before the bulky troll barreled into me. Wind fell my pipes just as my sword entered her. It was a crushing weight that consumed me. Yet even close to death, I knew my task. And it was then that the creature lifted. But this was not because she had fallen, Rather, the Rimetroll tossed me into the air. Luckily I landed on a soft mount. Then swifty, another bottle I threw. But alas, she did also hit me with Frost Breath. So the Rimetroll and I both lay dying. Her, severely burnt, and then I frozen. I would not give up, I would not give in. When it punched me with the last of her strength, I still did not yield, I would not falter. She breathed her last, my victory secured. But I would not die upon this great mount. For to my horse I called to take me home, Badly damaged, almost dead, but a knight. *A Knight of the Crow, not under the specified period. Tale of Ser Erwin Bishop @Lomiei Through the woods of Krusev I went, Up into the winding hills of Orenia, There I moved, my will unbent. Caught it in an animalistic pariah. Then the huge dulk noticed me. It’s horn dropped down toward the dirt, The beast charged, yet not would I flee Threw the shining oil at its feet, actions inert. The dulk slid down the mound to the water. After it I sprinted with the axe in hand. In the murky water, the fight for who was stronger. How many blows could I withstand? The fight raged on, each contender half submerged. Blows were exchanged in a viscous display. With every new hit, anger and determination surged. At the end of it all, it was I who won the day. Climbed upon its hairy posterior, Drove the point of the axehead down into its face. The creature roared and threw me off its figure. My weapon was held in an embrace. But there was no time to rest, For the creature turned and went at me once more. I lifted my sword in hopes to contest, When I woke up I laid upon the shore. I had finally killed the creature. Or rather, it has sacrificed itself. Pain contorted on every feature. The dulk was too large to carry myself. I cut off its head, satisfied after a grueling fight. I returned to the land that I love, a knight. Tale of Dame Lynette Mendez @CopOwl Into the old forests of Krusev I delve, Searching through the pitch blackness. Betwixt dense brush and thorns I tread, Till I found that which I was looking for. To kill a pack of wolves, that was my quest. One thought to be simple task turned arduous, Memories of past events flooded my mind to haunt me. But I would not give in, nor let my courage be flayed. Many weapons I held at the ready, I made my way past. There I saw what I needed, a wolf stood alone. I steadied myself, ready for the strike, But all at once tables quickly turned against me. And in an instant, I was completely surrounded That simply lone wolf now joined by two others. Yet one was killed quickly by a flaming bottle of booze, I tossed it majestically, shattering upon the head of the beast. Then came the mother, deep growls flaring in violent anger. Then she pounced upon me, sword knocked from my grip. A sharp pain in my hand as she bit through my fingers. But all was not lost, for I stretched to reach my cold spear. I stabbed the beast from below, a tip piercing its fatty chest. The body fell lifeless upon me, the beast now lay dead. And though my hand may be useless, nearly torn off. The quest stood complete, and now home I did trot. Tale of Ser Elimar Mondblume @Kujo I shall give it my all, I will not be bested. Watched as men scatter away from the fight. Flames all around, bodies on the ground, a challenger uncontested. The bold doppelganger stood untested. A ferocious beast, a hideous sight. I shall give it my all, I will not be bested. In the might of my sword, I invested. And our battle went into the night. Flames all around, bodies on the ground, a challenger uncontested. Just before the victory I wrested. A massive, spiked dragon did conquer the night. I shall still give it my all, I will not be bested. All my strength was being tested. On the ballista I hopped, aiming as it took flight. Flames all around, bodies on the ground, a challenger uncontested. Into its stomach the bolt had nested. Then plummeted from such a height. I gave it my all, I had not been bested. Flames all around, bodies on the ground, both challengers divested. Tale of Ser August Barclay @Ziggitee A simple task turned complicated. To hunt a pack of wolves within the overgrowth of Krusev. A mission of such basic repute flipped upon its head. To seek out the lot of wolves with the once mighty Krusev. I passed upon the stony statues of Kortreviches long dead, And brought myself to the edge of the forest, consumed by thicket. As I made my way in, I found myself searching around worn-down stead. I found the packs, murdered and bloody, yet it was not I that did it. In my unsureness, did I happen upon a Scyfling warrior with loosely woven thread. The grandson of a Braltian Chieftan with his own quest to complete. So, he and I talked for hours, sincerity plaguing our features at what was said. Duel would commence, the best warrior to prove their better feat. Yet throughout the bout, we did not realize that to us, a creature had been led. Alas, a gnarled beast, a skinwalker did lurch towards the warrior, now gravely injured. I did not flee or pause, instead, I took out my weapon, standing firm through the dread. Alas, the gnarled beast did fly towards me. This creature looked undead. Yet with motions as swift as I could, I sent my blade into it, the skull I did shred. It is the only way to kill the monstrosity, so I did it again and again, till it lay still. When the thing held no movement, only then did I sheath my weapon- covered in red. Several weapons had been used; their pieces scattered across the hill. It was then that I noticed the Hetvn on the ground, deep pains with every second. A warrior's death is what he asked for, so with my sword stroke, he took his final breath. Tale of Ser Emil Barclay, Dame Emelya Kortrevich, and Dame Marie Ruthern @sarahbarah@Liokv@Jaymock7 We approached the Lost city of Balian. Our eyes stayed vigilant, scanning our surroundings. Everything we looked at was familiar, yet alien, A stone