Mattiii

Upon that Throne at Glasgon, the Archduke sat rigid, his grip tightening upon the ebon armrests as a grimace did take form upon his wrinkled countenance. "It doth appear Our prayers have availed Us naught." He spake toward the Duke and Duchess Furnestock, who stood before him bearing such ill news.

Within the private chapel of Castle Glasgon, the Archduke knelt alone before the marble altar, his head bowed and hands joined in prayer. "And may GOD continue to bless Our most honourable troops. . ." He murmured, tracing the Lorraine 'pon his breast thereafter.

The gates of Spencer Tower stood open to receive the returning host, and within its courtyard did the spoils of Mont Collier gather in grim abundance. There, upon the gravel, lay split helms, shields cast aside, and arms enough to furnish a lesser army, all heaped in orderly piles as soldiers of the Black Banner moved to sort what had been taken. At the fore of it stood the Archduke, his steely-grey gaze cast over the scene, his eyes marginally wider with disturbance. The field had been won in but mere moments, yet here lay the proof of how near the Realm had stood to something far worse. "Such men call themselves peasants. . ." He murmured, tracing the Lorraine over his breast. "GOD bless Alba."

Before the hearth at Castle Highbury knelt that Archduke of Alba, tending to its flame. Once, there had been no need for such labours. For there had been his closest friend and confidant, Georgie, who would stand just over his shoulder. In council, in quiet, in the long hours where no word passed, there had been a warmth more felt than any fire, which had made the weight of the Coronet sit lighter upon him. Edward could not recall when it had begun. It had been so, and thus it remained. Yet there was a small and constant thing, so often repeated it had gone unmarked in its time. Whenever George did rise to part, whether from chamber or field, he would pause, and incline himself but slightly. “My liege . . . by thy leave.” And ever was it given, as easily as breath that did escape the Archduke, without thought, without reckoning. Now, the fire did burn, yet shed no warmth in his time of need. And the place just over his shoulder stood empty. When the night did inevitably fall over the Greveslands, as it ever must, Edward would rise and pass from hearth to bed. There, upon it, beneath the shroud, lay that George of Dover, set as one in rest, yet in a sleep which no dawn would stir. Long did Edward stand beside him, saying naught at first, but at last he inclined slightly and softly asked, “When were thou granted leave to part, Georgie?”

From Saint Edmond’s Hospital in Godwinsburg, Edward tended to the wounded Albans, though few they were, his dearest sole daughter Philippa numbered amongst the unlucky. "In an age demanding unity, this Joan doth unravel Our labours." He imparted unto the Alstion after reading the missive aloud. @Kholibrii

Long had the freshly bound volume rested upon the Archduke’s ebon secretaire, long enough to gather a thin layer of dust upon its cover, yet only after returning from the lists with the good men of the White Hart did his hand at last take it up and open its pages. Edward reached the end in silence, his gaze lingering upon the account of the Nauzican Brigade, his slender fingers resting there before he closed the book with care. "The Crown has endured. . ." He murmured unto the quiet of the wood-paneled study, the words carried faintly up toward the vaulted ceiling. After a slow rise from his seat, he added, "Far have We come."

The Archduke of Alba set a pale hand upon his breast, the White Hart glinting softly against his purple-black tabard. “As GOD doth entrust Us with the stewardship of this Realm, so too do We entrust Our very life unto those who bear the White Hart, men sworn not to glory, but to righteousness."

