LithiumSedai

"A man must know to mind his betters," thought Egon von Alstreim to himself, reflecting on the pureblood Waldenian noble heritage of his ancestors - spanning centuries - before wiping the sweat off his immensely pale, aristocratic forehead. He planted a banner of Merryweather amidst the scores of peasantry slain upon Mont Collier by him and his knightly brethren.

"Weighty title, hm?" said the most senior of the Waldenian Electors. "When one is finally elected, let us hope he shall defer to the Vandalore." He shrugged and left the enforcement of the Compact, and all other intricacies of the Law, to the Emperor's landed principalities.

Egon Albrecht, clad in Sergeant's plate of the Black Banner of Alstion, fought his way through the tunnels and vast stone halls of the perfidious Dwarf, lodging the black flag of Merryweather-Alstreim between two cracked stones once the slaughter had subsided, much like his forefathers at the Siege of Kal'Tarak four hundred years ago.

[!] This wedding announcement is published within the Archduchy of Alba, and delivered, along with the list itself, to the following invitees: Family of the Bride and the Groom: His Lordship, Ezra de Senna, Count of Edessa, and His Esteemed House The Esteemed House of Alstreim, and the Representatives of the Elder Line in Calliopeburg-in-Exile Peerage and Landed Gentry of the Archduchy of Alba: His Serene Highness, Edward C. Alstion, Prince of Alstion, and His Esteemed House His Excellency, Parzival von Augusten, Earl of Constans, and His Esteemed House His Excellency, George A. Aldersberg, Earl of Dover, and His Esteemed House as represented by His Excellency, George E. Aldersberg, Lord-Regent of Dover Her Ladyship, Constance Devereux, Countess of Trier, and Her Esteemed House His Lordship, Henri Halcourt, Baron of Artois, and His Esteemed House His Lordship, Adrian, Baron of Owynsburg, and His Esteemed House as represented by Her Ladyship, Susanna Helvets, Lady-Regent of Owynsburg His Lordship, Rothwin Aldor, and His Esteemed House His Lordship, Niccolo di Rosavena, and His Esteemed House Her Ladyship, Brigitte von Rhoswald, and Her Esteemed House Lawful Electorate of the Waldenic Diet in Adherence to the Compact of Merryweather: His Princely Highness, Siegfried Barclay, Prince in Reinmar, and His Esteemed House Personal Invitations of the Bride and the Groom: His Lordship, Siegfried von Schwanstein, Baron of Schwanau, and His Esteemed House Sir Adrian Greye Lady Augusta Greye Lady Aurelian Greye Lady Mélissandre Kildrakken Lady Melisandra de Trastámara de la Casa Mendoza Cinnamon'Ox o'Nico His Excellency, Master Virvyn Verethi, Elected Syndic of the Salvian Syndicate of Fausten, Regent of the Perpetual Crown of Atheran Salvus, and His Esteemed House Sir Everett of Alba, Knight-Commander of the Black Banner of Alstion, and all Knights and Enlisted Soldiery of the Black Banner Sir Janos Ivanovich Sir Leoni Corvus Sir Inku Vierto Lady Genevive de Sylva

