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The Scholar [!] A portrait of Iulius Vernhart, c. 415 E.S. Iulius Erik Vernhart nodded to Ser Abraham, his hands clasped behind his back as he had done hundreds, if not, thousands of times before. He couldn’t help but feel a tingle in the back of his neck, a bitterness coming as he watched the man before him. In an instant, they were there. Like the darkness enveloping a room when the last candle is snuffed out. Like the potent stench of a rotten egg invading any clean scent that may endure within a space, these animals- these savages- these heathens, flooded the square. What is happening? Why is this happening? Iulius Erik Vernhart watched as the horsemen surrounded the knight and his friend. While the first thing to strike him was confusion, it quickly morphed into anger and concern. Along with some guards, the Jovenaar did pull out his blade, gripping it till knuckles shone white. Iulius was not a knight. Iulius was not a soldier. Iulius was not a fighter. But Iulius did fight. What is happening? Why is this happening? Iulius Erik Vernhart pivoted- despite his terror, he saw the face of his friend, his best friend. Milo Kutznetsov. He stood beside him, his sword raised in preparation for the skirmish that they were both about to endure. Iulius, likewise, steadied his sword in front of him. His hands shook visibly, but he stood his ground. “This am the end, mea friend.” He whispered to the man beside him, yet there was no reply. What is happening? Why is this happening? Iulius Erik Vernhart turned back to the fight, to the horseman that was rushing forth at him. He sidestepped, his arms moving up to block the swung blade before it was to make contact with his head. Iulius blinked, amazed at his own quickened pace. However, the shock was short lived as the horse, rider in toe, charged at him once more. And once more, Iulius did block it, the blade clicking off his own. The tutor stood dumbfounded, the blade still held out before him. He backstepped, scanning the fight for some advantage. There seemed to be none. What is happening? Why is this happening? Iulius Erik Vernhart saw the opportunity, an attacker that was turned around. He stepped forth, sword pointed towards his spine… and with a hard thrust, sent the blade careening towards their back. Yet by some unholy curse the blade seemed to just bounce off, leaving barely a dent. It was at that moment, Iulius saw his fate. In an instant, he was surrounded, in another, struck down. One axe to the neck, two swords to the side. Iulius sank to the ground. His sword fell from his hands, chipping as it crashed against the road below. He felt his knees buckle under him, before his body retreated to that cool stone as well. He gurgled, blood spilling out from his sides and mouth. Iulius Erik Vernhart felt his eyes close, the street before him stained with the deep crimson of the scribe’s blood. What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? What is happening? Why is this happening? Iulius Erik Vernhart laid down for quite a while. Silent enveloped him. Darkness enveloped him. The chill enveloped him. However, Iulius’ eyes would eventually flutter open, his gaze cast upon the ceiling of the room. He opened his mouth, though the voice that came out was deep and coarse, a juxtaposition to his usual tone. “Ea… vhere?” “Hello, Mr. Vernhart.” He heard the soft, familiar voice of Dr. Primrose. “How are you feeling?” “F-fine… ea suppose.” Iulius stammered, watching the surgeon as she cleaned. He gave a soft exhale before moving to sit up. Yet in that moment, his eyes widened in shock. All of a sudden, emotions crashed against him. Tears rushed to his eyes as his breath became shaky. “E-ea.. Ea can't…Ea can't feel mea legs,” Iulius cried out, voice quivering heavily.. Iulius Erik Vernhart sat there on the table, hoping, praying, that he would wake from this dream- this nightmare. But no hope came. No prayers were answered. Iulius Erik Vernhart had been paralysed from the waist down.

The Tale of Ser Abraham 11th of Jula ag Piov, 422 E.S. [!] A portrait of Ser Abraham in mounted reconaissance. A poem, commissioned by Ser Abraham Rutledge 'The Faithful', first Southeron Knight of Haense, depicting his epic and heroic knight's trial involving a battle between the brave squire and a deadly bear made of twisted flesh. 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 did choke 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 armour and limb destroyed, I traveled home, a knight. [!] A portrait of bearesque monstrosity. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich Battle-Bard

Borris Iver Kortrevich nodded with improval to the invitation. "Ea shall be there vith a poem! Etes the least thes best man can do."

