Publius

[!] To set our scene, old colleagues converse over drinks at a tavern. Banter is abundant, with glasses and weaponry creating a chaotic din as they clatter during the chatter. Each consider themselves Adrian, though contradict each other with their definitions. Here, we listen: [!] "... What is so complicated about this? An Adrian is someone who lives in Adria - simple as." Said Myre, his brow lofting as he gestured to his company. Some smirked, others scowled. "You are not even a Crow, how would you understand the nature of Adria?" Dismissed Vladov, earning an approving grunt from Valic to his side. "Adria represents the endurance faith provides. Without its blades, where would be? Schismatics would have annihilated you all. True Adrians are good Canonists." Another round of cheers and moans erupted at that. Despite what had been said, none protested as a demon named Lithren served them drinks - perhaps more crow than them all, some may jest. "Close... Close my friend." Chiming in now, Sarkozy smiled as he waggled a finger at his kinsmen. "Think of the greed and treachery man is willing to commit against one another. We fought with the Savoyards, and when we made one King, they neglected their duties and punished us for holding them accountable! What an Adrian is, is virtuous." From the corner, Ault and Jewelbeard turned their heads, laughed, and peered over to the dread-headed necromancer speaking to the curious mage Alfius. None would have measured up to the man's definition of virtuous, all for their own reasons. "Virtuous, eh? I'd say... Industrious!" Suddenly, the bartender chimed in - Red as he was known, but others called him Mr. Roger. Seemingly, he was scoring well in a game of dice, Gradic holding his head as he dared to gamble against the house. "If not a bit lucky, heh! You know the old saying, always outnumbered, never outgunned. We have the best equipment, best drinks, best craftsmen, and not all of them are Canonists... But they are good Adrians." “Pshh, Raev is why, Ruska is why!” Boomed Ivanovich, slamming his hand down on the table. His might brought many to attention as he declared, “Where might makes right, the weak should fear the strong. Raevir blood is Carrion blood, blood of conquerors, of the slayers of fools and beasts. Raevir and Ruskans are Adrians, all else are simply their subjects.” Barbanov smirked somewhat, his eyes narrowed upon Ivanovich. Quickly, the tone of the room grew more hostile, Illatians, farfolk, and Auvergne now causing a ruckus. “Has the might of Adria not faltered many times? Ves burned, Brelus was butchered, and it was never the warriors that revived it.” Interjected Rutledge as Watanabe and Monteliano cheered her on. “I’m inclined to agree with Sarkozy, that endurance and faith is important to Adria… but endurance against persecution, and faith in its institutions. I’d argue Adria reached its height under Varoche - they were not even slightly Carrion, they were Pertinaxi!” Seemingly this was agreeable to some, but others dismissed such as naive - many rolling their eyes at the mention of Pertinax. "Institutions? Even the Duma was made into a fair and farce! What has endured is treachery, ambition, greed!" Boomed the rascal Ratispora, quickly instigating many arguments. "What was once whimsical fun has been made into nonsense!" “Was it not all of that? It was everything to many of us - why can’t it be all of that?” Chimed Bracchus meekly. Quickly, a fury sounded off around the room, Ostroborivich hollering at the meek fellow moments after, “Rich, coming from the Savoyard snake who was quickly caught!” More jeering followed, the fun chaos from earlier replaced with a simmering rage as each looked on to one another in frustration. Bracchus was drowned out, and in his place Ruyter then cried out, “I would consider myself Adrian before anything else, who here doesn't?” ______________________ Empty was this tavern in reality. Haunting it was the Spirit of Adria. There had been many great nights there, but it had long been left behind, for war, for family, others moved on as they simply could not make time to visit. An old painting of the tavern’s founders, some Coal Miners, could be seen hung there still. They smiled, each happy in each other’s company. Many who enjoyed their famous black stout might not even recall their names, but they left a fine establishment. It was simply a place for these friends to come together, once upon a time.

I couped Oren

coming back just to flex and rep farm, should have known

Olivier II feels vindicated after growing up underneath the threat of clerical meddling in the affairs of Savoy.