[!] A letter is delivered to the Serene March of Cerulia via raven. @mika1278 ((Please do not metagame and RP the contents of this letter unless they are shared by the recipients.)) o Mika of the Elfen House of Anarion, and of Clan Goldhand, and of the Uialben Family, Margrave of the Halfmen Vassal of Cerulia, Trade Prince, Traitor and Usurper of the Sutican Free State, Khagan of the Cerulite, Lurinite, and Uialbenite tribes, the Silver Lubba, and his subjects of the tribes aforesaid of what degree and rank soever, greetings. I am Egon Albrecht of the Elder House of Alstreim, Honourable Sergeant of the Black Banner of Alstion and ever faithful subject of His Imperial Majesty, Hadrian of the Dragonblooded House of Horen. I stand as the firstborn inheritor of the glorious victors of the Whisperwood and the Rhine, and heir to the rightful sovereigns of Ceru by the grace of the Lord; Jan Sigmar, Venerable Corwin, Saint Ottomar and Venerable Lina Johanna. I am certain that this lineage remaineth well known to those among ye who have subsisted upon this Terra for many centuries, as is common among those cursed with Elfen heritage, or to those few scholars of yours well-versed in history as I am in the chronicles of your peoples. Verily, the tale of the Uialbenite is the rejection of mercy. The persisting desire to live a base, unworthy life, devoid of the grace of our Creator, yet rife with degeneracy, did always linger in the mind of the Lurinite. The Cerulite tribes have sought to thrive amidst ruin and chaos, ever since the defilement, and ultimate abandonment, of the Taharian creeds of Order which had once bound them. Sordid tales of your immorality and debauchery spread from the reaches of Vailor to the isles of Axios. Ye rejected the selfless assistance and good will of my storied ancestors at Blackwater, and refused their rule and Renatian grace in favour of harlots, murderers and addicts to the arcana. When the Venerable King Corwin imposed order upon you nevertheless, and banished banditry, necromancy, and wanton murder from your lands, ye chafed underneath his reign, and sought to end his life, underhandedly and with vile magicks. At the zenith of one of the greatest victories known until then to Man, the scourging of the lobster-tailed redcoat at the Whisperwood, ye squandered the hard-won Peace of Merryweather and plunged the Free State back into the darkness of civil strife, upon which the Holy Infant Ottomar, the rightful heir, was greeted by martyrdom by your blades. From the brink of slavery to the Orenian Empire, ye sought instead the yoke of Urguan. The King did not rebuke you, and he allowed you to persist in your squalor, and in his final days, it was said, he did forgive you. And when the Venerable Monarchs, Georg and Johanna, arrived to your lands in force to shield you from the slaughter of the High Elf, and once more offer salvation and redemption from your sins, ye recoiled from their mercy, showed no gratitude; instead ye rose up in rebellion and were promptly crushed in your insolence, scattering like roaches and seeking refuge in the realms of your master and enabler, the Dwarf. Nevertheless, the lords of Alstreim and Barclay never pursued you beyond the borders of the Sutican Commonwealth, nor sought to bring your regicides and offenders to justice; you were, once again, allowed life and freedom. At the Rhine, Haeseni knights did spare the life of Margrave Mika, the sole rebel survivor of the battle. Your perfidious overlord, once the benefactor of the Holy Imperium and now a once-defeated and humiliated adversary, hath now forfeited your safety and lives in this fruitless struggle. He hath urged you to once more lay claim to what no longer belongs to you, and what, in truth, never did: the destiny of the Crown of Sutica was ever to be redeemed by the Elder House of Alstreim, and ever safeguarded afterwards by the Grand House of Barclay. Yet I write to you, spurred on by your needless act of defiance, not in malice, but as a final act of clemency. I cannot deign to speak on behalf of the Holy Imperium, which is loath to reward a once-refused offer of clemency with anything but deserved death. And, make no mistake, death it shall be: true, final and all-encompassing alike Goldleaf, to the very last Cerulite, and there shall remain no place upon the continent to claim as refuge. There remaineth no outcome in which ye shall be the lords of Sutica, now or ever, should ye fight this war. But if ye should renounce your folly publicly, lay down your arms, and reject the madness of your puppet-master, I swear upon mine honor as a Sergeant, aspirant, lord of Waldenian blood, and the descendent of your rightful liege lords, that I shall plead with the Prince of Sutica that he should spare you his wrath, and the eternal shame of perishing by his hand and those of his Reinmaren hosts as vile pretenders. Consider this the Alstreim’s final mercy, and be wise to accept it.

"Wowee," says Egon von Alstreim, Imperial war hero, laying the Opal Crown of Sutica upon a copy of the Compact of Merryweather.

"Bless the wise Kaiser," uttered Egon Albrecht, shedding a tear at the beautifully worded missive.

Egon Albrecht, kinsman to the Daels of Gromach, heir to the Alstreim namesake of Prince William, inheritor of the venerable Alstreim martyr of the Nauzica, whistled a Daelish tune as he perused the historical account.

