holyterrain

A QUESTION FOR THE CULTURE Upon observations of the patrician class, lavish balls held in celebration of cause or individual appear always in the Orenian culture. The pageantry and politicking reserved for the high nobility at such occasions is to be expected, though it is upon observation, the effect this has had on the individuality of the men and women of the realm. To what extent is the individuality of the man and woman lost within the contemporary culture of ballroom and pageantry? GOD created every man and woman to be wholly individual and unique, as to never be replicated. As sons and daughters of GOD, individuals are expected to retain the identities given unto them by their Creator, and, concerned, is the disposition of this thesis, that by striving to be the auspicious archetype, the nobles of upper Oren are conforming at large. One might argue that a primary purpose of balls and such is for men and women to court and seek out potential suitors, and though that is warranted, the fear is that women are rendered one-dimensional and both sexes trim themselves to be something they are not. The finances thrown at the personal mantles of vanity and physical displays of prestige are troubling, for surely, that is not the summation of the Orenian person. The aristocracy must look inward, to examine the culture they cultivate, and remind all attendees that it is the value of celebration that such events are to be held on the basis of, and not in adjacent to. One can enter a ball and see women in, for lack of better word, desperate attempt to replicate the woman beside them, and whilst role models are critical for a bettered community, individuality is lost at this occasion. Displaying themselves like stock, by the mantles of their dressage, when rather their kindness, charity and wit could be the primary emphasis. This issue is nuanced; for I do not propose formality and tradition is dismissed, rather I urge the culture to be introspective and understand that having their partakers become copies of one another, for the sake of a betrothal or suitor, is not what GOD intended for us. Remedies observed for shifting emphasis on values of charity and celebration are through donations and awards at such occasions, though still, one notices the swaths of same-faced men and women jostling without true contentment. One hopes that there will come such a time when men and women may convene, dressed formal still, though not stressing their purses for the sake of impressing one another, but respecting themselves and the occasion. Men and women are multi-dimensional beings, created and ordained by GOD, and so for them to suppress their many colours, is a tragedy being witnessed today. The aristocracy may do as they please, yet I urge them to remember the humanity and individuality within each man and woman, and that one is encouraged to lean into such, for upon doing so, they will be closer to GOD, as long as it is in alignment with GOD’s plan of creation. Another man’s path is not yours, for yours is distinctly authentic, and may not be replicated or shared, not wholly. And thus, in a culture of ballroom assimilation, stress not your purse for the sake of looking like the Mary or John beside you, but adorn the colours of your own individuality, for that is you. Threading these occasions with emphasis on community or individual celebration of merit, charity and the virtues of the Holy Scrolls, events shall be as virtuous as they are glorious. By doing this, our pageants will be a mosaic of true Oren, and not an archetype that only befits the few. Signed Sister Madeleine of Kaedrin

Emelie Rubens read over the letter with a nonchalant gaze. In her arms, she held her newborn son, Alfred William, her cheeks flushed with a motherly warmth. Dressed in an ivory gown, she sat on the balcony of her home whilst the Renatian city bustle filled her ears like white noise. She blinked twice, pursing her lips as she finished the read. "Pointless." She spits the quip, tossing the parchment into the wind. "To declare yourself regent, then regnant, then regent... goodness." The baroness would dismiss her thoughts on her sister-in-law, returning to nursing her son, whom held the namesake of her prince brother, Alfred I.

Mother Judith furrows her brow with quiet concern as the new leader of Riviä is not disclosed in the missive. "This is worrying, truly. Riviä has always had an uneasy state of being with religious freedom and heathen inhabitance, and Alison seemed to be the only one to control it... if she will not disclose the leader of the settlement, how can we trust them?"

I would love it if you made an Order of Blessed Catherine seal and insignia. <3

Mother Judith shakes her head, sending nuns to retrieve the de Hartcold for further questions at the Grand Abbey of Judzcya.

Emelie voices her agreement with this like-minded man!

Emelie Rubens shakes her head. "You are no family of mine; you are not Devereux."

Emelie rolls her eyes louder. "A woman who is not a trueblood of the family controls the house? A house is a family and she is not apart of this family."

"Esme was burned alive yesterday." She tells the people.