t was some two eves ago that the first of Our hunting parties ventured south. Led by the Master of the Hunt, they were tasked with investigating a series of reports telling of crude blizzards and the beasts that it brought ever closer to Our Archduchy. The party returned with haste and carried with them cruel news; the blizzard would soon descend on Our City of Saint Godwinsburg, and so would beasts and monsters step into Our realm. After the news were announced during a procedural session of Our Alban Court, a second party was soon dispatched, given the task of bringing news of the blizzard’s advancement. Alas, a month has passed and the party has not returned. So too, did We announce during the aforementioned Court the creation of Our Most Noble Order of the White Hart; a new Order of Knights to upkeep the tenets of chivalry and defend the most august House of Alstion. While our Order stands ready to be founded, it lacks to itself men to carry with grace the honor of being a Sir. The House of Alstreim has been the most ancient friend of House Alstion, and kept the sanctity of many of Our Orders in the past. Theirs was the stewardship of the Order of the Knight-Immortals during Our Grandfather’s Kingdom of Aaun, and so too have they reverently served in numerous iterations of Our personal guard. So it is fitting they shall again. Therefore, do we command the LORD OTTOMAR VON ALSTREIM @Frymark to venture South after the lost expedition; to uncover what befell them and finish the task they were set upon. Should the Lord Alstreim be successful, do we summon him to attend Us at Our seat in Castle Glasgon, so that he may be Knighted as one of the Order of the White Hart and be charged with the most sacred of tasks of building a Knightly Order in Our name. ‎‎

Penned by, Her Serene Highness, the Archduchess of Alba Anno Domini, 12th of Sun’s Smile, 2051 Disseminated among all the Vassals and Lords of Man. Pictured: The Archduchess cradles the young Heir of Alstion, 2040 Prayer for the Family, Unto Exalted Horen and St. Julia Exalted Horen and Saint Julia, behold us prostrate at your feet, learning by your most noble example. Through God our Lord, grant us peace and harmony, and, through the abundant graces God hath given to you, bless us in times of need and plenty alike. rought upon us by the Grace of GOD, it doth bringeth great joy unto Their Serene Highnesses, the ARCHDUKE and ARCHDUCHESS of ALBA, to proclaim unto all the good tidings of an addition to Our Household. In the winter of her life and following her fourty-first summer, the ARCHDUCHESS of ALBA hath brought forth a male heir. Naught short of a MIRACLE. Upon the eve of the third-and-twentieth day of the Sun’s Smile, in the Year of Our Lord Two Thousand and One and Fifty, the babe hath been brought into this realm, hale and whole. It hath pleased Almighty GOD of His infinite Mercy and Grace to grant unto Us the deliverance of a son and heir. With great joy and inward comfort of Us, of all Alban subjects, and to those beyond the reaches of this Archducal realm - We have no little cause to give high thanks, laud, and praise. We, therefore, by this letter advertise this continuation of the Line of John. It be Our only desire and prayer for the good health, prosperity, and continual preservation of Our Prince. With GOD and Sir Charles of Verbant, of the Draconis-Atrium, as Our witnesses, it pleases Us greatly to reveal that the child is born with faint chestnut hair, Horen-grey eyes, and a pale complexion, thus bearing the principal features of Our predecessors. And We do, in humble observance of Our trust, hereby appoint and entrust unto a faithful friend to Our family, George Arthur Aldersberg, the office and honour of Godfather to Our most cherished Heir to Alba. After careful deliberation, and with much prayer, We have resolved upon a Name, rooted in the history of Alba, both of the olde and of the new: the olde, recalling the last Morvelyn Duke of Alba, Francis William; the new, celebrating Our most noble Earl of Dover, who was present at the baptism of Our heir upon that very eve of the third-and-twentieth day of the Sun’s Smile, and in token of Our gratitude did We bestow upon Our son the middle name of Arthur, that of the Earl; and therefore, in observance of Our forebears and in hope of that which Providence hath yet in store for Our Realm, SO LET HIM BE CALLED; @mojanghunter As Our princely father once did before Us, so too do We, by right and duty, enfeoff Our first-begotten son with the Duchy of Furnestock, together with all styles, dignities, and privileges thereto belonging, that his estate as Our true and rightful heir be made plain before GOD and man alike.

Edward the Younger stood on the ledge of a cliff, overlooking the seaside settlement of Oldebridge, established by the Alban diaspora on the western side of the Isle of Kalldur. Peace and quiet stretched across the coast, though on the rocky shores below a single plank of driftwood turned and rolled, half-sunken. He narrowed his eyes, lips pressing into a thin smile. “A sign enough.” He murmured. “The sea has had its due.” For a moment, his hand lingered over the pommel of his blade, slender fingers drumming, before he drew in a deep breath. “So be it.” With that, he turned from the shore, though his glance lingered one last time upon the empty expanse.