fortress, the moss growing thick upon the walls. Barely noticeable at first, the magical moss lashed out, A dense greenish sluggish thing whipped out at us three. Matching each of the three knights, three tendrils did spout. It wrapped around our feet, pausing us where we stood. Yet now was not the time to cower with fear. So quickly we fought back, slashing down upon the plant. It latched on to Emelya, pulling her to our rear. Down the sandy bank she went, while we stayed upon the ledge. However no bulky tendril could cut down these knights, With a fire, desire overtook, our bodies boosted with stamina. Made short work of the overgrowth, us three did reunite. And onward into the ruins we went or thought we would without problem. Then upon the bridge, a hundred feet above. Shouted a familiar voice, that of a frightened child. “Papa, up here!” the voice called, someone whom I love. Though our confusion took a hold, we had to stay calm. Nothing short of difficult would be reconnecting with Leon For the fortress of balian, was dangerous and dark. And it was then, a tendril formed, and reached out to him. It grappled him then threw him, luckily straight into us. And it was again, the magic spikes, drawing power to moss once more. Back-to-back the four of us stood, our weapons all in hand. Struggled with the ferocious weed, seemingly more violent than before. Each defender held their own, the tendrils quickly defeated. Further into the ruins we went, for the quest we still must complete. The enchanted moss tried its best, but our might was no match. By the time we reached the mage, all the magic was depleted. So, he stood defenseless, at the mercy of us four. It was an odd scene then, the old man begging us to leave. However, we would not be without the map. After deliberation, the man did give it, bound for reprieve. So, the four then journeyed home, their item had been found. Tale of Ser Abraham Rutledge @1_Language_1 I move through these woods at a snail's pace, Carefully scanning the terrain, looking for any trace. Then there, in the distance, a shadowy figure loomed Eyes, solid white, trapped behind, cries of the doomed. So, I readied my spear and prepared to fight in this eerie place. Eyes survey my surroundings, deciding the best maneuver, Knuckles grew white around my spear before I moved to skewer. Flesh like vines, blood like rope, they slither and contort. The massive bear shape, a normal man’s courage it would abort. Yet I am not a man, I will be a knight, to slay is the task of a squire. I hurled my spear in hopes to wound, yet it was to no avail. For it was engulfed, then shot back out, nearly missing my tail. The daemonic beast roared as I let out a water blast. Yet this only proved to upset the monstrosity, it ran to me fast. Snapped down on my atronach arm and shredded my mail. Even as this entity did consume me, I still battled with might, Even as this entity choked me, I didn’t lose the fight. For in this tense moment, I shoved the willow bottle down its throat. In an instant, there was a boom, I wore his guts like a coat. Despite armor and limb destroyed, I traveled home, a knight. Tale of Ser Reinhardt Barclay @Capt_Chief26 I will not bend; I will not break. Marsh of murky water and dread. Far too dirty, the deep green water, opaque. Everything I have worked for; everything is at stake. Sweat I have poured, to here it has led. I will not bend; I will not break. Everything tenses, feel the ground under me shake Scally green beast, a colossus, rears its ugly head. Far too dirty, the deep green water, opaque. From the side, a blind stop, I move to shank. Four times the monsters pierced, yet at me, it still sped. I will not bend; I will not break. It trapped me, snapped me, full body did ache. Swallowed me and dove, for a second, I thought myself dead. Far too dirty, the deep green water, opaque. Drove the sword into its neck, then the creature did quake. From the inside, killed the beast, it’s brain I did shred. I did not bend; I did not break. Far too dirty, the deep green and red water, opaque. Tale of Ser Walton @ReveredOwl The head of a Prairie Dulk, nothing less. I stalk them, carefully planning out every last move. I set up a pitfall trap, to separate one is mine to trouve. Keep it alone, leaving it with utter hopelessness. The head of a Prairie Dulk, nothing less. I attempt to frighten them, yet their stillness I did reprove. So at them, I shot an arrow of fire, so the situation was to improve. Finally, they disperse in a tizzy, overcome by senselessness. The head of a Prairie Dulk, that is my goal. I made noises to attract them from behind that thick shrub. With haste, the mother did look around for her assumed cub. And into the pit she fell, she was now entrapped in the bowl. The head of a Prairie Dulk, that is my task. I climbed down in, weary of the tusks and the strength of the beast. But that didn't pause my motion to mount it’s back. Then, in a swift motion, brought my warhammer down on its casque. Yet that is not the end of my story, For in my distracted victory, another Dulk did find its way to me. I was trampled, crushed as it drugged me around. Unable to get free. But there was a calmness inside of me, so I did not worry. In an instant, I smashed a bottle of Carron black upon its face, Then let it ablaze with my torch that had been dropped. Its movement came to a halt, the body then plopped. And though my body was broken, I had the head of a Dulk, nothing less. Tale of Ser Conrad Barclay @ColdestPepsi To kill a festering cave leech, that is my task. When my trial is complete, in glory, I will bask. The Oracle said this job must be done. So with an axe in hand, and a bow on his back. With a blessing from the pontiff, and bottles of flame in my pack. I will finish it swiftly, the day easily won. Into the Rimveld I went with everything I needed. I entered the monster's cave, the Oracle's words being heeded. Yet it was not long before I was joined by another. A figure donned in armor, clad from head to toe. Claim the beast was his kill, though my mission he would not slow. So with duel ensured, each warrior stood ready for the other. I doused the floor with flame, a