The Tale of Ser Reinhardt 6th of Joma ag Umund, 422 E.S. [!] A portrait depicting Ser Reinhardt Barclay mounted utop his trusty steed. A poem, commissioned by Ser Reinhardt Barclay, depicting his epic and heroic knight's trial involving a battle between the brave squire and a deadly Throqual. 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 lead. 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 me 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. [!] A portrait depicting the treacherous Throqual. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich Battle-Bard

Upon his brief return back to Jerovitz, Borris Iver Kortrevich would hear of the news of the Late Princess. He let out a deep exhale before standing in the wheat fields where Fort Flower used to be. Hate is a strong word. Vasilia had said this to Borris upon one of his many rants to friends and family. He did nod, staying silent as he moved back towards Haense. “Ea forgive vy.” He whispered out, not letting this consume him any longer.

"I Love You" [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich 11th of Msitza and Dargund, 421 E.S. Heartache when you are not around, WIthout you I seem to run aground, Why I long for you I will always expound, I love you, I love you. You will always be the light in my life. Where once I did have so much strife. Till long after they proclaim man and wife, I love you, I love you. There is no one else I would rather choose, A person I would rather die than lose. Someone who has trust they do not dare abuse. I love you, I love you. Come hither, my dearest, let me see your face. The twinkle in your eye, a reflection of space. When I very much need it, you give me grace. I love you, I love you. You are an aengul in a humanite form. Sowing up the veil that was previously torn. Repairing that which was once broken and worn. I love you, I love you. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich

Thomas Komnenos did look over to his new bride, a beaming smile upon his lips. "Tu es mon tout, mon amour." He said softly.

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 9 [!] A portrait of Borris Iver Kortrevich 17th of Tov ag Yermey, 421 E.S. “Lunar Light” The waters reflected millions of little orbs. Each glowing with the same readience as Their counterparts above. Trapped in the stillness. Moonlit gently kissed the pond before us. The stars illuminated, just enough, For me to see the smile by flushed cheeks. Silence seemed to envelope everything, The only thing to be heard, your breath and mine. Release of a soft hitch. Truly nothing to be said, for, in our minds, The noise would ruin the moment.We keep close, Staring out at the pond, seemingly frozen in time. Sitting for hours, I could do this again and again. The stars illuminated, just barely, The hand that was folded into mine. “Far from a Desperate Cry” Nothing seems to work. We all seem to crash and burn. Nothing seems to work. A grand expression Some grandiose endeavor. Didn’t seem to work. A hundred lanterns Illuminating the sky. I will continue. I will continue. Until I know for certain I will continue. A bard’s written song, Lines laced with underlying, And also clear meaning. It will continue It is how I always feel. Nothing has changed that. “50 years” We are growing old, my love. Though you are no less radiant. Eyes full of starlight, oceans of Blue trapped in orbs. You are brilliant, immaculate, With me through every little thing. Through the thick and the thin, In war and without. In times where the future was Unclear for those we love So dearly. Never have you Left my humbled side. 50 years have come. 50 years have gone. Till the day we depart this life. We shall never forget nor forsake each other. “You are” Stunning, stellar, you are starlight. Enticing, entertaining, you are enchantment. Blissful, Brilliant, you are a blessing. Melodious, majestic, you are my muse. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich

Borris Iver Kortrevich scanned the missive. Nothing could suprise him anymore, until he read on the positive feedback to his poetry by none other than the writer of the Hearsay themselves... He blinked and smiled some. He folded the missive and set it way for the history books.

IN-CHARACTER What is your name? Thomas Komnenos Why seek membership to the Mages Guild? I wish to learn the voidal arts of Water Evocation. What arts, if any, do you currently practice? None What position do you desire to attain upon acceptance? Practicus When should you be contacted for an interview? Basically whenever I am free. Generally after 3pm est.

Borris Iver Kortrevich looked out from his window in Jerovitz. His face head a bright smile, though his eyes held a tired gleem. "Peace at last. Make it last. Peace at last." He stated, jotting down the words in his poetry journal. Iulius Vernhart sat at his desk and pondered the thought. He mulled it over several time before a smile was brought to his face. He sat down the missive, his eyes scanning the room before hopping up and rushing down to the dinner table where his family had prepared a dinner. "Let us go visit our family in Oren. Yam sure vyr parents would love to see the kids grown up." He smiled at Madeline. @MapleSunflower Thomas Komnenos held both hands behind his back as he read the missive on the public billboard. A smile crept over his features as the prospect of using his training as an ambassador found it's say into his mind yet again. "Perfect."