I think the strangest thing about the staff mindset @ wars is the dissonance between wanting to prevent pure conquest/destruction wars, but refusing to enforce any consequences beyond PRO transfer and eviction resulting from conquest. These are two opposing viewpoints whose clash ultimately leads to preventing wars altogether, even though that outcome, ironically, also results in RP being affected through OOC command and barriers - the primary excuse for refusing to empower non-annexation outcomes through the force of OOC rules to begin with. It's been mentioned already in this thread that pursuing lower-stakes war goals left the winners without any capability to actually enforce them without escalating the scope of their invasion to annexation. I understand that the belief is that any staff enforcement of RP outcome does veer into anti-RP territory, but what is the alternative? Conquest, as such, also depends upon staff-enforced PRO transfers and evictions, and the utter (also staff-mandated) inability of most RP actors to engage beyond mechanical systems. If it's anti-RP to compel a PRO to OOCly uphold a non-mechanical treaty, or introduce staff-mandated consequences for breaking it, then, following that logic, enforcing conquest is no different and any defeated group should be able to perpetually resist their displacement until they're physically removed by continuous CRP/PvP on live. The conclusion and discussion nobody's ready for is to fundamentally remake the mechanics of tile and region ownership, of course. But until that can happen, I see no point in not altering the war system to support non-final outcomes of war.

[!] Unbeknownst to the Knight-Commander, a copy of this missive, pinned to a noticeboard gracing a remote Alban village, was counterstamped with a simpler, crude reply: ┼┼│ · ╡┤║┤─╪├╪├ · ║│╪├┼╡┼╞├ · ├┼╪│ · ═│├┼╞│ · │═││╡┤

Roy Mor (rightful King of Daeland) spotted... Held his own until he was bailed out by the Milen whirlwind. Better times.

Egon Albrecht, a scion of Alstreim recently come of age, vowed to read and archive the works of his kinswoman - a theologian, it seems, more prolific than Saint Calliope, and worthy of appreciation despite the renunciation of her ranks.

The knightly aspirant's firstborn, Egon Albrecht, lit three candles at the grand cathedral of Saint Godwinsburg in prayer for his father's success. "O Saint King Ottomar and Saint Calliope the Maiden, wardens of our Blood- Saint Edmond, protector of knights, grant him victory in this quest and glory immeasurable."

Sir Daris Verethi consulted the Imperial Calendar Reform Act of 1679. "I think the other guy made more sense," he confided to his shipmate, Sir Helsuren, after reading both decrees. @argonian

For as long as he lived, Charles Edward dreamt of the day he had entered war-torn Helena, crowning himself Emperor and ordering the purple banners of the Johannians raised over that crumbling city and its palace. Clad in ornate black plate, bearing gilded regalia and a magnificent Ferrum Cross of Aesterwald upon his purple sash, he paced before the armed lines of his soldiery. But in his dream, on he paraded, for the line was endless - befitting a conquering army far larger than a meager Daelish household retinue, and the opportunists of Vintas.

"Oh, the vile serpents offered up this man and the lives of all his subjects as sacrifice, driving a knife into his back so they might escape their sin - and then Tiberias stomped upon their bloodied fingers with his boot, and made them grovel before him. They are united now in slavery to the Empire, rather than in brotherhood of the Confederation. God is good," wheezed out Conrad Vanderrecht, another elder, enjoying the immense irony. With shaky fingers he lit a candle for the soul of the last true King of Aaun, a man scorned and betrayed.