hopeful deterrent to defend. But much to my dismay, this fierce knight was undead. He charged through the blazing fire and swung at me with all his might. I swiftly ducked to the left, the greatsword missing my neck. Back and forth we struggled, though I kept him in check. And when I sent an arrow into his back, the force did blight. He wielded a sword in one hand, and chain in the next. However I kept calm, I would not let myself get vexed. I threw a bottle of flame, though I was skewered as well. Cut off my own arm. I would never be forced to submit. Drove my axe into its chest, not until it was dead would I quit. Terror enraptured its form, the lanky, glowing beast fell. Finally it succumbed to flame, fire and all. Over the defeated ashen knight I stood tall. Even with one less arm, I knew I still must complete my quest. And so I took on the leech, sluggish and overfed. Then with my mighty axe, I chopped off his head. Returned home a true knight, I had finished my final test. Tale of Dame Mariya Vyronov @EnderMaiashiro Of sand and stone it dwelt, manifesting in the thick heat. Fierce and bold, burrowing into the ground before its strikes. And so before the journey, about weaknesses I did inquire. No weapon could do damage, not swords, nor arrows, nor pikes. To kill this monstrous thing, that is what I desire. North of Savoy it dwelt, next to a ship deemed obsolete. The creature sat, bones jutting from its body like spikes. As the battle began I ran swiftly towards it, staying steady on my feet. Though it brutally attacked me, I would not retreat. I blocked the creature's blows, my soul filled with a courageous fire. When my axe fell, the beast let out a loud screech from its pipes. Even when I was struck in the shoulder, I was only filled with ire. An elfess came far too close, the creature made a strike. No hesitation could I now afford, the situation too dire. While I had to then protect her, I would let her cause me defeat. I pierced it through the eye, causing the beast to expire. I then raised my axe victoriously, my mission now complete. Through the toughest situations, I will always vire. So now I shall take my place among the other knights Odes of the Fallen The Ode of Konstanz Barclay You are cold to the touch. Eyes glossed and gray. What vibrance once held in Those now pale cheeks. Yet you look to be at peace, Face not twisted or gnarled, It holds expressionlessness. Despite the end you suffered. A Lord of green and blue A squire till the end of days. A man of great boldness. Shall you sit peacefully in the Seven Skies. The Ode of Josef Ludovar You sit upon the bloody cot, Expression of pain contorting your face. You succeeded, a trial passed. Yet you still lay here dying. It was pride that got the best of you, Though through your own strength, Completed your task. And still you pass into death. A Lord of great eagerness, A squire till the end of days, A man who never surrenders. Shall you sit peacefully in the Seven Skies. Lament of the Fallen Squire The light has faded from my eyes, My will ripped from my soul. A mind races with only vapid thoughts. The haunting feeling of a loss of control. I have fallen here upon this stale ground. Why has my strength failed me? My silent plies for mercy falling on deaf ears. So after all I gave, darkness is all I can see. It is a quest I have failed, a task not succeeded. Perhaps a simple mistake, or words not heeded. Maybe by arrogance, or pride, or shame, I fell. So I linger here, death I am unable to repel. I wished to do more, to be a knight as I dreamed. But I have failed in that regard, a hope snuffed out. As blows were exchanged, and sweat dripped. It was I that was defeated by an unsavory bout. This is where we are, at the end of the line. I am unable to escape that which I have found. To be a knight, completing quests without fail. But now I have fallen here upon this stale ground. The light has faded from my eyes, My will ripped from my soul. Additional Poems The Unknown Knight I watched as you fell, The sword snatched from your grip As you tumbled towards the pit. Your body broken upon the ground. What right did I have to be saved by you? For I am no man of worth. Yet in front of me in armor clad, You defended me blow after blow. You stood tall while I coward from my demons, And so you were forced to fight them all. Shimmery moonlight struck your polished metal, As you battled in through the night. The glistening sweat radiating, While I hid behind your defense. How could you summon the courage, To fight for those you did not know, Even those who looked away Those with brittle and week fortitude, Or perhaps it is because of those That you choose to stand and battle. For in their hour of desperate need, How could they defend themselves? And so you step in, knight of the unknown Even as it cost you your life. The deed is done, the day is won, To you everything is owed. A Glorious Future Awaits It is a glorious future that awaits, Path set before the lot, leading them on. Leaving out the door, bursting through the gates. And no trial would be forgone. It is a glorious future that awaits, Though one of hardship and challenge. One that discourages and abates. A path on which many have fallen. It is a glorious future that awaits, But through the trials they wish to climb Reversing the decision of the fates. Grow to be someone worthy in time. It is a glorious future that awaits, They seek to master what they’ve been taught. To take their place beside all the greats, Combining both great strength and wise thought. It is a glorious future that awaits, When the time comes to replace those who came before. When they are put on their mentor’s plates. They will seek out everything they hoped to restore. It is a glorious future that awaits, They are but a humble page, young in their walk. A future knight, seen by all the traits. Filling in all the gaps and cracks with caulk. It is a glorious future that awaits, They are ready, willing, and able. And when proven worth by passing fetes. In time they will all take a seat at the table. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich KML, Battle-Bard of the BSK, Knight's Bard, and Court Poet.

