tcs_tonsils_

Gaspard Ashford de Savoie's eyes flicked to the side as the King of Man spoke. Despite having his sword in its sheath upon his side, he had no intention of drawing it. Even as the dirt and gravel crunched beneath the feet of rapidly approaching men, the Savoyard allowed his hands to be at rest. He wondered if the de Rouens had come to threaten him and his father, Theodoros... or if they had come to lure them into a more private place to skewer them there. Surely, not even the Field Marshal of Burgundy would be as bold as to slay an innocent man in front of so many, including King Tiberias himself. Gaspard thought, watching as Roger de Rouen stepped behind the two. Lucien pulled out his sword whilst standing before them. Quickly, other de Rouens followed suit, crowding around the de Savoies. He watched as Lucien lifted his blade towards Theodoros, barking at him to yield- calling him Traitor. Yet it was from behind the two that a firmer voice sounded, the grit and tiredness, undeniably resilient- Roger. "You are now under arrest by the Field-Marshal of Burgundy." “For what If I may ask?” Gaspard's father asked, but no answer came to his questions. “For what If I may ask?” He asked louder, his voice hightening over the cacophany of voices... still no answer came. Gaspard was answered by their silence, yet it did not surprise him in the slightest. His orbs bounced around, studying those who were here and involved, and some whose attention had been drawn by the shouting. It was at this that he smiled and turned his gaze back to his distant relative. "We of Numendil- of Adria, who have committed no crime, are being arrested. How lovely. This shall surely be interesting." Interestingly, that too got no response from the de Rouens. "If only Louis were here… surely… this would be different. But alas. Oh brother Louis, where thou art." The Savoyard spoke again, watching now as several heads turned at the mention of Louis. "Your Words are Wind," Roger said, his own sword now drawn. At last, a response, he is not a mute! Gaspard thought, a small smirk still in some fashion upon his lips. However, at the sight of others beginning to ask questions about what was happening with the group, he turned his eyes once more from Roger to Athaenis Vourkehardt. "A long-time feud, they wish to kill us because we are of de Savoie. But we are of Numendil and have done no wrong, so on what grounds do they arrest us? They have given none. I am now to die it seems, just as soon as Roger here stabs me in the gut or lobs my head off... Just as he did with my brother and attempted to do with my cousin.” He watched as the group gathered... citizens, priests, knights, officials... they gathered around to see what the commotion was. Yet it was not until Gaspard was forced to his knees by the man called Lucien that they truly began to ask questions. What has this man done? Why do you do this? What right do you have? But did answers come to these questions... none at all. "Halt." A Patriarch-Cardinal said, yet no action to do so came from the de Rouens. And it was in such that Gaspard knew he was to die upon the mud. His smirk grew a little larger despite this. His voice sounded in a mocking exhale. "Witness all, as the Field Marshal stabs an innocent man over a family feud. So respectable." His words were but silence to the deaf ears of the de Rouen. And yet, he could not halt the smirk that had consumed his lips. Even as the blade was held at his throat did the smile faile to yield. Even as, despite the ordering of Officials and Priests to hold off, the sword was plunged into Gaspard's neck was his smirk held. "You're Fucked Now" Gaspard called, eyes lingering upon Roger as the warm, crimson ichor squirted from his throat onto sword, ground, and cloth. The face of a de Rouen was the last thing he ever saw before the light was struck from his eyes. The young de Savoie fell limp and sank to the mud beneath him- a Savoyard Smirk still covering his lips.

Sigismund de Lyons grinned. His mother's family... RUTHERN... they were finally standing in Unison. "We stand with you. We shall fall with you. Ave Balian. Ave Ruthern."

"Just as I said..." A de Lyon's lips thinned. "It begins."

