LithiumSedai

Father Jean whistled Stassie, Go Home! while he prepared for his posting as a parish priest, knowing that his lyrics will be proven prophetic - and hoping that this lifeboat, too, will sink rather than sully the shores of Aeldin with Stassies.

"The Lord is our shield, King John is our sword. Let us see this vile breed eradicated for good." Thus spoke Jean de Rennes, who would now serve as a chaplain rather than a knight; however, he still looked forward to the campaign - to justice for King Edmund, for the innocents butchered on the roads, for the accosted nuns and clergymen. The godless Stassies would be destroyed.

"THE LORD IS OUR SHIELD, KING JOHN IS OUR SWORD! TANDEM TRIUMPHANS! TANDEM TRIUMPHANS!" Jean de Rennes, mailed and belted, shouted at the top of his lungs and atop his knightly steed as he rode up and down the Road of Harvest with the knights of John of Aaun, trampling down any savage orc or godless Stassie unfortunate enough to stray in their path. At Balian, the tide was once again turned and soldiers of the Lord knew victory.

Jean graced his brother with a select few creative curses in Auvergne, learned during his stint as a burglar. Nonetheless, though his knowledge of Common flourishes left much to be desired, the Acolyte understood the full gravity of his Royal benefactor's edict, whose power now derived from God alone - as Kings ought to rule.

Jean de Rennes admired his brother's eloquence and erudition as much as he envied his apparent superior command of the Common tongue. "Back in Agathor, even killers and thieves feared the Lord and sought absolution. These creatures of Aevos strike at priests and condemn their souls to an eternity of suffering alongside Iblees, almost as they had none - as if their bodies were mere puppets and playthings of daemons."

Jean de Rennes, an Acolyte and hopefully soon an ordained priest, shook his head at the crimes detailed within the missive. He had finished his clerical exam under direct threat of the Stassionite miscreants, and earnestly hoped no points would be deducted for any mistakes written under duress! "In Gwynon and Agathor, matter would be simple. Church places interdict, and our knights run them down like dogs and hang them from the nearest tree."