"Let God be the final judge of all allegiances." - Attributed to Saint Calliope of Merryweather, friend to Charles I of Aaun

What She Was Not The clash of the Imperial vassals at Westmark, 2044 ((100 Years War Battle Scene, Tomas Honz)) “BLOOD FOR ASHFORD! DEATH TO THE HALFBREEDS!” The sound of a thousand hooves beating upon the earth drummed across the valley, and pulsed in Katharina’s helmed head. The mass of cavalry streamed forward as one, their plumes and colourful banners fluttering in the breeze; she, the field captain of the Black Band, held the standard of that Alstreim regiment, raised high, among the panoply of Ashford flags as they advanced. But she thought not of the countless victories in battles past embroidered upon that standard, nor of the men-at-arms carrying that storied tradition alongside her - as they galloped across that field, her mind was overcome with rage, and her blood, so tainted with the curse of an impostor, boiled with the desire to kill. She exchanged the flag for a lance with an ensign, as they briefly halted, and their counterparts emerged across the ridge in a flurry of steel and foreign banners of war. On both sides, the lances soon dropped in one mind, and the charge commenced. Screaming a battle cry at the top of her lungs, the Knight aimed her charger and her ferrum-tipped lance towards the fray. The Black Band struggled to follow her, and indeed soon became embroiled in the clash alongside the Druscans, as men and steel became entwined in grotesque slaughter. But Katharina cared little; soon her lance ran deep red with the blood of an Adunian, and she pressed on at full speed between the bodies so haphazardly thrown into war. A hellish shrill escaped her as she recalled that the warriors of Númendil were once allies to the House whose colours she claimed. Sweat poured in streams beneath the bascinet she wore, crowned by a Waldenic torse of intertwined crimson-and-black. Mad fervour danced in her eyes like fire - deep down she knew she deserved not to bear those symbols. But she could suppress that feeling, knowing that those foes frantically parting before her path were far worse. Harrenite halfbreeds. Heretics in service of a false Faith. Adrians who spat on their own holy ancestor. They believed not in what they were, and she believed in what she was not. And what she was not fueled her fury; she wished to destroy, to utterly eradicate those who had dared to take up arms against the high seat of Merryweather of Alstreim, the marble halls of Calliopeburg, that domain she had claimed as hers and stood in very opposition, by wicked choice of the Priest conspiring with Orenid, to the mad puppet-hordes of Lemon Hill. And if all her men, and she alongside them, were to cast their bodies upon the pyre of war to see them both burned away, she would light that fire gladly. Men and horses around her were felled and cut down in agony, and she struck another Adrian with her lance, pierced another Adunian’s mail. The pole soon cracked, and the ferrum tip was blunted to uselessness. Deep in the fray, she even sighted the plate-clad Prince of Blackvale, and tossed the remains of her lance at the royal, striking him with hardly any force, unmatched by far in ferocity by her crazed laughter. It could have been a pikeman of his personal retinue that finally felled her charger with a well-placed jab. In her daze of bloodthirst she hardly noticed this setback, as she lunged and rolled over the field, to the point of bruising, to avoid being crushed by the carcass of her once-companion. Quickly her side-sword had found its way into her gauntleted hand. The men of Alstreim, and the banner of the Black Band, were nowhere to be seen; indeed, fewer and fewer Druscan flags still stood. Cries of agony still resounded over the valley, but the ringing of steel faded ever quieter, with fewer and fewer soldiers still standing in the clash. She hacked at whatever levyman of the coalition was the closest. An Adunian swordsman fighting nearby turned and repaid her in kind, thrusting his blade at the gaps in her half-plate. A mist fell upon her eyes, and wherever she now stood, the Knight was soon left a bloodied, shambling mess. She collapsed to her knees, but the wretched halfbreed, fatigued and injured himself, ambled elsewhere; she tossed aside her bascinet and spat blood in his direction, and fell upon the ground, crawling towards him with the last of her strength. She hated him more than she could hate herself, though she inched across the bloodstained grass and between the mounds of corpses to her own detriment and demise. An eerie silence soon reigned upon the field; it seemed as if the battle was finally over, though Katharina could not tell if it were just a trick played upon her by her fading mind. But on she crawled, her crimson tresses muddied, blood seeping from her wounds and her scars of Sutican rot reopened upon the ground with every jolt, and she sought to avoid the direction of wherever the medics of the Empire could be. And she understood full well that she would draw her last breath upon that accursed field of Westmark. In her final moment, numb to what should have been overwhelming pain, she instead felt immeasurable joy, and vivid delusions of being welcomed to the Seven Skies themselves, by a hand offered by Saint Ottomar, danced in her mind. It was an ugly, degrading death for an Elf from Fausten who would never see that Heaven, an ignominious end for a girl who once was Falion. But for what she was not - one Knight Katharina of Calliopeburg, it was a death in glorious martyrdom befitting the elder blood of House von Alstreim.