Heed these words for the days grow short, though our steadfast nature has yet to wane. What kind of men are you who would sit in your keeps and your cities, feasting, drinking, and celebrating over spilled canonist blood? Even Good King John, a wicked man in your eyes, wept for a fallen adversary and prayed for their family. But your hearts are hardened by a growing greed- bittered by the fruit of lust for glory. You weep not for those who breathed their last for their deaths mean nothing to those lacking honor and virtue. Many men of such have insulted us for not raiding the lands of our enemies, a common occurrence in war. These petty games are the tactics of cowards who pursue only the hunt and the kill. They gawk because they lack the understanding of what we desire. We seek to uphold our nation and bolster what culture has been sustained, not tear down that which has been gained elsewhere. Still, you slander our name. You brand us a people who choose a foolish war, yet we fall upon the defensive. You draw upon insults towards us in hopes of seducing allies to a false cause. What vile spittle you release from your towers, praying they would be lured in to lick the cuts dealt upon your prideful ego. I pity these allies who have been blinded by your erroneous gestures of good fortune, for they see not that they are but an ant beneath the boot, a servant to a cruel master. Perhaps they view your companionship as filiality, or perhaps Brotherhood. The harsh reality is that empires share no room for equals. When Burgundy has sank their bastard swords deep into our bellies, their sights shall twist towards others they deem unworthy. And after finding no one left whom they already named adversary, they shall surely look to conquer a lesser friend. For the Church and Burgundy claim they hold fast to the letters of the Holy Law. Yet when their allies do not, should they not vanquish ones who look to delegitimize it? Orcs, Dwarves, Elves, and those who lack the correct faith- historical enemies of the Church. Why should the Empire’s crusade halt here? If they are willing to reduce fellow canonists to ash, what is to say they will not continue in earnest towards those that lack this faith? They fight Balian and they fight amongst themselves. Strife has already consumed some as the power vacuum grows. We bear witness to the frustrations this empire already suffers. Your people go at each other’s throats. They bicker like spoiled children when their way is not had. Why do you squabble amongst yourselves? Should you not be rejoicing for the new era that is upon you? Instead, your leaders turn on one another to seek nothing but their own gain. But we, the men and women of Balian, shall not stoop to such petty antics. We do not ramble in our small circles, plotting and scheming. We, who have suffered much, have come together to stand defiantly against you. What rejoicing is to be had from us? None. Yet we stand more unified than you shall ever hope. How dare we choose to fight instead of being led like a lamb to the slaughter! How dare we oppose the warmongers! We shall continue to defend the last Free Kingdom of Men, one that the filth of this Orenian Emperor want-to-be has not contaminated. We shall let our voices ring out from every palisade built and every defense enacted- and when our city walls are painted crimson with human ichor, then our blood shall continue to cry out what treachery came upon Balian. Then, shall the thousands of rotting corpses and the smell they acquire sicken even the strongest of wills. When those with stomachs of iron find their bellies upturned, they will know their pretenses were false. So let our streets run red if it should prove our willingness to combat this vile tyranny. Signed and Dated: Balian Annum, 158

“Interesting“ A Savoyard said as he scanned the missive. Gaspard rubbed his chin, contemplating what could possibly have transpired between the two to cause such a reaction. “Well, brother, you always did know how to make a show of things. Regardless…“ he then stood, looking to find supplies for a letter.

Sigismund de Lyons watched the flames raging from the city walls. As they rowed back across the river, he tapped his side before looking at the oldest Novellen Prince. Many had been slain and the keep had fallen that day. "This is our stance, we know the consequences. Our resolve is unchanged." @Stal27

Sigismund de Lyons tapped his pen idly on the missive. He cringed at the things that this Holy Church did to his Queen. "And they call themselves respectable. Disgusting. More abuse and contradiction from the Mother Church."