By Sister Calliope Renata (Blessed Calliope of Merryweather), 1910 Published posthumously by the House of Alstreim in 1958 Memorial to the Fallen Nauzicans and the Hero-City of Haverlock, c. 1910, Almaris The Siege of Haverlock was the penultimate battle of the Sinners’ War, a conflict which embroiled almost the entirety of the Realm of Almaris in the latter half of the nineteenth century. In 1860, an Imperial force of roughly fifteen thousand men, led by the schismatic Emperor Philip III “Fratricida” Novellen and his Marshal, Hugo van Aert, encircled and besieged to ultimate success a garrison of some thirteen thousand soldiers of the Tripartite Accord, an anti-Imperial coalition forged by Haense and Urguan and consisting of numerous other nations and factions. Among these was the Nauzican Brigade, an insurrectionist force numbering a thousand trained knights at its peak, dedicated to overthrowing Philip III on the behalf of Prince Leopold John Alstion, the most notable rival claimant to the Imperial throne. A reversal of wartime luck which led to the Siege of Haverlock prevented the Brigade from fomenting a full-scale uprising against Philip III; all of its members perished in a last stand at Haverlock. The most notable among them was Maxim of Attenlund, an Alstion loyalist from Haense - the Brigade’s commander. The fallen Nauzicans also numbered Lord William Corwin of Alba, the brother of Prince Leopold; and Prince Ulrich Lothar of Alstreim, the Grand Knight of Savoy and the author’s father. Though Philip III had ordered the city to be burned and his forces to abandon the fallen Nauzicans to the carrion crows, a group of clergymen sent by the Canonist Church retrieved, identified, and buried the bodies with proper rites afforded soon after the battle. The legend of the Nauzican martyrs and the so-called “Hero-City of Haverlock” featured greatly in the Alstion restoration in the Heartlands and the founding myth of the Kingdom of Aaun. In 1892, the author of this poem raised a memorial to the fallen Nauzicans by the ruins of Haverlock. There at the bloody Siege of Haverlock Did Lord Philip breach the city ramparts; Into the very heart of the township He led a host of twenty thousand men. And in the city square before him stood A man clad head to toe in jet-black plate And his name was Maxim of Attenlund: He commanded the Nauzican Brigade. Facing Philip, he went forth with a blade, And behind him followed four hundred knights; High they raised the Banner of the Dragon. Thus spoke Philip, and with Maxim pleaded: “O great Maxim, Hero of the Southbridge, Before you stands Philip, chosen by chance To lead Oren by the will of her folk; And the might that I command was given For I rule through wisdom and devotion So have I earned the loyalty of all. Cast, thus, your blade before me, o Maxim, And bid your men to bend the knee at once; When from the north we drive the Haeseni Your House will govern their lands in my name.” Then replied Maxim, brave and defiant: “O foul Philip, accursed kinslayer, I am Maxim, Captain of the Brigade And to no enemy my hand shall yield. Though you have breached these walls of Haverlock And slain the heroes of Haense and Sedan, The Nauzica shall never bend the knee Nor shall I cast my blade before your feet; Above you and the loyalty you ask Ranks the resolve of a Nauzican knight And my vow to the men of the Brigade.” To that cried Philip, of him requesting: “O good Maxim, Captain of the Brigade, Before you stands Philip, ordained by fate To lead Oren by right of his bloodline; And the might that I command was acquired For the House of Novellen rules by right So have I earned the lordship over Man. Cast, thus, your blade before me, o Maxim, And bid your men to bend the knee at once; In my grand mercy your lives shall be spared And with your banners and arms you shall leave.” Then replied Maxim, brave and defiant: “O vain Philip, usurper of Oren, I am Maxim, Captain of the Brigade And to no enemy my hand shall yield. Though you have breached these walls of Haverlock And slain the heroes of Haense and Sedan, The Nauzica shall never bend the knee Nor shall I cast my blade before your feet; Above you and all the honors you ask Ranks my fealty to the Alstion cause And my vow to the rightful Emperor.” To that sneered Philip, of him demanding: “O vile Maxim, worm in service of Alstion, Before you stands Philip, God above Man, Who leads Oren as Aurelius did; And the might that I command is mine For my blood is of His Divine conquest: Hear, I will stamp Terra beneath my boot. Cast, thus, your blade before me, o Maxim, And bid your men to bend the knee at once; As slaves you shall be cast in iron chains To grovel before Pertinax Reborn.” Then replied Maxim, brave and defiant: “O schismatic Philip, spawn of Iblees, I am Maxim, Captain of the Brigade And to no enemy my hand shall yield. Though you have breached these walls of Haverlock And slain the heroes of Haense and Sedan, The Nauzica shall never bend the knee Nor shall I cast my blade before your feet; Above you and the worship you demand Ranks my devotion to the Mother Church And my love for the Creator, our Lord!”

stay safe my fav albanian

Jean de Rennes had in a previous battle commandeered a war horse from a slain Veletzer, and thus decided to try his hand at a cavalry posting; though he had been little more than a thief and then a prisoner for most of his life, his noble blood and martial training he had received as a child were somewhat fruitful, and along with the Covenant cavalry the would-be acolyte committed to several charges and glorious passes of arms in the manner of a true knight of Gwynon and Agathor, trampling down several of the Anathema's soldiers. But as the day was winding down and the sounds of battle turned louder and more desperate, it became evident to Jean that this effort was not enough, and that Veletz's skirmishers and archers yet maintained their advantage over a dangerously dwindling Covenant force. When he miraculously survived the felling of his steed with but a bruise, and rejoined the ranks of his nearly shattered Aaunic regiment once more as an infantryman, he knew that the field was lost. The man, battered and drenched in sweat, promptly discarded his heavy weaponry and fled into the night alongside a few lucky companies, knowing that soon a much bloodier and much more disorganized rout would follow. There was no shame in fighting another day. But for all he knew, this setback ensured the fighting could last another decade. "I do not reckon they have short wars on this continent, like they do tempers."

Jean de Rennes, an immigrant from Gwynon, attempted to read the Pontifical letter to no avail, as the Common used was far too advanced for him. He pestered his newfound friends in Aaun to read the letter to him out loud, however, and all was well when he learned of the Aegisian pope's safe release. He uttered a prayer on his behalf.

