ContestedSnow

Viktor 'Daemonsteel' rested, in the lingering smoke and fires of the ruined and conquered keep. The battle was won, and that Savoyard sun rended and torn, stomped under foot. He had organised a small retinue of men to collect and gather all of the loot that he and they had secured, and new Veletzian horses to pull the wagons once more, in the close of victory. With a frown, he noted that he had not spied any of the team he had lead in their special assignment since the close of the operation. Hm... He recalled the din of cannons firing, the shaking of the very earth beneath their feet and above their heads. The stern expressions of those he had shelled a path for the great Covenant host to take alongside. Familiar faces, and those he had only interacted with in correspondance both. A pious King, an honourable Knight-commander, a leal Amiratus, and the faces of those he was proud to call peers and Haeseni comrades both. All had operated in unison, and all had done their jobs as perfectly as the now-veteran siege engineer and officer could have hoped. Even when he had stormed off to locate the Patriarch in charge of the banner, he had trusted that his team would handle the job. "Patriarch, the last round has opened up a breach into the main keep, right behind the curtain wall!" The Duke had proclaimed such at the Patriarch's side, after surveying a final strike clearing away through his dirt and smoke-streaked binoculars. Operation Underminer was a success, and the path was clear. All that remained was to push, and to finish the fight. He had thanked the comrades whom had undertaken such a mission in his head, and elected to spare the words until Northern Thunder had finally settled atop Drusco. He did not see them immediately following the battle, though he could have sworn the King of Aaun had been slaughtering foes at his side in the thick of the melee.

When his cousin, Viktor var Ruthern, had heard the news and seen the return of the Marian's body to the capital, he had bore a steelly expression. It would not do to show anything less than fierce anger and indignation. Alas... When the time came that the Ruthern Patriarch had privacy, he slumped back against the wall, and eventually took a seat by a fireplace in a small house within Morteskvan, nestled in the first bailey, between the kennels and stables. He lifted a hand to rub his forehead numbly, gazing into that meagre, freshly stoked fire. Andrik was gone. Though they had been born cousins, they had grown up and lived their lives as brothers. When Viktor had felt his back to the wall in the past, he had known Andrik would be there. A leal man, and a proud one. And though he had caused Viktor trouble doubtlessly, he had been happy to have him by his side in the fray, always. He had joined many of the Duke's other siblings, now, robbed from this realm and lifted to the Seven Skies. Only Villorik and Aleksandra remained. And so, the aging Duke of Vidaus mourned tearlessly in solitude. What more could he do? Other than to mourn now, and to continue the fight. "Vy were cost vyr life, but vy went with pride and honour, Andrik. My brother was nie dog."

The longer that the Duke of Vidaus marched, and the older he grew, the more his thoughts wandered to the past. His memories were largely poor ones, punctuated by great bounds of bloodshed and regular suffering, but there was still much he could appreciate. The love of his long-dead mother, playing in the streets of Karosgrad, winning his first victory in battle, lost loves, the pride of fatherhood, and the joy of grandfatherhood. Thoughts flickered through his mind, fleeting as they were; no doubt his comrades had the same memories. And the Raev they slew on opposite sides of the field, and even the Veletzians. No doubt they had such thoughts. Were their thoughts of their homeland or of such memories when they drew last breath? What would Viktor's thoughts be, he wondered? Perhaps the Motherland, or the lands he left behind, or the family he lost, or the family that he would likely not rejoin in the Skies. It did not matter. As long as he still drew breath, he had his duties and his responsibilities. His place was to rule over his lands, and to march, and to kill the enemy. He continued to ride in the Crown Prince's column, for as long as it needed march. He must fight, as they all must.

The Duke of Vidaus took a sharp breath, taking a short break from sorting through sheafs of parchment. Frankly, looking at all these names and numbers, dead and alive, equipment... His eyes were starting to become rather sore. He occupied himself with perusing the final construction rounds ongoing at Morteskvan. "The war goes on. The 'Northern Thunder' comes for Drusco next. We shall finish what we started." He spoke, lacking some of his usual mirth.