"Third time's the charm," said Knight Katharina. The nasty woman smirked Savoyardly, pouring an entire bottle of oil over her cuirass in preparation.

[!] A bold, defiant propaganda missive is distributed across the Canonist domains. The copy delivered to the Holy See of Lemon Hill was of a particularly macabre nature - unmistakably rendered upon human skin as vellum. This handiwork was easily discernible as the work of the Orenid Host in the Langkette. OUR PROPHET’S KNIVES HAVE BROUGHT LOW A WORM OF THE FALSE AENGUL CREED : LET THE BLOOD OF THE JORENITE CARDINAL FILL THE FONT OF CLEANSING LIKE THE SACRAMENT OF WINE ╪┼╪├├├╞┤ · ╪┤├╞│ · ╪┼╪├├├╞┤ : ║│╞│─┤╡┤│ · ╪│║┤│ · ║│╞│├║│║┤│╪│ · ╡┤─┼╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ├┼╞│ · ║┤├╪├═│ · ║┼├╪│║┤│╞│ · ║┼─╪├┤╪││╞│─ KNOW THIS - O SLAVES OF THE AENGULS - NOT EVEN IN YOUR HOLY SEE SHALL YOU BE SAFE FROM THE ORENID HOST : YOU HAVE FAILED TO HEED OUR WARNINGS AND DEATH SHALL COME TO EACH AND EVERY ONE OF YOU BY OUR HAND LIKE IT HAS COME TO PATRIARCH ALARIC ├ · ╞┤┤╞┼┤═┼│ · ╡┼╞││─╪│├╞│ - ╞┤│╪├┤╞┼│╞│ · ╪│║┤┤╡┤ · ┼┼╞││╪│╡┼║┤│╞┤ · ╡┤├┼╪├ · ╪│├ · ║├│═┼ THIS WRETCHED MAN FEARED NOT THE CREATOR - NOR THE TRUE PROPHET SAUL : HE PEDDLED THE RELICS OF FALSE PROPHETS AND SOUGHT TO KEEP THE SONS OF HOREN CHAINED IN SLAVERY TO THE PERFIDIOUS AENGULS : BUT OUR BLACK KNIVES KNEW HIS TIME AND PLACE OF DEATH TO BE PREORDAINED - AND INTERCEPTED HIM IN GREAT NUMBERS PAST THE PITIFUL GUARD OF THE PRETENDER HOLY SEE ─ · ╡┼┼╞│╡┤│ · ┼║│├═┼ · ═│├┼╞│ · ╪┤─╪├╡┤│ - ═┤┤╪├╞┤│╞┤ · ╪│║┤╞│├═┼│ IT MATTERED NOT WHETHER HE FOLLOWED THE FALSE PROPHET SIGISMUND OR THE FALSE PROPHET OWYN - OR WHETHER HIS ALLEGIANCE LIE WITH THE FALSE SHEPHERD OR A PUPPET OF THE CANON : FOR HIS TRANSGRESSIONS WHICH WERE MANY - THE TRIBUNAL OF OUR TRUE PROPHET SAUL HAD ONE VERDICT TO ADMINISTER : THIS PRETEND CARDINAL SUFFERED IN DEATH AND HE SHALL SUFFER FOR ETERNITY IN XEN ├ · ║┤├╪├═│ · ║┼├╪│║┤│╞│ · ║┼─╪├┤╪││╞│─ - ═┤╞│─═┼╪│ · ═│├┼╞│ · ╡┤├═┼╡┤ · ║┼─═┼═│ · ╡┤┼╡┼║┤ · ╞┼┤╡┼╪│├╞│┤│╡┤ O FALSE PRIESTS - DECEIVERS OF MANKIND - YOUR FATES WILL BE THE SAME : FOR TWO THOUSAND YEARS YOUR RECKONING HAS BEEN LONG OVERDUE : FALL IN LINE BEFORE OUR CREATOR AND THE WILL OF PROPHET SAUL - OR BE TRAMPLED BY HIS FAITHFUL SWORDS ╪┤├╞│ · ├┼╞│ · ║│╞│├║│║┤│╪│ · ┼┼│ · ╪├┤╞┼│ - ╪┤┤═┤║┤╪│ - ─═┼╞┤ · ╞┤┤│