In the Prisons of Gwynon Bastion Saint-Edmond, a Ducal asylum and prison in Gwynon, c. 1940 ((San Michele Monastery, Carlo Bossoli)) “Dans les prisons de Gwynon Y avait un prisonnier Y avait un prisonnier…” The tune echoed across the cell, reverberating off the dreary stone walls through the rattling of shackles. Had there been any listeners unfortunate enough to be ushered in the late midnight hour through the hallways of Bastion Saint-Edmond, one of the Duke of Gwynon’s many crumbling dungeons, they could have spotted the singer’s silhouette: a slender figure framed by a flickering lantern suspended above the cell door, visage concealed by a dark mane of dirty, disheveled hair. Jean de Rennes celebrated the first month of his imprisonment with this melancholic song; in truth, a month he hadn’t spent rotting at the gallows in the Bastion’s courtyard. The spree of thievery and armed robbery instigated by his companions and him across the north of the Continent had come to an abrupt end when, instead of their fence and contact, they came face-to-face with twenty loaded arbalests in the woods lining the border of Gwynon and Agathor. Chained on the spot and escorted at once into the Bastion after such a masterful capture, Jean had little time to consider who might have been the leak. The dilemma deepened, and simultaneously and abruptly lost any meaning when all of his compatriots, to his shock, were summarily hanged by the neck until dead. Jean narrowly evaded the rope by frantically presenting to the warden proof of his, truthfully petty, nobility: the allure of ransom, thus, transformed his verdict to indefinite imprisonment. But as time passed in agonizing slowness, no Talraen back home in Touron had bothered to respond to his pleas. He rightly suspected that a perfect opportunity had transpired by his imprisonment to rid the family name, nearly faded into obscurity by now, of the stain of his delinquency, and he admitted to himself that he would have done the same in their stead. After another month’s worth of wasted parchment and wasted appeals, his privileges of correspondence were then revoked for the time being, and Jean resigned himself to the weight of his confinement, ever closer to the damning reality of a life sentence. Even a wretched life in captivity was to him preferable to the fate of his lowborn comrades. The local guards spoke between themselves a language intoned much like Auvergne, yet still foreign to his ears; they called him a variant of his name he begrudgingly adapted to accepting throughout the sparse roll calls. The rations were appalling, and between the iron bars of the Bastion’s windows and the cracks of its discordant stones whistled a cold breeze which made his nights miserable. Inside, lights were rare and dim, and on occasions he was granted leave from the prison’s damp depths and hallways, it was merely to perform back-breaking hard labor in the courtyard. In three months’ time, his eyes had grown accustomed to the dark, and his skin had adopted a pale sheen; after six months, his calloused hands came to know the pickaxe well. When the Bastion’s population remained sparse, he stayed solitary within the confines of his cell, chained to the wall and left to wallow in his isolation; in contrast, when the raids of his Ducal benefactors were especially fruitful, the walls swelled with the influx of cutthroats and miscreants, and they were let to enjoy each others’ company in a shared chamber. Thus Jean came to know many an arsonist, murderer and dissident, and on one occasion even conversed with a burly, tattooed Elf claiming to have served time aboard the legendary Helderenberg three centuries ago. Fights were a rarity, as the somber aura of the Bastion lingered in the air much like a miasma, and greatly disheartened the spirits of these prisoners. Very few made themselves at home; for most, their final destination was the courtyard. Stacking their corpses atop the prison carts, Jean both loathed and envied these men for, unlike him, they were able to make their peace with taking the plunge into death, the only certain liberation from the Bastion. “The Mansion”, Bastion Saint-Edmond’s most luxurious holding cell ((The Prisoner, Nikolai Yaroshenko)) A curious scene occurred some seven years after Jean’s arrival to the Bastion. It was in the period of solitude, and Jean once more occupied his solitary cell, his wrists bound together by shackles; it was somewhere past noon, on a rare occasion the sun broke through the clouds and past the bars of the cell window. “Yann Roazhon,” a guard intoned - this had been the name afforded to him in the wardens’ tongue - and stepped into his compartment, letter in hand. Although the seal had been broken, Jean could make out the outline of a crossed dragon, and eagerly received the letter into his shackled hands, his first contact with the outside world in years. The letter read: “To Jean de Rennes, GOD’s certain blessings and benediction upon you. I am Father John Alstion, servant of the Lord and cleric of the Holy Mother Church. I am seated in the Kingdom of Aaun upon the lands of Aevos, established prior by the efforts of my late Royal grandfather, Charles Alstion, who had always spoken highly of those lineages ever loyal to our own, such as the Auvergnians of Talraen. That such ties ran deep had also been the conviction of my late father, King James, who thus urged me to seek out your relatives and yourself so that these ties might be restored; our reigning King, Edmund, duly agreed. It saddens me that my sources inform me that you will have received this letter as a prisoner in Gwynon, after having led a life of sin, embroiled in crime. In the Scripture it is written: Though a thief may find refuge and the blasphemer speak softly, the Lord’s eye is cast over all sin. To reject Him in private is the truest rejection, the lasting condemnation. Verily, brother, the Lord GOD is the wisest GOD, and he knows all things, in darkness, in light, in the din of the market, in the silence of the mind. But the Gospel also says: GOD promises refuge from suffering in all times, that the sons of His Sons should never bow before Iblees again. There is yet hope for you, Jean de Rennes, and your freedom and redemption is at hand, should you choose it. Come with me to the lands of Aaun and repent for your sin in lifelong service to the Lord. Should you be willing to take the holy vows, the wardens of your dungeon will surrender you to my custody. I await your answer as Forever your faithful brother in GOD, Father John.” Unease, mixed with excitement, filled his heart as he read the letter over and over, inferring its meaning though his Common had never been up to par. To dare to dream of freedom after so many years of confinement? But at what cost - his life spent in servitude to the Church? It could not be said that Jean considered himself a pious man, and he sparsely reminisced of those distant days in which his ancestors had served as priests and pontifical guards. But thoughts of Ulmsbottom up north, where prisoners could choose to exchange their life sentences for taking the cloth, did occasionally cross his mind, and oftentimes he wished he had been taken to the penal colony upon the island instead of the Bastion, if only for the sake of better meals and the quality of fresh air. A dilemma now formed in Jean’s mind, one which regularly gnawed at his conscience. He knew nothing of this John but his family name, or where this Aaun was, and did not particularly wish to consign himself to the cloth in a foreign land across the sea; in his mind during the numbing, daily routines of prison life, he often lessened the magnitude of his sentence, and attempted to convince himself that a general amnesty would eventually be granted. Ten, fifteen, or twenty years - but he could walk a free man, with no puppeteer’s strings attached to his back. But at night, when cold winds howled across the hallways, thoughts of mortality occupied his mind as he shuddered on his cot, and Jean hesitantly admitted to himself that he did not truly wish to die a sinner, chained in a cell and forgotten by all. Another two years had passed, and Jean did not reply, though the predicament still weighed on his mind every waking hour. He had just begun to believe that Father John wouldn’t write to him again, when, one night, he stirred from his sleep to a commotion in the hallway, from which heavy steps echoed and beat upon the stone floor. The door of his cell swung wide open; foreign, armored men carrying an ornate writ stood beside his warden, who did poorly to conceal his look of utter annoyance. In the light of the hanging lantern, Jean could barely discern their tabards - purple and white; but his keen eye also noticed that the warden bore a shiny new golden cross around his neck, and that a hefty coin pouch, over which his hand was cupped, graced his belt. “Yann Roazhon - Jean de Rennes,” one of the men said, and heavy, impenetrable silence lingered in the cell for a moment. “We are here on behalf of the Holy Mother Church and King John.” King John? “There is no more time - you must come to Aaun with us, or remain in this cell forever. Which will it be?” For the first time since his arrival, Jean uttered a prayer. And then he made his decision.