Olivier II stood with the recently enthroned Pontiff, wroth with the meddling Everard VI.

I’ve been inquiring how to join this syndicate, can you remind me?

Emil-Dardot recalled the sermon mentioned, witnessing it in Freimark. He remembered the reverend having to pause for several minutes at a time due to coughing fits to insist against violence, and for peace - it felt contrived then, and more so now with the encyclical. Was it not a time to celebrate? Tension only seemed to arise from the peace that was brokered. "You know," He would say to Jean @Jentos in San Luciano, "I am sure their fears would be assuaged if they came to our city more often. Any cause for alarm has been addressed by the government. They ought to let our Bishop come back to the city, I reckon their fears are being fueled by murmurs in Providence, rather than actions in town. Least though, the Pontiff recognizes the need for clergy services, perhaps that means we can expect more soon, if not the allowance of more folk here to assume habits and cloth." At that though, he continued to serve in the tavern. In time, it seemed a less relevant topic as Jean soon left, and everything was as it had been for quite awhile - peaceful.

Meandering around the lands of Vasoyeva, Dmitri de Sarkozy would happen upon a deacon on pilgrimage who offered a copy upon a short chat. Stowing himself away, he was initially dismayed by the length and detail that the missive went into about the subject. Coming to enjoy it though, he would allow some mental gymnastics, as the events of the past few days had his mind alight anyhow. "Hrmm... I recall a time in history, in the Empire of John I after the Tragedy of Brelus, there was a Pontiff that had tried to imbue the Crown of Oren with the powers he held before abdication. Here, I suppose it came closest to represent a united humanity in spirit and body - but their successors overturned this, and only the Holy Sea suffered for this. Perhaps I misremember..." He would elaborate to his thoroughly disinterested niece, effectively ignoring him for the simple pleasure she found in her toys. Sighing, the young man would continue to contemplate on this. "Perhaps... Well, at least there is speculation here on secular and temporal affairs. Bold for a Princess to elaborate so much on the state of affairs of both. Supposing this all at quite a time as well. Elaborating more on pride, both within these rulers and their people, can make more sense of the disunity. There was so many routes of study... Flamenism for the hot blooded, the Mystics of old who's mind wandered far, but there is a uniformity that each nation attempts to impose upon their subj-" "Uncle Dima, I cannot have fun if you will not just let me play in peace! Why don't you go to Church if you love it so much?" His niece protested. Thinking quietly for a moment, he took a lesson from her interjection. "Of course. Maybe I should." Sometimes, it was the youngsters that had the best ideas.

"Carry on, Carrion." Said a beaten and bruised Dmitri, looking about to make sure he was not assailed by another one of his kinsmen before offering a nervous smile!

Listening to contemporary artists of the 1830's, a rather crude song about the long history of inbreeding, debauchery, and pride rang loudly in the music hall a young de Sarkozy frequented. 'Hardcore as a Horen' - written by some punk, surely. This song soured his mood - it seemed a poor rendition of a genre he did not like to begin with. The young man did not return until a much less abrasive tune was played many months later. Perhaps, it seemed, though the art was not all original, it was largely a matter of taste. 'Our Lucky Comet' may have been an old fleeting tune, but it always brought him joy in the times he was fortunate enough to be present for it.

Dmitri de Sarkozy received the invitation after a long day in the sun - surprised, he would alert his father Tobias ( @Qizu ) of the happenings. For the first time in a long time, the young crow was excited. Though his father had brought him in tow to retire from the political spectacles and lead a simple life, he stewed over the invitation late into the night. 'Perhaps,' He thought, 'I would not be a bad representative...'

By way of Whitcombe does a letter reach the Ecclesiates, Johannes of Ceannaideach, and reach as follows, "Good man, father I believe - Johannes of Ceannaideach, Along the lines of religion, I am not deeply invested in the texts yet. Recently, Father Gawain has been visiting - a smart man who knows his history. I am young yet though, and hope to learn more. Reading this alone, I know I have much to learn... I understood very little of it, if I am honest. If you would ever wish to visit Leuven, I would be keen to host you and chat! Respectfully yours, Emil-Dardot, Count of Leuven."