Borris Iver Kortrevich beamed as he read over invitation. Moments from their conversation mere hours before the news. “I believe in your ability to provide the most for your family, Prince Lucien” Borris whispered as he sat by the fire. “Godan be with you and your soon-to-be wife.”

Borris Iver Kortrevich chuckled at the conversation that was happening before him as he opened the note and read. "Oh! Awesome! Matyas and Adele are getting married!"

Borris Iver Kortrevich watched over the scene with growing anxiety. "They should just slit his throat and be done with it." He has once whispered to Amara, the two watching over the scene. Yet, the longer his gaze lingered upon the friend he had once trusted, the friend he had once tried to help, and the friend who had eventually betrayed his trust, he couldn't help but feel sorry for the man. "Love is difficult." Prince Lucien's words rang solemnly in Borris' mind. "Love is complex." He repeated, words barely audible even to his own ears. How did we fall so far? How did we get from where we were to here on the cold stone before us? Questions bounced around in the young lord's brain. He shook his head, quickly wiping the gloss that had formed over his eyes as he stared at the doomed Lord he has once called brother. "We reap what we sow. The good and the bad." Borris closed his eyes as the blade fell.

Borris Iver Kortrevich lit up as he read the missive. He beamed as he rushed up to his room, throwing open multiple books as he prepared. "Ea shall vrite them the dobriest poem." He nodded, giddy with anticipation as he got to work.

Borris Iver Kortrevich stands proudly upon the rampart. Legs dangle over the wall, the young lord jots down ideas for future poems glorifying the BSK and Haense as a whole. He bobs his head back to forth, continuing to keep that grin upon his face.

ANTHEMS OF BROTHERHOOD: WAR OF THE WHIGS 8th of Tov ag Yermey, 420 E.S. [!] A portrait depicting the Siege of Southbridge “Siege of Southbridge” I can see the fortress from the waters edge, That looming massive structure. Men upon the wall, birds upon a hedge. Their faces a blotch upon the upper. The men and dwed stand shoulder to shoulder, Crossbows knocked and ready, Waves break and white foam brings in from polder. Like a final breath before the plunge. And all at once, hell breaks its locks As a command is given to fire. Those massive wooden towers cut loose, Tributches launching only death and destruction. I can’t remember how many arrows we released. Just that with every arrow the sky turned more gray We were standing upon the waters edge. Yet I could hear crying upon that wall. Stones cracked and broke and fell, The wall came tumbling down. Men screamed and died, The soldiers came tumbling down. And so with brute force We pushed those Orenians back. Their pitiful,looming massive structure. Diminished to rubble and ash. “No Honor” No honor in a honor duel, No honor after the result is given. You gnash your teeth, shaking as our Champion dominates the battlefield. Celebration comes to a halt as you Cowardly take your cheap shot. You scream death to those invited in good faith, Stark raving mad in your pursuit. You turn on us like hungry dogs, Who forget the mouths that feed them. You slaughter and kill with foolish indignation, Which only deals to slander your own name. The is no glory if there is not honor, And there is no honor in such actions. You murder at Arichsdorf, cutting down Hundreds in your unforgivable butchery. But all hope is not lost, even through The desperate initiatives of our enemy. For we shall rise to avenge the brave That were betrayed at Arichsdorf. [!] A portrait depicting the defeat of Tripartite forces at Haverlock Fields “I Dreamed a Dream I Dreamt.” I linger here, if not just to see The hope of a glorious revival. A maintained pasture of something Far beyond the scope of a man’s denial. That awful and wonderful dream I dreamt, A glowing orange that illuminated The sky, in a stark contrast with the dark Crimson that stained the entire hill. That awful and wonderful dream I dreamt The trees swayed gently in the nothingness. Streaks of light fell from the Seven Skies around me, As if to pick and choose those who came. That awful and wonderful dream I dreamt Where the birds of the fallen shrieked In a pitiful agony, yet their voices were But a faint cry to my own broken soul. That awful and wonderful dream I dreamt Where the sky crackled as dark clouds Zoomed over the growing night sky. Their forms hid all of the stars. That awful and wonderful dream I dreamt Where the world morphed into dull Colors. Boring and simplistic, it was. A rush of something dwelled within. It was on this this hill, amongst The silent thousands that I found myself again. Tears streamed down my face as the darkness Creeped in and consumed everything I knew. “Merciful Ruler” He ponders, wonders what it is that he should do. Hand affirms on the grip, a stern expression resting upon his lips. Light beams, streams into the room, illuminating his back. Hand affirms on the grip, eyes tense with thought. Words of woe, slow, they do not retreat from his mouth. Eyes glanced between them, studying their freight. Tears rain, strain as they croak out pleads for safety. Eyes glanced between them, taking note of their despair. Orbs watch, swatch upon a blank canvas of people. Deep sigh finds its escape, words forming in his mouth. Tender embrace, aface to those he was enemy of. Deep sigh finds its escape, delicate touch of a merciful ruler. “For reprieve, leave back to where you came with your lives.” Cries exude, tears of such relief and joy. “Take peace, release those fears you once had here.” Cries exude, as they are reunited with those they love. Ruling’s gilden burden, to know when to strike and when to be merciful. [!] A portrait depicting the march of Haeseni forces to Eastfleet “Death at Eastfleet” So let loose thine arrows, send them hurtling toward the enemy. With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky. And with a single thunderous clap, the wrenched return with their own volley. Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky. They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything it touches. Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body blushes. They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything it touches. “Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin. Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body blushes. “Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind. “Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin. And so we did. Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. “Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind. Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor. Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. Blessed iron met with heathen steel, as both forces met midway. Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor. Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day. Blessed iron met with Anathema’s steel, as both forces met midway. My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others. Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day. Fighting lasts through the day, till each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers. My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others. I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary. Each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers. Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary. I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary. I hear the calls of our brethren who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary. Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood. I hear the calls of our brethren who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. Doomed souls, longing for the release of death, something to relieve their strife. Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood. Godan strike us down lest we forget their sacrifice. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich, Battle-Bard of the BSK