Emelie Frederika allowed the letters to flow across Atlas. “Linete was born on a farmstead as a peasant woman. Her sultry ways lured my brother into her bed, and she claimed that throne beside him. He disappeared for some time, whilst she enjoyed the luxuries of royalty. When his death became known, the time for grieving was not had. Linette seized the throne for herself, and the country fell apart. She is not a Devereux, ladies and gentlemen. She has no right to sit on that throne and shatter the state into pieces. And yet the government was threaded with her weasels and vipers, and she claimed sovereignty with ease. Linette is a usurper. Esme is undead. Alfred is dead. And here I am, disowned by a woman who is not family. For the act of true marriage to a nobleman, respectful and true. I value the union I share with my husband, something Linette never did. She held her husband, my brother, for one reason… vain ambition. I speak now to tell the truth. My family has been broken and I fear that without intervention, Curon and Devereux will die. Linette must resign from her throne. She must have her crown stripped away. Black-hearted creatures corrupt our streets... nobles and peasants alike are shot at and killed from the rooftops and the assassins still live. The military has fallen far from any glory under my father. Behind the walls of our palace, Linette spits on the name of the Church and the Order of Saint Lucien for their insolent interruptions of her reign. She is not a godly woman. The mantle of Curon has been spat on and humiliated by the government's inactive and stagnant policies... A blind man could see how ugly my home has become. Alfred was a good sovereign. My father was a good duke." "A Devereux must rule Curon; not an ambitious harlot.”

Mother Judith shakes her head, "Well goodness! It is not gossip, but the truths spoken by good Prior Constantine himself. You dare accuse him of lying?"

The holy mother frowns deeply. "I have heard tales of your invasive ways! You will not touch Cadlew, fool!" She wags her finger, tutting with absolution.

Emelie Rubens rode alongside her husband, dressed in a gown of black and gold. She tightened her hands about the bridle she grasped, wincing as she lifted her eyes to the rooftops. There were monsters nesting, breathing still with their arrows sharpened. She bit her lip as she suppressed her quiet melancholy, allowing her gaze to glaze over the host of soldiers that flanked her mount. "My husband is right." She spoke, recognizing the familiar faces peering from behind curtains in their homes. The streets were always scarce in Cyrilsburg. She remembered times when she was young... an age when the streets were lively. "Curon will forever be my ancestral home, and yet it has fallen. Linette," she paused, casting her eyes to the palace standing forlorn on the mountain, "we need to fix this. For the sake of your husband, my brother, for the sake of your children... don't let our home be destroyed. The government needs to be culled of the weasels and the snakes. The guard force needs to be filled with competent soldiers. The streets need to be washed of the undead and the black-hearted. GOD Save Curon." The pale-faced countess paused, drawing her shoulders back and speaking then to the men that surrounded her. "Ave Rubens," she called, "Ave Renatus."

Emelie Rubens watches with an earnest countenance. "Leila was shunned by the government of Curon since the moment she ascended into office. She has a right to leave, and so do you all. She is a good woman, strong and true and pious. Yet she is not daft. There are snakes in my homeland and they will be stopped. Dearest Leila," she pauses, dipping her chin, "we will rise in our new home, and your strengths will be acknowledged and accepted. The people are whispering, lords of Curon. My people want change. Give it to them, or they will seize it themselves. For the sake of my father, Karl Devereux, for the sake of my brother, Alfred of Curon... take action. Accept reformation because without it more undead will rise and more darkness will seep into our walls. Take this departure as a herald that change needs to occur. We lose our people everyday... my own sister was murdered in the streets of Cyrilsburg. She now roams as undead, because of the necrotic and heretical demons that linger in our country. I beg of you. For the sake of my family, for the sake of my home... fix this. Whatever progressions you make now, redirect them. The Order of Saint Lucien can only protect us for so long. We need to seize and properly charge strength and proper administration unless the sovereignty of this country will be lost. Deus Magnus, men and women." Placing a protective hand over her stomach, Emelie Frederika mounts her destrier and trots out of the gates of Cyrilsburg. Flanked by the armored men of Rubens, she lifted her chin. "GOD Save Curon," she let the words roll from her lips, black tresses spilling down her shoulders, "do not let more people die because of petty failure."

Mother Judith cannot hear the dead woman.