“Welcome to the Alban fold.” Declared the Duke Furnestock, a knowing smile upon his countenance as he stretched forth his hand to Sigismund. “The future be Ours to bear.” @Cycloth_

"Well done, Elizabeth, a son." The Duke of Furnestock offered to his sister with a slight nod of the head, a hint of jealousy in his voice as he afforded his dearest lady-wife a sideward glance. @ncarr

Issued by the Earldom of Dover On the 22nd of Sigismund’s End, 2033 It is with heavy hearts and veiled brows that we, the House of Aldersberg, announce the passing of His Excellency, George Charles Aldersberg, Chancellor of the Archduchy of Alba, First Earl of Dover, who met his end in valiant service to Crown and Country. Let bells toll in the Cathedral and prayers be said across Alba, for a steward of three decades, now laid to rest. May GOD receive him in glory, and may his memory endure. S I G N E D, HIS LORDSHIP, George Arthur Aldersberg, 2nd Earl of Dover Lord Chancellor. That name had clung to him now for some thirty years, and yet still he rose to greet the sun every morn from the mulberry silk quilts that lined his bed, the layers of ceruse and rouge growing with each fine line that appeared upon his face. It was hot that morning, a heat often unfamiliar to Newcastle. Her walls were usually made cold and damp by the rushing Leone that spat across the watery rocks below the tall keep. His wife's ebon vanity, a relic from that God-forsaken Illatian town across the Langkette, sat in the far corner of his comital room. Though her family’s signet was carved into its side, it was seldom ever used by the Lady of Newcastle, for her Lordly-Husband had made better use of it, its polished counter cluttered with perfumes and tinctures of all the shades of the setting sun, each piece was a ceremonial part of the Lord Dover’s morning rituals. The routines continued well into the afternoon: a walk around the gardens, reading the local paper, and high noon tea, which was interrupted by a rather charming servant boy of Newcastle who not only brought tea but news from Elizabeth, as well. George was rather content with his life at his Alban estate, the hours filled with gossip he entertained from the word of his staff who meandered about St. Godwin’s Square in search of a passing insult or secret admiration. Today's interest brought word that the Archduchess, the fat oaf she was, deigned to grace the people with her presence despite her rarely climbing down from the steps of the great tower of Morvelyn to frequent the commons. “By his side?” He quipped to the boy, waving him away with the paper in hand. Bah, another trip to his vanity would assuage any concern that he had lost his charm. . . . “My Prince! Princess!” Spoke the Chancellor to the group that flocked around the Princely couple in Saint Godwin’s Square, “Young Lord Dover.” Responded the Archduchess with a faint grin taking form upon her aged visage. He blushed, but could not say the same in turn, instead he set his azure gaze on the Archduke. “Edward, mine créme seems to be working wonders for thee, thou dost look magnificent.” Positioning himself in between the pair, his rouged cheeks lifted in a smile that bordered on performance. He moved with the self-assurance of a man who had been adored by his city for so long that he had forgotten any other way of walking. Children ran past him with miniature flags, courtiers whispered in the shadows of the arcades, and peasants grinned toothlessly at the sight of their lords descending to earth. Amongst them was a certain traveller from the east, Sophia, draped in an aquamarine gown and curiosity. She, having arrived in Alba with her boots still dusty from the eastern hills, lingered at the periphery of the gathering, her gaze keen. “How long have you been Chancellor of Alba?” She asked. George turned toward her, pausing to lift the hem of his glove with delicacy. He regarded her not as a stranger, but as a spectator to his pageant. “Three decades.” he replied, in a voice unhurried, “Since Alba’s conception. I was there when the ink dried ‘pon her first decree. I chose the shade of her first standard. I named her roads ‘pon the map before they were ever traversed.” Sophia tilted her head. “And shall you serve her another three?” He smiled, but it was a wistful thing, more sigh than grin. “Mine time on this plane wanes.” He said, folding his hands behind his back. “But I shall linger long enough to ensure her soul