Lechian Lord

The Young Infante sends an invitation to all the realms, to join him at the big celebration of his, Agustin Montoya’s, fifth birthday and introduction at large! The celebrations will be held at the square inside the capital, decorated with a real snazzy design by Agustin. The young Infante will be hosting a mighty sandwich eating contest, featuring his favorite sandwiches, grilled cheese and rubens! 100 coins to the winner! As the sun starts to fade and the night sky gets filled by stars, sit by the fire and dive into the sweet treats of Hyspia, along with scary stories of the realms! Come join us or don’t, more cake for Agustin OOC: Friday, September 6th 4:30 EST HER HIGHNESS, Ornella Bambalina, Princess-Dowager of Hyspia, Countess of Macaguiri HIS HIGHNESS, Agustín Montoya Todd Ruben de Pelear Infante of Hyspia

A man praying for the salvation of the realms Dear Faithful of Humanity It is with a heavy heart that I address the concerns raised in a recent missive circulating among our people. There seems to be a grave misunderstanding of the intentions and actions of our Holy Pontiff. Let us not be swayed by fear or anger but instead seek solace in the truth and guidance of the Church. The Pontiff, as the shepherd of our faith, has always acted in accordance with the teachings of the Exalted, striving to preserve the sanctity of our beliefs. The decision not to draft a charter with the Kingdom of Aaun should not be seen as an act of treachery, but rather as a careful and measured response to the complexities of our times. The Church must remain a beacon of spiritual authority, not entangled in the political machinations that could compromise its divine mission. The threat of excommunication is not a weapon of tyranny but a solemn reminder of the responsibilities that come with leadership, both temporal and spiritual. It is a call to humility and repentance, not a sentence of doom. The King, like all of us, is a servant of God, and the Church seeks not to silence him but to guide him on the righteous path. Let us remember that the Church has always been, and continues to be, the protector of our souls, guiding us toward salvation. To accuse the Pontiff of betrayal is to misunderstand the very essence of his role. His actions are not meant to divide but to preserve the unity of the faith. In these troubled times, I urge you all to hold fast to the teachings of the Church. Seek understanding, not division; forgiveness, not condemnation. The path forward is not one of rebellion against the Church but of humble reconciliation within it. Let us pray for our King, our Pontiff, and for all the faithful of Aaun, that we may find peace in the light of God’s wisdom. Yours in faith,

ATTENTION!! ATTENTION!! Carriers would shout in the streets of the faithful, handing out flyers to the masses Hold onto your hearts, for the very fabric of our faith is under attack! The Canonist Church, long considered the bastion of our sacred beliefs, has committed an act of treachery beyond measure. The Pontiff, this so-called High Priest, has refused to draft a charter with the Kingdom of Aaun—a shocking move that reeks of malice and ill intent! But that’s not all. In a twisted display of power, the Pontiff has declared his intention to excommunicate our King, simply because the Kingdom of Aaun dares to seek a charter that would clarify the Church’s power with the crown regency. This is not just an insult—it’s an outright betrayal! The Pontiff, who should be the protector of the faith, now uses his position to sow discord and drag the name of the Exalted through the dirt! Ask yourselves: if the Pontiff is willing to threaten excommunication to silence our King, what other sinister plans does he have in store for the faithful? This is an attack on Aaun, but it is also an attack on the entire Canonist world! No kingdom is safe from a leader who seeks to wield the Church as a weapon of tyranny! The time has come to stand united, to protect our faith from those who would destroy it from within! The Faithful will not bow to the Pontiff’s threats! We will defend our beliefs, our King, and the faith we have shown during these times! -Concerned Man of Faith