Thomas Komnenos read the missive, scanning it with his dull eyes. Yet with every word, more and more of a smile would grow across his features. “How happy I am for you, my brother.” The weary man said softly to himself. “You have grown immensely,”

It Never Stops The man sat upon the ledge of his keep, watching the rain as it descended downwards to the earth. His cold arms embraced the chilled, damp stone, holding his frail body. He was a young man still, only in his late thirties, yet his body often felt older. Thomas Komnenos was not a bitter man, even if he had plenty to be angry at. Instead he was simply tired and lost, delving often into the recesses of his keep’s library. The Library, a place he had built to surprise his wife during their 5 year anniversary. He could remember the shock on her face as the lift to the basement slowly lowered into the fresh smell of wood and leather. They had always wanted a library, a massive one in which they could spend all of their time. It was a good time, a simple time. Despite a civil war raging, then an international war, they kept their safety from it all. However, now, Thomas Komnenos simply watched as the gray skies held back the rays of light from falling. The Keep, a refuge first- then a home. There he and his wife had fought, laughed, and cried. It is where they spent a majority of their relationship, always caring for their children in the ways they could. But now… he was all that was left. The keep was far too empty, and the echoes resounding throughout the halls as he spoke to himself only enhanced the discomfort. Thomas Komnenos was a man beginning to be trapped in his own mind. The Mind. He was lost, he knew this now. It had been a brutal few years, a happy, bitter, painstaking few years. He had lost so much- too much. His mother had passed, shortly after his wife. Then the King and Queen he had served were slain, and the place where he had spent his time working fell. It was all so… hopeless. Thomas Komnenos often spoke to himself now, mumbling in paragraphs, overtaken by the constant, repetitive thoughts that flowed through his mind. “What could I have done differently? Why did this happen? Why wasn’t I there?” The words replayed in his head over, and over, and over, and over, and over, and over… The End. It was not his time to die, but it was not his time to live either. He was done, worn away by the constant rollercoastering of positives and negatives that seemed to consume his existence. He had made a life for himself, one that he was proud of. Yet there were things he knew he had done incorrectly. “I am sorry, Amandine.” He often said this. Thomas Komnenos knew he had failed his own children. Thomas Komnenos would stay here, should his children need him, within the walls of the empty keep.