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 8 [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich 1st of Msitza und Dargund, 420 E.S. “Time” Blink and it is gone, Yet stays for eternity If you watch for it. Wish for it to slow Yearn for it to just fly by It never listens Live in the moment Everyone says to me Live in the moment So why does it seem I wait for perfect timing Just for it to pass. I hope to find peace Between the unknown and known In times of great doubt Time is forgotten And we continue living Because we just do. “Honor and Love” Sweat dons from a weary brow. Knuckles enveloped in white as they Grip the leather hit of a steel blade. Breath deeply, slowly, calmly. “I challenge you then, Lord.” The man one said with an angry bark. “I challenge you to a duel of love and honor.” The Lord huffed, a stance of rage overcoming. Face hot, eyes swollen red with anger And hurt, the man stood his ground. If not for Honor, he could have sworn he would have Cut him down where he stood. “Nie, nie, a duel.” He reasoned, his own Mind a pit of anguish, yet inside held the Deep passion for the love he beckoned for. He would fight for that of love and honor. They meet, each lord adorned in their own Armor, blade, fans, and ideologies. Armor clinked as iron met iron, swords Doomed to slash amongst a cheering multitude. Sweat dons from a weary brow. Knuckles enveloped in white as they Grip the leather hit of a steel blade. Breath deeply, slowly, calmly. One winner stands victorious. “I won my challenge then, Lord.” “I won the challenge of love and honor.” The Lord called, a grin beamed upon his face. Eyes interlocked then, With the one he had fought so gallantly for. Eyes interlocked then, He fought for that of love and honor. “Restless” The days grow restless, The days grow restless, As pandemonium bites at my core. The days grow restless, As pandemonium bites at my core, Beating me with a fury of never ending trials. The days grow restless, As pandemonium bites at my core, Beating me with a fury of never ending trials. Yet all is not lost. Yet all is not lost. Yet all is not lost. For this is not the end of the line. Yet all is not lost, For this is not the end of the line, There is still so much good to be done. Yet all is not lost, For this is not the end of the line, There is still so much good to be done. The bitter darkness shall not overtake pure light. “From Rest Comes a Gentle Hand" A poem commissioned for Madeline You are everything, My love, my darling. You mold me, Fix and redeem me, You supply me with all I need. We cultivated a relationship, They could hardly fathom. Things go unspoken, We understand with perfect clarity. How could they ever relate? You saved me, Completely, Wholly, Absolutely. Where would I be without you? Mindlessly wasting time Drinking into oblivion, Crossing blurring gray lines. So pull me closer, love. Let me adore your tenderness. Let me rest my head upon your skin, Just that I might hear the heart skip its beat.

Borris Iver Kortrevich looked out upon the vast hillscapes behind Jerovitz. More recently, his long conversations with Prince Lucien. He raised his spiked coffee up into the air with a soft smile. "To vy, mea friend. Shall thes bring rest to vy." Likewise, he thought about conversations with Renata, while not as in depth as those with her brother, he knew she would lead the nation well. Borris kept the mug raised. "To Her Serene Highness, Renata. May vyr reign be long and fruitful."