[!] An Orenid letter, penned on plain paper rather than upon treated skin as per Saulite custom, spread publicly, yet furtively, pinned on remote noticeboards and wayward stones in the hopes of reaching the Orenid Host in the Langkette. Rendered in the Orenid alphabet, the strokes of the pen indicated the work of a true native of the Saulite tribe, rather than a copycat, to a trained eye, despite the odd choice of material. ((Please do not metagame and RP the contents of this letter unless they are shared by the intended recipients, or your character is fluent in the Orenid alphabet.)) ╪├│╪│ · ├┼╞│ · ║┤├╪├═│ · ║│╞│├║│║┤│╪│ · ╡┤─┼╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ├┼╞│ · ║┤├╪├═│ · ║┼├╪│║┤│╞│ · ║┼─╪├┤╪││╞│─ · ╪┼│ · ┼┼┤╪│═┼│╡┤╡┤ · ╪│├ · ║┼═│ · ║││═┼ · ─═┼╞┤ · ┼┼├╞│╞┤ ┤ - ╪┼╪├─╡┼╞├ · ╞├═┼┤╪┤│ · ─╞│╡┼╪│┼╞│┼╡┤ - ║│┼╪│ · ╪│║┤┤╡┤ · ║┼═│ · ╪├─╡┤╪│ · ┼┼┤╪├╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ╪││╡┤╪│─║┼│═┼╪│ · ╪│├ · ║│─║││╞│ · ┤═┼ · ─═┼╪│┤╡┼┤║│─╪│┤├═┼ · ├╪┤ · ║┼═│ · ║│─╡┤╡┤┤═┼═┤ - ┼┼║┤│╪│║┤│╞│ · ╪┼═│ · ╡┤┼┼├╞│╞┤ · ─╡┤ · ─ · ╪│╞│┼│ · ║┼─╞│╪│═│╞│ · ├╪┤ · ├┼╞│ · ║│╞│├║│║┤│╪│ - ├╞│ · ╡┤╪│╞│┼╡┼╞├ · ╞┤├┼┼═┼ · ╪┼═│ · ╪│║┤│ · ╡┼┼╞│╡┤│ · ├╪┤ · ╪┤╞│─═│┤═┼═┤ · ╡┤╞├┤═┼ · ┤═┼ · ║┼═│ · ├╪├╞┤ · ─═┤│ - ║│─╡┤╡┤│╞┤ · ╞┤├┼┼═┼ · ╪│├ · ┼╡┤ · ╪┼═│ · ├┼╞│ · ╞┼│═┼│╞│─╪┼╪├│ · ─═┼╡┼│╡┤╪│├╞│╡┤ · ┼┼║┤├ · ║┤─╞┤ · │║├╡┼║┤─═┼═┤│╞┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ┼┼─╞│║┼╪│║┤ · ├╪┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ╡┤┼═┼ · ╪┤├╞│ · ═┼├╪┼╪├│ · │║├┤╪├│ · ┤═┼ · ╪│║┤│ · ╡┤┼═┼╪├│╡┤╡┤ · ╞││─╡┼║┤│╡┤ · ├╪┤ · ╪││╞│╞│─ ┤ · ╪┼│╡│┼│─╪│║┤ · ─╪├╪├ · ║┼═│ · ║│├╡┤╡┤│╡┤╡┤┤├═┼╡┤ · ╪│├ · ╪│║┤│ · ├╞││═┼┤╞┤ · ║┤├╡┤╪│ : · ║┼═│ · ┼┼┤╡┤║┤ · ┤╡┤ · ╪│║┤─╪│ · ║┼═│ · ╪┼╪├─╡┼╞├ · ╞├═┼┤╪┤│ · ┤╡┤ · ╞┤│╪├┤╞┼│╞││╞┤ · ╪│├ · ╡┼─║│╪│─┤═┼ · ╞┼│╞│┤╪│─╡┤ · ╡┤├ · ╪│║┤─╪│ · ║┤│ · ║┼┤═┤║┤╪│ · ┼╡┤│ · ┤╪│ · ╪│├ · ╡┤╪│╞│┤╞├│ · ╞┤├┼┼═┼ · ║┤│╞││╪│┤╡┼╡┤ · ─═┼╞┤ · ┼═┼╪┼│╪├┤│╞┼│╞│╡┤ · ─╡┤ · ┤ · ║┤─╞┤ · ┤═┼ · ╪├┤╪┤│ : · ║┼═│ · ┼═┼┤╪┤├╞│║┼ - ║┼─╡┤╞├ - ╡┼├┼┼╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ║┼═│ · ┼┼─╞│║┤├╞│╡┤│ - ─╡┤ · ┼┼│╪├╪├ · ─╡┤ · ─═┼═│ · ├╪│║┤│╞│ · ╪┼│╪├├═┼═┤┤═┼═┤╡┤ · ┤ · ║┼┤═┤║┤╪│ · ║┤─╞┼│ - ─╞││ · ╪│├ · ╪┼│ · ╞┤│╪├┤╞┼│╞││╞┤ · ╪│├ · ║┼═│ · ╪┼╞│├╪│║┤│╞│ · ╡┤┤╪├─╡┤ : · ┤ · ─║│║│├┤═┼╪│ · ╡┼─║│╪│─┤═┼ · ╞┼│╞│┤╪│─╡┤ · ─╡┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ╡┤├╪├│ · │║├│╡┼┼╪│├╞│ · ├╪┤ · ╪│║┤┤╡┤ · ║┼═│ · ╪├─╡┤╪│ · ┼┼┤╪├╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ╪││╡┤╪│─║┼│═┼╪│ ╡┤║┤├┼╪├╞┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ├╞││═┼┤╞┤ · ║┤├╡┤╪│ · ║│╞│├╞┼│ · ╡┼─║│─╪┼╪├│ · ├╪┤ · ╞││╪│╞│┤│╞┼┤═┼═┤ · ║┼═│ · ╞││║┼─┤═┼╡┤ - ║┼═│ · ╞┤│╡┤┤╞││ · ┤╡┤ · ╪│├ · ╪┼│ · ┤═┼╪││╞│╞││╞┤ · ─╡┼╡┼├╞│╞┤┤═┼═┤ · ╪│├ · ╡┤─┼╪├┤╪││ · ╡┼┼╡┤╪│├║┼ - ─═┼╞┤ · ╪│║┤─╪│ · ─╪┤╪││╞│ · ─╪├╪├ · ╪│║┤│ · ═┼│╡┼│╡┤╡┤─╞│═│ · ╡┤─╡┼╞│─║┼│═┼╪│╡┤ · ─╞││ · ─╞┤║┼┤═┼┤╡┤╪││╞││╞┤ - ║┼═│ · ╪┼├╞┤═│ · ┤╡┤ · ╡┤┼╞│╞││═┼╞┤│╞││╞┤ · ╪│├ · ╪│║┤│ · ╪┤┤╞││ · ─═┼╞┤ · ║┼═│ · ╡┤├┼╪├ · ╞││╪├│─╡┤│╞┤ · ╪│├ · ─┼┼─┤╪│ · ╪│║┤│ · ╪┤┤═┼─╪├ · ╞││╡┼╞├├═┼┤═┼═┤ · ┼┼┤╪│║┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ─│═┼═┤┼╪├ · ╡┤╪├─╞┼│╡┤ · ─═┼╞┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ╪│╞│┤┼║┼║│║┤─═┼╪│ · ╞││╡┤┼╞│╞││╡┼╪│┤├═┼ · ├╪┤ · ├┼╞│ · ╡┼╞││─╪│├╞│ - ┼┼┤╪│║┤ · ╪│║┤│ · ║│╞│├║│║┤│╪│ · ╡┤─┼╪├ · ─╪│ · ║┤┤╡┤ · ╡┤┤╞┤│ · ─╡┤ · ┼┼─╡┤ · ╪┤├╞││╪│├╪├╞┤ · ─╪│ · ╪│║┤│ · ╪┼│═┤┤═┼═┼┤═┼═┤ · ├╪┤ · ╪│┤║┼│ ║┼═│ · ╪┤┤═┼─╪├ · ┼┼┤╡┤║┤ · ┤╡┤ · ╪┤├╞│ · ─ · ┼┼├╞│╪│║┤═│ · ╡┼║┤─║┼║│┤├═┼ - ╡┤║┤├┼╪├╞┤ · ║┼═│ · ╪┼╪├─╞┤│ · ╪┤─┤╪├ · ╪│├ · ║┼││╪│ · ╪│║┤│ · ║┼─╞│╞├ · ┼┼║┤┤╪├│ · ┤ · ═││╪│ · ╞┤╞│─┼┼ · ╪┼╞││─╪│║┤ - ╪│├ · ╪│─╞├│ · ┼║│├═┼ · ║┼═│ · ║┤├╪├═│ · ╞┼├┼┼ · ╪│├ · ║┼┼╞│╞┤│╞│ · ╪│║┤│ · ─│═┼═┤┼╪├ · ╡┤╪├─╞┼│ · ╞├═┼├┼┼═┼ · ─╡┤ · ─║┼│╪├┤│ · ─┼╡┼╪├─┤╞│ : · ╡┤║┤├┼╪├╞┤ · ║┤│╞│ · ╡┤┤═┼╡┤ · ╞┤│╪├┤╞┼│╞│ · ║┤│╞│ · ╪│├ · ║├│═┼ · ║│╞││║┼─╪│┼╞││╪├═│ - ╪│║┤│═┼ · ═┼├ · ╪┤┼╞│╪│║┤│╞│ · ║│┼╞│╡┤┼┤╪│ · ├╪┤ · ╪│║┤┤╡┤ · ╡┼╪├─┤║┼ · ┤╡┤ · ═┼│╡┼│╡┤╡┤─╞│═│ ─╞│╡┼╪│┼╞│┼╡┤ - ╡┤┼┼├╞│╞┤ · ├╪┤ · ╡┤─┼╪├ · ─═┼╞┤ · ╡┤├═┼ · ├╪┤ · ║┼─╪├┤╪││╞│─