"We've flushed the vipers from their dirt den. Next, comes Veletz etself." Viktor 'Daemonsteel' took a moment to rest at the edge of the now-concluded battlefield, where the grass of the von Theonus lands met the self-torched and trodden of once-Stassion. He allowed his horse to rest and graze, while he regarded the ruined mound and rubble that lay before him. Anthill.

Viktor Daemonsteel frowned, as he heard reports of what had become of Stassion. "They cover the castle with dirt because they have nie proud in their home."

"Run and we'll wait. You've sealed your fate." Viktor Daemonsteel uttered under his breath between the crack of hammer strikes upon anvil. He gave a contented grin, despite the sheen of sweat upon his brow, as he quenched another longsword that would be put to use for such fate.

"Back to the proper order of business." Viktor, Duke of Vidaus reiterated, his brow set firmly as he peered over the ledgers before him. Another bloody battle to wage. Another castle to reduce to rubble. More pests to put down.

Viktor var Ruthern spied the trampled remains of a Veletz-man, or an orc, splayed across the well trodden mud. It was difficult to tell them apart with the state of the field after the Balianites had employed their... secret weapons. A hand lazily came up to sign the Hussariyan, and he continued his ride from the field, well-laden carts in tow. No doubt, the smithy would stay busy even now, re-purposing and replacing that which could not be repaired. "Unfortunate, yet niet unforeseen. A shame their citizens will lament that 'nobody came', home. As they often drivel." He spoke relaxedly aside to his riding companions. @Demavend@GMRO

The Duke Viktor 'Daemonsteel' sat reclined in the saddle in the aftermath of the battle; he had lost his poleaxe at some point in the vicious routing following their final charge, yet he wore a pleasant grin as he regarded the carts that were drawn behind him, laden with equipment and pulled by once-Veletz warhorses. Now, they were common work mounts, trudging through the churned up muck and gore of the battlefield. He spoke aside to his man Ivo and his son-in-law Ser Rickard as they made way from the sweltering southern sun. "We return to the proper order of business soon. Vy both did more than well, as did Marjoreya. Vy ought all take pride." He regarded the particularly bloodied garb of Ivo, whom he had seen slay many a man, and he grinned still despite the oppressive heat. @Demavend@GMRO

"Will vy fight the Adrians with me? How could anyone refuse when they've made such pests of themselves for so many years." A wry smile came to the face of the Duke of Vidaus, as he regarded the paper. His hand rest at his side, nursing an ache of his stomach that had begun to sting something fierce in the year since the last battle.

"The constant charades are rather tiresome on the part of Ser Gaspard and Veletz. Our enemy es as they have always been, the same den of snakes and dragons, who would sooner burn the whole of the Church to the ground and start anew, and bite the hands that feed them eagerly." Viktor var Ruthern spoke aloud as he regarded the Pontifical letter. Kidnappings and writing under duress were same old fare, even back on Almaris. He turned his attention back to the armoury of the Bastion before him.

"The Elves of Celia'nor ought see reason. Our conflict es niet and has niet been with them." The Duke of Vidaus remarked briefly while looking over the public letter, having taken a brief break from setting his war loot to use lining the Brotherhood of Saint Karl's armoury. No doubt the suits of armour would have to be re-fitted.

"This conflict started when ea was but a boy. Ea pray to see et ended, permanently, before ea see the grave." The Duke Viktor var Ruthern grinned as he spoke aside to Ivo Radovanic and Rickard both, amidst the ruined rubble of Breakwater. His Sergeant's plate was smattered in a grim concoction of sooty black ashes, gunpowder and blood all when the battle had finally drawn to a victorious close. @Demavend@GMRO He repeated such sentiments to both family and any who spoke to he upon their triumphant march, very apparently pleased by this first victory, and by his own family's contributions.