Behind the raised defenses of Portoregne, the citizens of Balian wish to bring our words forth to the attention of all those in Aevos who wish to see us eradicated. We, the citizens of Balian, shall not back down so quickly, despite the numerous swords held against us. The Church, Numendil, Norland, Haelu’nor, Caurost, the Horde, the Shogunate, and the Dwarves of Urguan fought against the so-called tyranny of the Haeseni Empire. Yet when they were defeated, who then did The Holy Mother Church raise its finger to? Balian. Not for the lies of its unfaithfulness, nor how it has conducted itself, but for the simple hope of wiping the name of Novellen, for it is the only thing standing in the way of creating the Holy Empire once more. We, a nation who drove ourselves from the treachery of Oren, built anew in the lands of Sand and Stone. From nothing but dust, we rebuilt a city and called it home. Many came to our doorstep, seeking refuge. We accepted all who traveled to our gates, adapting them so that they might find the light of GOD and seek a life of virtue. See what great works have been done? No, you have seen not, for you are too ignorant and too hypocritical to look past your own greed and selfishness. You whine and pout that the oaths of olde are held not, but cannot come to terms that you have contradicted yourself many times. You do not see that you have corrupted your own ideas, morphing them into whatever you fancy. History shall not remember Balian as a righteous nation, not because they were unholy or unjustified, but because the winners write what is to be considered truth. You shall mark every Balianite as a scoundrel and traitor. You shall mark every Balianite as foolish and ignorant. You spit where we walk. You hold on to your petty grievances and chide us when annoyed by the smallest of actions. You falsify accusations against us, so that you seem on the correct front of history. It is but a ruse. However, we are not so easily seduced. We the citizens of Balian shall not stand idly by as you plot to march on our homelands. We shall not sit in our homes and weep as you point your blades to our Good King. Our men, women, and children will take up arms against your spiteful siege, for such is right. Even if Balian is to fall into the ocean as you march, if you intend to rip a crown off our King’s head, we intend to make you fight for it. To those who have fallen or taken deals with the once enemies, know we hold no resentment or malice towards you. You were fortunate to be given far fairer terms than we. We thank you for your fortitude and your courage to defend against the wicked, masked as righteous. To those citizens who have forgotten their oaths to the Kingdom of Balian, know that you once attributed to the great culture you now seek to destroy. We pray that you who have lost the light and fallen into congruence with those who oppose us out of nothing but greed and pettiness shall one day find restoration in the sight of GOD. To those who seek to abolish our way of living to suit your own matters, know that you shall fall in due time. So, deem us whatever you wish. But our stance is unwavering, unyielding, untamed. You may slaughter every man, woman, and child, but we shall never relinquish what was forged here. We seek not glory, honor, power, wealth, standing, or pleasure. We shall not fall quietly in the night while evil men attempt to stamp out the good that we have found. We shall raise our banners high into the air, over our burning city, over our dead and dying. We know the consequences, but we fight all the same. ┏━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┓ We’ll stand with GOD, with friends, with family, with Kingdom. We’ll stand in the fire and the flames, in the mud and the muck. We’ll stand in the ruins of our streets, in the pouring down rain. We’ll stand against the aggressive hand of oppressive tyranny. We’ll stand, though we may fall. We’ll stand together. We stand with Balian. Come take our land, we will be waiting. Novellen or Nothing, till our last dying breath. ┗━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━┛ Signed and Dated: Balian Annum, 156

Somewhere in the ether, in a place out of time or space, a figure would emerge with a smile upon his face. With hands interlocked before him, he watched the newcomer with admiration. “Well done, you, the Sun-bathed. Your hardships were many, but you shall not be so easily forgotten.” The Last of Savoy, gestured forth to Oywn, “Come, come. There are many who wish to greet you.”

"Has our situation changed? No? Don't care, moving on." Sigismund de Lyons stated then he continued to work on deterrence.

What experience has changed you the most regarding how you look at roleplay?

-1 Dietrich Barclay scratches his head. "Where do these people keep popping up from?"

Dietrich Barclay watched from his distance as the war faded. This was not a Thunderous Finale... this was a whimpering... echoing off the cave walls. But whatever happened with this nation, he trusted his Nephew. "Let us find peace in this." He then turned and showed the missive to Maebh @TaytoTot

What in the world is it with LOTC and islands beginning with the letter A.

Sigismund de Lyons bobs his head whilst grinning from ear to ear. "The right side."

"Oh yeah, I've seen that... looks like it hasn't seen action in decades... did he not see ahh the dust and rubble on the ground? And the blood is barely visible..." The de Lyons said before shrugging and tossing the missive into the fire.