"The three-hundred-year-old corpse-Priest rants and raves with brainrot-addled fervor that befits his age," said Black Knife Arcturus to his pallid Orenid comrades. He stamped the Orenid seal of approval upon the decree and disseminated it further - for what other purpose the ramblings of an Adunian pretend-Vander who orders Waldenians evicted and hunted by Salvan terrorists, who rejects the core teachings and holy texts of his own Church, who orders his own priests butchered like dogs, could serve than the furthering of the ultimate plan of Prophet SAUL?

"Wow if only someone had warned them" is what Jean St. Godwin would have said if he could witness the Holy Throne do everything, down to the letter, which he said it would and for which he was excommunicated and murdered. Alas, he was long dead and only bitter winds now howled over the grave to which his own Church had sent him.

The pair of Dragon Knights stood motionless upon the dais, wrists resting upon the hilts of their swords, as they observed the Adrians lay out their grievances before an Emperor they did not respect. "Youse ready for this?" A whispered question emerged from beneath the visor of Sir Darius Ault, the infamous Butcher. "My eyesight can't get any worse," muttered in reply that venerable elder, Sir Corwin von Alstreim - in those days still known as Jan Sigmar. His plate-clad shoulders rose in a subtle shrug. "Then again, I don't need to recognize a man's face to end him." "Do nae even need t'see a man t'kill 'em." The Waldenian nodded at that. "Do you really think there will be trouble? These Adrians bring with them many degenerates." "O'course there will be. T'Adrians are the degenerates." The two chuckled, and watched the scene unfold on that fateful day.