Borris Iver Kortrevich paused as he published his last poem. He set the stack down on the table in the square like he always had. Today, however, felt different. Then he understood. "Oh cousin." He could hardly say, his eyes lofting up to the skies. Yet he found no peace looking to the heavens. A man who was a large part of his life earlier was now lost to the Seven Skies. "Ea shall see vy vhen ea get there, mea cousin."

Iulius Vernhart nodded before handing the missive back to his son. “Well written. You are going after something you believe to be wrong, that is something truly honorable. Know from this, my son, two roads will emerge. Two different types of people will walk down the roads. And thus, division will be caused.” @Raijen Stars

IGN: Tcs_tonsils_ Category: Creative Writing/Poetry Artwork:

“The Orenian Empire falls and the Kingdom of Oren takes its place. The Kindom of Oren falls and a Principality deemed ‘the commonwealth’ takes its place. Where shall the line be drawn? Perhaps when they are a Grand Duchy? Or a County? Perhaps when they are just a singular Barony like Acre? When will the fools open their eyes and realize that Oren is dead. Let it go.” The aging man coughed violently as he sat within the walls of his keep.

Sebastien’s studies were interrupted by missive given to him by the maids concerning the surrender of Oren to Acre and by addition, his family there. He deep sigh illuminated from the Savoyard. “They have lost so much, Father- Mother, and now their titles.” The boy said to himself, setting the paper down upon his desk. “I feel for my cousins- though I have no doubt that they will be alright. I should send a letter letting. Them know they shall be welcome here.”

I am sure I can fit another dnd campaign into all the others. Sounds like fun.

Sebastien Olivier Ashford de Savoie sat upon the steps of the inner palace. She had never known- nor it seems cared to know about her only nephew. There has been a day where the young de Savoie thought he might reach his hand out and have it be grasped by his family- pulled into a loving embrace by those those whose blood he shared. It then donned on him that those days were only in his mind. Yet as this day passed him by, it only brought him sadness. “And so it goes.”

Iulius Vernhart bent down next to his grieving wife, his hand placed upon her knee. He remained silent as he comforted her. They had lost much- and there was no relenting in sight. @MapleSunflower

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 16 17th of Tov ag Yermey, 436 E.S. [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich Unrelenting A well placed arrow can take down a mighty warrior. A well timed sword stroke can fell a great fighter. One misstep can ruin even the hardiest knight, One wrong action can lead to a cycle of ruin. Strength must inhibit ever bone of a soldier’s body, Lest he face the grisly end from an enemies’ strike. Or find themselves overtaken with fear in a critical moment. Careful planning must be upon the greatest asset. Never being overlooked, neglected, or placed away. It is the ability to push through that will always win someone the day. Corruption Only Thickens Pitiful stains upon a tapestry of the finest silk. You come, you take, and you leave death in your wake. Why, oh why does your name carry to such sorrow? Scorn of the earth, spewing poison with every word. Bane of an entire people, bolstering nothing but pain. A plague, formittible in scale, dragging all under your grip. Despair looms behind the cowardly and the weak. You seep into the crowd, spreading out your deceptions. And to the shadows you hide, using fear as your guide. Then you usurp everything that we try to hold dear. You corrupt those who trust, a festering wound of misdeed. Brittle hearts hold no hope, ruined lives hold no future. Spring Flower How does one compare you to the beauty of the blooming spring flower, When your beauty far surpasses that of the most gorgeous pedal. The gentleness of your soul pours from your kind eyes, A discernible elegance that springs forth from even aging bones. A glistening radiance befalls you, encircling you forevermore. When you move, you do so with the utmost amount of grace. You are water in the harsh desert, beautiful and precious. You have bewitched me, wrapping me around your finger. How one can resist such immaculate artistry is beyond me. You are an enchantress, granted with immense exquisiteness. And so I am drawn to you like bee to pollen. How I long to feel your tender touch upon my cheek. And have a shiver run down my spine every time you call my name. You are the breath that runs through my lungs, I shall never forget such things from the woman I love. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich KML

Borris Iver Kortrevich sat upon the floor, poems and writing scattered upon the floor of his work area. He had admired May's work, an inspiration for his own words. The great poets he had learned from were all but gone.