Once, deep in the heart of a quiet valley, there lived a peasant, Jan. His hands, once strong from tilling the soil, now trembled with confusion. His days had blurred into one another, and the once-sharp purpose in his heart had dulled to an aching void. Memories of the life he had built—his farm, his beloved, the rhythm of the seasons—had slipped from his grasp like grains of sand through his fingers. The villagers whispered of a curse. They said that Jan had once offended an ancient spirit of the woods, a forgotten god whose anger was slow but unyielding. No one knew the truth, but the once-vibrant man had fallen into a haze of madness. His eyes were vacant, his movements aimless. He was like a ghost, drifting between the remnants of his life. One stormy night, as the wind howled through the valley, Jan found himself wandering deep into the forest. His feet carried him, though he knew not where he was going. He stumbled through thickets and over streams, until he reached a clearing. There, beneath the twisted branches of an ancient oak, stood a small shrine. It was a place he had visited in his youth, though the memory was buried beneath layers of fog. Something stirred in his chest. A flicker, a faint pulse of something forgotten. As Jan knelt before the shrine, his hands instinctively reached out to the offering stones. Though his mind had been clouded for years, his heart remembered. He closed his eyes and prayed—not with words, but with raw emotion, a plea for forgiveness, for clarity, for release from the torment that had bound him. Suddenly, the wind died. The forest, which had been alive with the sound of rustling leaves and creaking branches, fell silent. Jan opened his eyes and found himself bathed in a soft, ethereal light. Standing before him was a figure—neither man nor beast, but something ancient and divine, with eyes that seemed to pierce through time itself. "Jan," the figure spoke, its voice a low rumble like distant thunder. "You have forgotten much. The curse laid upon you has stolen your past, your purpose. But curses, like wounds, can be healed." Jan's heart raced. He remembered, now, the day he had first come to the shrine. He had been young, full of pride, and had disrespected the old ways. He had mocked the spirits, laughed at the offerings, and left the shrine in disrepair. The curse had come slowly, like rot creeping into his mind, until it had consumed him completely. "I am sorry," Jan whispered, his voice hoarse from years of silence. "I lost my way." The figure nodded. "You have suffered, but you have found your way back. There is power in repentance, in humility. The curse is not eternal—it can be broken, if you have the will to reclaim your purpose." With trembling hands, Jan placed his palm on the shrine. The light grew brighter, enveloping him. His memories began to return—not in a flood, but in gentle waves. He saw his long gone beloved’s face, her smile, the fields he had once worked with pride. He felt the warmth of the sun on his back, the cool earth between his fingers. The madness, the fog that had clouded his mind, lifted. The spirit faded, leaving Jan alone in the clearing. But he was not afraid. For the first time in years, his mind was clear. His purpose, once lost, had returned. He rose to his feet, feeling the strength in his limbs, the clarity in his heart. Jan returned to the village the next morning, not as the broken man they had come to pity, but as a man reborn. The curse had been lifted, and with it, the weight that had bound him. He set to work, restoring his farm, rekindling the life he had once known. The villagers watched in awe as Jan, the man who had once lost everything, now stood taller than ever before. His journey through madness had been long and dark, but he had emerged stronger. The curse was broken, and with it, Jan had found himself once more.

Up on Whitespire, way up high, A fire burns bright against the sky. It never stops, it never fades, It shines through night and rainy days. No storm can blow that fire out, It stands so strong, there is no doubt. Even when the world feels sad, The fire says, "Don't feel so bad." For Aaun is strong, just like the flame, And one day soon, we'll rise again. We'll stand up tall, with hearts so true, The fire tells us what to do. So let it burn and keep us warm, Through every cold and scary storm. Aaun will rise, just wait and see, As strong as Whitespire's fire can be. Penned by Genowefa

If only there were more guests to share the world’s biggest cake with....

Next time I have an encounter with you expect another

To My Mysterious Orc, I hope this letter finds you well, though I know not where you roam. Since our brief encounter on the road, my thoughts have been consumed by the memory of you. The way the sun caught your mask, casting shadows across your strong features, left an indelible mark on my heart. We exchanged few words, but in that fleeting moment, I felt a connection stronger than I have ever known. There was something in your gaze—an understanding, perhaps, or a shared longing—that spoke to me in ways I cannot fully explain. Though our time together was brief, it felt as though the world had paused just for us. I cannot help but wonder what lies behind your mask. What stories do you carry? What battles have you fought? And, most of all, what thoughts linger in your mind since we parted ways? I find myself yearning to know more, to share in your burdens and joys, to walk beside you on whatever path you tread. I long for the day when our paths might cross again. Until then, know that you have a place in my heart, and that I will hold on to the memory of our encounter with the hope that fate will grant us more time together. Yours in longing,

Slighted To Whom It May Concern, It has come to my attention that many who were invited to my recent celebration did not attend. I find this most discourteous, and I shall not easily forget such an affront. As the son of a mighty family, I understand well the duties of loyalty and respect that bind us all. Yet, on the day of my birth, a day meant to honor such ties, many of you chose to ignore the invitation sent forth. Be assured, this slight will not be overlooked, nor the missing presents!!! Some may claim that war or other pressing matters kept them from attending. However, I find this excuse to be as flimsy as a poorly made sword. If such matters are grave enough to take you from your duties, then they are also grave enough to warrant sending word of your absence. Yet, I received no such messages from most of you. Though I am but a child, time is on my side. I have many years ahead to remember those who have wronged me. Rest assured, I am patient. Revenge can wait—whether it be 30 years or more—but it shall come when least expected. Consider this a fair warning from one who shall one day have the power to act on his displeasure. In time, Penned by Lady Jedeiatha

Upon the Bridge In the shadow of the forest, where the moon refuses light, Lies a bridge of olden timbers, shrouded deep in endless night. There’s a tale the elders whisper, of a man who lost his mind, Now the bodies hang in silence, where the crows and ravens dine. He was just a humble peasant, till the plague stole all he loved, With his kinfolk buried shallow, he sought vengeance from above. He took to that old bridge, in the heart of autumn’s chill, And there he strung up justice, with a rope to bind his will. One by one, the guilty, felt the noose around their neck, The lord, the priest, the merchant, paid for sins they’d not confess. He watched them twist and struggle, till their breath was gone for good, And left them for the crows, as any righteous peasant would. So beware the bridge in shadow, when the wind begins to moan, For the peasant’s curse still lingers, in the marrow of your bone. And those who seek to cross it, with a heart of greed or pride, May find their necks are measured, and the rope is waiting wide. The poem would posted along the road, marked with a bloody signature