Sébastien, Last of Savoy My Brethren, Hear me now, for I am aged and near my twilight. Let this letter stand as my final testament—a record of all I have seen, all I have learned, and all that I leave behind. From my earliest years, I set forth to carve my destiny from the remnants of a shattered world. I labored to restore what was lost, treasuring each fragile fragment of the past. Never have I regretted the road I walked, nor the name I bore from birth. I sought out my father’s kin, forging alliances where none had stood, making peace where once there had been enmity—Colborn and Barclay alike. In my travels, I studied the histories of the Ashford people, for only through remembrance can we guard against the folly of forgetting. I found mentors who guided me and scorners who mocked me, yet neither praise nor derision swayed my course. I have made many friends along the way, many of whom befriended me, though they did not approve of the part I was to play in the story of the Ashford people. Across a century and a half, I have lived many lives. Some have called me prince, others traitor; some deemed me righteous, others lost. Truly, people call me by whatever title it takes to fill their appetites. And, I must confess, I was not immune to the allure of such games—for before me was laid a banquet of both the sweetest berries and the bitterest grapes. One truth I have come to understand: those who have basked in the glory of the past shall ever resist the winds of change. We, the long-lived, hoard dominion over what must, in time, be yielded. We steal what triumphs are had, and neglect what failures are obtained. Many wish Savoy and its progeny to be dead—that they must be crushed like a serpent beneath the wary traveler’s boot. And yet, do we not still draw breath? Do we not endure through those who bear its name? There is no power or wealth to be sought, only righteous veneration of our lineage. We remain de Savoie not for power, but for reverence. We remain de Savoie out of respect for our forebearers. Above all else, however, we are Ashford… planted light where at once there was a world of darkness- the light shall not be extinguished. Ashford! Ashford! Ashford! The Sun shall never set. Sébastien settled upon the ground, having found a place that was shaded by many trees. He watched as the water beat a foaming hand against the cliffside. He looked out upon the horizons amidst the vast seas. He had long since forgotten the feeling of dilapidated stone under his fingers or the voices trapped inside a rotting San Luciano after its fall. But if he squinted just right, he could visualize all the things he had loved. The towers of Peremont, and his home in Bethlenen. He saw the face of Anabel Colborn and the children he sired. He saw the families he had grown close with in his search for his father… and the part they had played in the shaping of his story. But just as his eyes were beginning to close, he watched as a vast multitude of Savoyards sang and danced in the halls of a grand banquet hall. They drank and were merry. But there was something more… in the distance… draped in the light sat a group of nomads- lifting their hands to the warmth of the sun. “Could this be?” The Ashford asked the image slowly faded from his eyes. Soon there was nothing but the darkness of his lids and the splashing of the waves. “At last… peace.” So, Sébastien, son of Lucien, Last of Savoy smiled as he allowed himself to drift off for the final time for his story was finally complete.

The Transference of Titleage ISSUED AND CONFIRMED BY SER SEBASTIEN ASHFORD DE SAVOIE Upon the 12th of The Amber Cold, 224 SA To be recorded in the histories, I hereby declare that the titles I have inherited, by right, are henceforth passed down to Théodoros Ashford de Savoie. These titles hold no land but are nevertheless beholden to the name of Ashford de Savoie through ceremony and tradition. These titles are as follows: I. Count of Peremont II. Count of Sarissa III. Baron of Brynnrose Let it be known that should the line of Ashford de Savoie be stamped out, all titles shall be dissolved. By the light of the sun and by the Grace of God do we walk the path. We are but lost without. Signed, HIS LORDSHIP, Ser Sébastien ‘The White Sun’ Ashford de Savoie, Count of Peremont and Sarissa, Baron of Brynnose, Last of Savoy. Théodoros Ashford de Savoie

Dietrich watched as the sun set from the Palace. He always enjoyed climbing to the highest points of the towers, despite the harsh backlash from his father. His father... the man was gone. Not dead yet, but no longer living amonst them. It was odd to him that he didn't feel any sort of comfort in that reality. He was just, numb. "We are begin anew." The Barclay said as he continued to stare out.

Dietrich Barclay paced up and down the training yard, his gauntleted hand holding a wrinkled missive. He was still here. He wasn't going anywhere... and yet, nobody saw him. He screamed and placed it upon the training dummy before slicing it many times with his sword. "Damn you!"

Hope everyone had a good Easter!

101 | Astana de Régne Petrére MUSIC: LYRICS: O’ Sweet Esmerelda, With hair all lined with flowers, I met you in the tavern, And we talked for many hours. How tender was her melody, Her song could make a grown man weep, When you had to go, A part of my soul did die. You said "don’t fear, boy, we’ll meet again, I’ll buy you drinks and surely then You’ll get to spy my smile all night, And we’ll talk till the sun gives light." But until then… O’ Sweet Esmerelda, With hair all lined with flowers, I met you in the tavern, And we talked for many hours. Pleasing was her voice to me A warmth is so enveloping When you had to go, A part of my soul did die. I said "I’ll wait Till we meet again, You’ll buy me drinks and surely then I’ll get to spy your smile All night. We’ll talk till the sun gives light." But until then… O’ Sweet Esmerelda, O’ Sweet Esmerelda, O’ Sweet Esmerelda, We talked for many hours. O’ Sweet Esmerelda, O’ Sweet Esmerelda, O’ Sweet Esmerelda, I’ll wait in the tavern for you. SIGNED, HIS LORDSHIP, Sir Marius ‘Wordsmith’ Lovetts, Baron of Hrenthorne, Poet Laureate of The Petra, Knight of the Petrine Laurel, Keeper of Fyreswake, Protector of the Drakewood HER LADYSHIP, Emeline Josephine Barclay

Sir Marius dipped his head to his old friend. "You served the Kingdom well, my friend. You should enjoy your retirement."