"If I die here on this day, at least I'll have died a free man." But Jean de Rennes did not die that day - chanting prayers to the Lord, the foreigner charged out of the trenches and across the scorched earth of no-man's land; alongside men of Merryweather, who had once been valued allies of his House; and by the side of King John of Aaun, his benefactor, to breach the vipers' den together. Instead of death, on that day he knew victory.

That’s The Way It Is Marshal Walter patrolling the Langkettes, 1942 (Blue Sky, George D. Smith)) With a flick of his wrist, Walter discarded the remains of his Salvian cigar. Soon remembering that he was in the Hand of Horen, however, he plucked it off the marbled floor with a grumble and a cough; a complaint inaudible to most in his surroundings, given the rumble and commotion resulting from the scraping of dignitaries’ boots - the Diet session was finally adjourned, and everyone present sought to make their leave. About damn time, he thought. A weathered man of rough manners and curt mannerisms, the flourish of the Diet never appealed to him, and he attended its sessions as a spectator solely out of pure courtesy for his lieges, both Princely and Royal. He melded in with the crowd as it streamed through the palace halls, lost in his thoughts as the flow of passage carried him towards the gates. He was never one for high politics, unlike the men who surrounded him; his mind was occupied entirely by mundane considerations. Marriage sounds good for a feller my age, he posited. Don’t need to be a lone man no more. Maybe I’ll get that raise from the Prince. Maybe I’ll start my distillery. For a decade he had served as Merryweather’s Marshal and Sheriff, and though chaos and war raged in the outside world, the Langkettes remained safe under his watch - no cattle were rustled, no horses were stolen. His train of thought persisted even as his hat was blown off his head by a chilling breeze whistling through the hall, and the steps around him became louder and uneven. The great palace doors were swung wide open, and armed men could be seen rushing into the Hand. “Halt,” a voice called out from the intruding group, and a man stepped forth. “Don’t shoot,” Walter said to the brigand blocking his path, arms lifted in surrender before his loaded arbalest. His uniform seemed oddly familiar. As the circumstances of his newfound situation began to weigh upon him, and tensions heightened, Walter still believed the armed intruders had no reason to harm him. He was forced to concede to the harsh realities of life when two blades pierced through the Sheriff’s back.

Saint Calliope welcomes the Pontiff among the dead, celebrating his arrival with a Salvian cigar.

The Marshal of Merryweather, Walter Vanderrecht, locks himself inside his own cell, then uses a "soulstone" in the "off hours" to miraculously evade his self-imposed imprisonment. Truly, the incompetence of Aaunic guardsmen knows no bounds.

Calliope Renata, the Maiden of Merryweather, whom some would call a Saint, welcomed her nephew to the Seven Skies after his lengthy and eventful life any Vander would covet. He has, indeed, earned his eternal rest.