"Long coming. The fools ought learn how to read if they are struck with 'confusion'. The Pontiff had laid his explanation for the void-bound souls of the Ferrymen out in his Pontifical Bull. All this feigning of ignorance es grown rather tiresome." Viktor var Ruthern remarked. He was certain some of these teal masked men and their newly anathema lieges would act the part of stupidity, as they always did.

"The culmination of many years' work, and the tireless efforts of the Koeng and his counterparts. They made their bed of ashes and sin. Now the Covenant shall finish the job, and lay them to rest in it." The Duke of Vidaus grinned with some measure of bloodthirst as he looked out east, far far east.

Viktor var Ruthern grew a rather amused smirk as his eyes turned over the marching orders. "Et should be a pleasant sight to see that 'Mareno' Keep reduced to a pile of rubble. Nie more playing at niceties with these bandits and godless men. We were never afforded such, so we shall return such favours." He stood, a hand falling down to rest comfortably atop his sword's pommel.

Ser Emeric took a moment to wipe his sword clean, taking slow and steady breaths. His helm sat beside him upon a pew, and he spied his reflection in its' newly re-polished steel surface. A scarred face, replete with wrinkles, and burns. Briefly, he frowned. He was old, and he yet lived. The old knight let out a terse breath. He was prepared to spend his eighty-seventh, eighty-eighth and beyond fighting yet.

Ratibor, youngest son of the Oracle whom had so foretold the prophecy, listened in as the news was proclaimed upon the square of Valdev, and then throughout the rest of the realm. His eyes, wide with wonder at the prospect of seeing a royal wedding initially, slowly squinted as his brows pulled together into a frown. While men bleed in the field… and at the hands of the enemy. He had to do his part as well.

"Dobry. We've shared much history and shed much blood alongside each other in the past. We shall share much more yet, ea am certain." Viktor var Ruthern remarked with a rather pleased expression, setting a copy of the Accord down upon his office's desk. "Mea congratulations ought go out to the Hauchprinzen for acquitting himself so well with Her Majesty."

Viktor var Ruthern's attention was caught, not by the slew of notices from the south in particular, but by the intensity and speed with which he spied an old friend flee out the gates of Valdev and southwards; replete with trunks and stores in tow. He squinted. She always had moved quickly.

"The poor boy, poor teenager, but a man too when et suits the public notices. Was he niet already a man, nearly in his twenties? Or so ea've heard wailed. Unless Stassion boys only reach their majority in their thirties, ea think et a rather poor tale to spin. The Haeseni is a man at eighteen, and his actions are his own. Et must niet be the same in the Heartlands." The Duke of Vidaus rolled his eyes slightly as he regarded the parchment, before placing it aside for later. He presumed he must be right, since they lamented that fool as a child so.

"Dual Crows for the Dual Monarchy. One blood, in one Crown. How far vyr prophecies have come, Mikolaj." Viktor var Ruthern remarked with faint amusement, setting the notice aside after taking a good while to note the inscribed prophecy. He wondered then; what history would be made under the rule of the future King and future Queen? He may not live long enough to see for certain all that would be in store, but no doubt his own daughter would see such instead. Such was the fate of all men.

"If they had niet wanted the fool dead, they should niet have sent him to his death with their parchments prepared. Et es as simple as that. The Stassion's crocodile tears are unconvincing, and unnecessary." The Duke of Vidaus regarded the spot where the jester had been slaughtered with a faintly amused expression.

"A great and storied history for a great and storied Exalted. Responsible for the the raising of Ailred and Ivan to nobility, and the beginning of Ruthern's own rise to glory, so many hundreds of years ago. Vy did well, Patriarch Josef..." The Ruthern Duke Viktor spoke, his brows furrowed thoughtfully as he finished thumbing through the recounting of their most holy Exalted, before the man signed the Hussariyan before him in a faithful gesture. "Pray for us, Siegmund."