survives mine.” Mounting his Alban Thoroughbred, aptly named, High Horse, George joined the Alban entourage bound for the festival fields. The stallion’s proud canter carried him across the meadow while pennants snapped in warm wind. He dismounted beside a sunshade where Mirabel von Berkhoven awaited, samples of Waldenic honey filling a basket that clung to her side. “Mistress Mirabel.” he greeted, accepting the gift. Mirabel’s eyes sparkled. “Clemens and I would court, with your blessing.” The Aldersberg elder inclined his head. “I shall ponder it.” Another alliance, he mused, a child sprung from Clemens, Lord Marshal of Alba, and Mirabel, daughter to the Imperial Lord Marshal, might command armies worthy of legend. Then a trumpet flared. Archduke Edward, velvet cloak tossed rakishly, called out in a voice that carried to every ear. It was the kind of jest that bore teeth. George, too vain to decline and too shrewd to appear afraid, gave a grin that belonged on the stage. High Horse was led to a groom and the Chancellor stripped to linen sleeves. When the steward’s ribbon fell the racers dashed forward, bare-legged through ooze and straw. George slipped, shoved a gawking child out of his path, then found his stride. Mud sprayed his silk-lined stockings, yet he laughed like a boy. By the third lap he felt more alive than at any council meeting. He staggered across the finish first, robes plastered to his frame, arms raised towards the onlookers The audience cheered, made remarks, and Edward announced “I shall fetch thy prize.” Hands planted on his knees, George breathed hard, letting the world spin back into place. Minutes crawled. Sweat cooled. At length he straightened and called to those gathered, “Where is mine prize?” Uttered he, then, as if were a consequence of his impatience, from the direction of Elizabeth’s eastern gate, a single cry of distress cleaved the summer air, unmistakably the Archduke's. George did not hesitate. Still smeared with grime, he ran to Elizabeth, rallied the guards and townsfolk alike, and in the marketplace donned full armor of bright steel. Gedeon, a breathless participant of the mud race, reported that a brigand had dragged the Archduke toward the ruins of Stran that brooded just beyond the city walls. Fifteen hundred volunteers mustered, led by Clemens, proudly donning his newly acquired lilac sash. Together they swiftly marched down King’s Road. Twilight deepened as they entered the square of Sran. A lone crow croaked from a shattered belfry. Before the Chapel, torches revealed a formation of bandits with Edward bound to a tree growing from the chancel within. Their leader stepped forward. “We demand three thousand mina for the safe return of your Archduke.” Clemens’s reply rang like struck iron. “Thou shalt have blood instead.” Steel sang. The combined Alban, Stirlandic, Urguani, and Imperial forces surged. His mind was a frenzy, hundreds of voices shouting at once, drowning out the sole thought that sank deep within his stomach. Am I too late? His lips parted to call out to Edward, but, High Horse, the great steed beneath George, with a mind of her very own, pranced into the fray. As soon as his mind gripped reality once more, his gauntleted hands tightened upon the leather reins of his mount. A new reality had been thrust upon him. From the chapel steps a spear hurtled downward and struck the charger square in the breast. High Horse shrieked once, toppled, and with it, its rider. In the muck lay the Lord Chancellor, breastplate dented, and sword driven absurdly through the back of his chainmail skirt. Horses skirted past him, men clambered around him, his own mind urged him to get up and fight, but no call made by his brain would be heard by his body. “HELP.” he cried, voice thin and avian. Blood pooled in careful symmetry beneath him. With a trembling hand, the aged Lord Chancellor used what little strength within him to slowly, ceremoniously, remove his helm from his brow, revealing a face ghastly pale, highlighting the rouge he had applied earlier that morn. His azure gaze fixated on the aide rushing over to help. "Save Edward." He called out shakily before the swift, merciless stroke from the brigand came. His head was cast from his shoulders, the silver livery chain of the Chancellery falling uselessly to the earth beside him. No trumpet sounded, only the hush of wind through shattered rafters and the distant lapping of the Leone far below.