✶ P R O P O S A L O F C H A N G E S T O T H E 1 0 T H O F S U N ‘ S S M I L E , 1 9 4 7 T O T H E W A L D E N I C D I E T , In light of recent developments which have sullied the honor of the Electorate and the Waldenian People both, and bearing in mind the fast-approaching centennial of the publication of our Sacred Law, I have seen fit to petition an amendment to its final chapter, the Code of Representation. Enclosed within the letter is a proposal for revised standards regarding the Diet and the enforcement of the Sacred Law, and changes to the text that I believe are necessary. T H E R E V I S E D C O D E O F R E P R E S E N T A T I O N i. The Waldenian People’s interests, both internal and foreign, shall be represented by their cultural leadership embodied by the Vandalore and the Waldenic Diet. ii. The Waldenian People collectively enjoy the rights enumerated in the Code of Rights, and are collectively bound by the obligations enumerated in the Code of Obligations. a. A Waldenian may petition the cultural leadership of the Waldenian People for the protection of their rights. b. A Waldenian who violates the Code of Rights through acts against another or themselves, or forsakes the Code of Obligations shall be held accountable by the cultural leadership of the Waldenian People. 1. A Waldenian in severe breach of the Sacred Law shall be stripped of their status as a Waldenian and shunned by the Waldenian People. O N T H E V A N D A L O R E iii. The Vandalore shall be considered the ultimate authority on the matters of the greater Waldenic culture, and the protector of Waldenic titles and honors. iv. The Vandalore must be an adult Waldenian patriarch or matriarch in good standing, or a Waldenian figure of great renown embodying the tenets of the Sacred Law of Waldenia and the Vander Code in particular, worthy of the ultimate cultural leadership of the Waldenian People. v. The Vandalore must be elected by the Waldenic Diet by a simple majority vote of the Electors. a. Electors may nominate themselves, or be nominated by a fellow Elector. b. An eligible non-Elector may be nominated by an Elector and elected Vandalore should they accept their nomination. vi. The Vandalore is elected for life and shall serve until death, explicit abdication, or forfeiture of the honor. vii. The Vandalore shall assume the Presidency of the Waldenic Diet upon election. viii. The Vandalore shall swear a sacred oath to uphold the Sacred Law of Waldenia and the Vander Code in particular, and such an oath shall be recorded and publicized. a. A Vandalore-Elect who refuses to swear this oath shall be considered to have forfeited their service, and another Vandalore must be elected in their stead. b. A Vandalore determined to have broken this oath shall immediately abdicate or be deemed to have forfeited their service by an unanimous vote of confidence of the Electors, barring their own vote. ix. The Vandalore shall observe adherence to the Vander Code among those required to follow it, and shall have the sole authority to confer punishment upon any violators. a. Depending on the severity of the violation, the punishment may be administered in the form of admonition, a quest of penance, temporary or permanent suspension of privileges including Waldenic appointments, knighthoods, Electoral grants, and internal considerations of nobility. b. The Waldenic Diet is permitted to commute this punishment in regards to lesser violations with a simple majority vote. x. The Vandalore shall decide on the necessary collective action of the Waldenic Diet should the Code of Rights be breached by an outsider force. xi. The Vandalore shall, as President of the Waldenic Diet, be responsible for calling its conventions and submitting motions for its adjournment. xii. The Vandalore shall, as President of the Waldenic Diet, maintain its records and ensure the printing and delivery of its publications. xiii. The Vandalore shall maintain the accurate and official list and records of modern Vandalores. xiv. The Vandalore shall maintain an up-to-date, accurate and official list of the incumbent Electorates of the Waldenic Diet, and the details of its previous compositions. xv. The Vandalore shall assume the title of Elected Margrave or Margravine of Vanderfell, reclaimed and granted to the Waldenic Diet by its final hereditary holder, Hans Rovin. xvi. The Vandalore shall maintain the accurate and official list of Elected Margraves and Margravines of Vanderfell. O N T H E W A L D E N I C D I E T xvii. The Waldenic Diet shall be considered a secondary authority on the matters of the greater Waldenic culture. xviii. The Waldenic Diet shall consist of Electors, presided over by the Vandalore in their capacity as President of the Waldenic Diet. xix. An Elector must be an adult Waldenian patriarch or matriarch in good standing, or otherwise a Waldenian titleholder in representation of the Waldenian People, confirmed to be in adherence to the Sacred Law of Waldenia and especially the Vander Code. xx. An eligible person may be raised to the Electorate by the Vandalore with the consent, or a simple majority vote of the Waldenic Diet. a. An eligible person may petition their appointment, or be nominated by an Elector. xxi. An Electoral grant shall represent the eligible Elector’s House, and shall constitute the raising of their domain to an Electorate. a. As such, an Electoral grant is permanent unless revoked, and shall be inherited by the Elector’s legal heir. b. A non-Elector chosen to serve as the Vandalore shall be granted a non-permanent Electorate lasting throughout their tenure and no longer, unless raised to a permanent Electoral grant by the Waldenic Diet. xxii. An Elector must continue to adhere to the Vander Code upon confirmation, and shall swear an oath to uphold it. Such an oath shall be recorded and publicized. a. A person who inherits an Electoral grant and refuses to swear this oath shall have that Electoral grant immediately revoked. b. An Elector determined to have broken this oath shall be penalized by the Vandalore as a violator of the Vander Code. xxiii. An Electoral grant may also be revoked from an Elector deemed to have committed a gross violation of the Sacred Law of Waldenia, an Elector who has failed to attend three consecutive sessions of the Waldenic Diet, or a House deemed to have become extinct. a. A person whose Electoral grant has been revoked for continued absence may petition for their reappointment. xxiv. An Elector shall be empowered to propose motions to the Waldenic Diet regarding cultural matters that require Waldenic unity, and vote on such matters. a. All votes, unless otherwise stated, shall require a simple majority to pass. xxv. The Waldenic Diet is obligated to convene when summoned by the Vandalore, and when there remain pending motions to discuss. xxvi. The Waldenic Diet shall observe adherence to the Sacred Law among the Waldenian People, and shall have the authority to confer punishment upon any violators. xxvii. The Waldenic Diet shall be dissolved upon the conclusion of the Vandalore’s tenure through death, abdication, or forfeiture, and reconvene for a new election following the mourning period should one be necessary. ✶ WALTER VANDERRECHT, MARSHAL OF MERRYWEATHER, SHERIFF OF APFELBERG

"The Vander Code don't support treason," said the Marshal of Merryweather, preparing his crossbow and a thick rope should the resolution of this conundrum not prove favorable to Waldenian honor.