Borris sat upon the ends of the docks, feet kicking out as they hung over the waters. The night was brisk, the wind rubbing against his cheek and playing with with his hair that was far too long at this point. He had his hands folded on his lap, grayish-blue hues locked onto the water. The waves clapped against the against the pillars underneath, sloshing, foaming, and breaking softly in the night. The young lord peered out into the water, even if he could only see the once part that was reflected by the moonlight. It flowed up and down, hills and vallies that moved in lines. "It's quite cold." A gentle voice rang out from behind him, the soft boot-steps causing the wood to shift and creek. They paused, watching the young man as the sat upon the edge of the dock, his head not yet turning to greet theirs. "Et Es." He spoke, looking up from the dark waters before shifting, head twisting back to watch the the dark figure now looming a few feet behind him. Having been put out long before, no lantern light illuminated the form as they stood to the side. Despite the bitterness on the breeze, Borris did not shiver. Rather, he found himself warmed a bit. "Vy are late, as alvays." "As you always say." The person spoke, their voice somewhat haunting in the stil night. They stepped forward, not that the person infront of them could tell. "What is tonight's topic of discussion, my Lord Kortrevich." "Life, death, time. Same as alvays." Borris turned back out to the shapeless void infront of him. He had been sitting her for many minutes- or perhaps it had been a few hours. He figited with his hands, a soft exhale exsuding from his cracked lips. "Never ever slows down." He continued with a simple tone. "Seems to move at blazing speeds, forgetting all those who do not choose to move a fast." "I do not think so, Lord Kortrevich. Time, often, seems as if it is at a standstill, never moving, making those who linger wait an eternity." He figure would move closer, a motion that brought them nearly ontop of the young man. "Time moves at the pace we do. When it goes fast, maybe it is just because we are doing things that don't allow us to notice. When it goes slow, maybe it is just because we are waiting for something to happen, so time is on our mind." "Perhaps." Borris muttered, still looking out onto the waters. His head turned as the faintest hint of light creeped over the horizon. Just like that, all was still and the Lord Kortrevich was alone again with nothing but his thoughts and imaginations. "Nothing remains for all shall fall into ruin." Perhaps Borris Iver Kortrevich was going mad or perhaps there really had been someone behind him. Either way, his mind continued to drift off as he stared out at the abyss.

Definitely who I would vote for. So cheery all the time... despite all the names LMFAO! Always joking of course! Congratz

"I Hate You" [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich 11th of Wzuvar und Byvca, 420 E.S. Knife in my back, All eventually goes black, Crippled from the final smack, I hate you, I hate you. Pain derived from a simple blow, The breaking of a tightly strung bow. Stress and hurt is all you sow. I hate you, I hate you. Give me the salt, a rush of gloom Give me salt, I’ll pour it on the wound. It is only yourself which brings doom. I hate you, I hate you. Nothing you say will ever change such a thing, I am sick of the destruction in which you bring. Forced to move on, yet I still feel the sting, I hate you, I hate you. You are Iblees in a humanite form. Cutting up the veil that was already torn. Something that was already deteriorated and worn I hate you, I hate you. You spurn me, wench. You insult me, wretch. You will suffer, watch. I will always hate you.

Borris Iver Kortrevich raised a brow as he read the letter, head shaking softly as he swung his flamberge idly. He folded the paper, allowing for the place and date to be at the center of the page. Borris then shoved the announcement into his pocket and walked out the door to find a certain someone for training.

Iulius Vernhart bounced Jakob in his arms, the smile and laughter that had erupted moments prior had been drowned out by such news. He sighed, makings his way over to her as she knelt. He tucked the one year old into his right arm then extended his hand down to rest on her shoulder. Iulius closed his eyes, whispering his own silent prayer. Perhaps Iulius thought. Perhaps had there not been a war, we would be better friends, Lord. He stayed silent as he watched her get up and moved towards the door. He smiled softly, nodded his head, then waited for her to return, still bouncing the boy some.

Borris Iver Kortrevich sat upon the balcony of Jerovitz, his back against the wall and his leg swinging off the side. Borris scribbled away in his journal, pausing every so often to look up into the clouds. He closed his book, then tossed it through the open doorway as the rain began to fall. Each drop that hit is face caused him to flinch. “Perhaps everything es truly over now.”