Sir Daris Verethi, who had been investigating the previous breach of the church with his fellow Salvians, left a helpful (though anonymous) note for the Cardinal: "It's called the Temple of the Exalted Prophets."

The Royal Salvian Regiment locates the stolen remains of Ven. Fr. Wert, 1945 [!] A letter is dispatched to the Prince of Merryweather, signed by the Syndicate Envoy to the Waldenic Diet, Sir Daris Verethi. ((Please do not metagame and RP the contents of this letter unless they are shared by the recipients.)) TO HENRY, PRINCE OF THE ALSTREIM BLOOD, Three blessings to you and Saint Ottomar’s eternal grace and protection. I am writing to you instead of conveying my concerns in person and in private, though the implications are severe, so that the record of what occurred may be shared by you with the appropriate outlander allies and authorities. I understand that your King, although a child, carries the blessing of the Infant-Martyr, and commands the wisdom necessary to take action. You have my permission to present this account to him and to any whom you can trust with your life. Recently, but a few Saint’s Days ago, a patrol from our Victory sent to survey and secure the surroundings of Whitespire came across a macabre sight. Beneath the Temple of the Exalted Prophets, the final resting places of several virtuous outlanders were desecrated by an unknown blasphemer. Summoned to this place by my kinsman-in-law, Garnis Nyrilnith, I constituted that the assailant robbed several graves; most notably, that of your outlander Venerable, the Father Wert, whose remains were stolen. Though I am aware that cremation is seldom practiced in the Outlands, and understand well the importance of preserving the relics and remains of the holiest, I shuddered at the thought of enabling such easy desecration, and that not a single lock nor sentry prevented the blasphemer from seizing the Venerable Father’s remains. We, the blades of our Incorruptible King and our Creator in the highest, could not allow ourselves to bear the shame of inaction. You are no doubt aware that every crewman of the Victory, every Royal Knight of the Regiment aboard, was hand-picked for their zeal and innate skill and ability, including that of investigation, and thorough tracking. In the territory of Merryweather, we burned incense and prayed for the intercession of those of your kin who have committed many pious acts, yet have been denied due recognition. And thus, thanks to the mercy of Tylos II and Sister Calliope, our efforts bore fruit within a mere Saint’s Day - the few traces left behind by the blasphemer, otherwise impossible to track and inconceivable to the mind of any uninspired detective, formed a clear path before the eyes of us Salvians. The body of the Venerable Father was soon located in a lair barricaded by darkspawn, an evil spirit or a shapeshifter of some kind; though the vile being had fled prior to our arrival, we were able to break in and retrieve the priest’s remains, and truly, in that moment, every Salvian wept tears of joy for the relic we had seized from the grasp of darkness. Yet, regretfully, we were soon to find out that our trials had not ended there. I sent my kinsman, Nisstar Verethi, to the Temple to negotiate the safe return of Father Wert’s remains. He returned sooner than we had expected, pale-faced, with a disturbing story - all evidence of desecration had been surreptitiously removed in the meantime, and the Venerable Father’s grave was restored as if no wrongdoing had been committed at all. When he carefully inquired within, those present insisted that nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. A chilling realization came over us that someone at the Temple must have wished to cover up this desecration, and was either all too willing to make amends with Father Wert’s disappearance; or worse, that the blasphemer who had stolen his remains must have had help from within. Helsuren commanded that we bring the casket aboard and deliver it to the City for safekeeping; he believes a grave conspiracy is at hand, that the outlanders of your Temple cannot be trusted; that the disdain shown for your venerable folk in Aaun is part of an orchestrated effort to undermine our Faith within your Kingdom. Know that our sacred duty demands of us to pursue this matter until the very end, and we duly ask for your assistance. I beseech you, write back to the Victory at your earliest convenience. FOREVER YOUR FAITHFUL BROTHER IN GOD,

How much do you miss Corwin and Armand and was I the greatest son-in-law of all time? What happened to Orsul? How are you today?

A Ferryman fan duly obliges, reporting a former Orenian associate:

"What in tarnation." Marshal Walter emerged from his office to the sounds and sights of a burning village; however, the valiant knights of Merryweather and their allies had already trampled over the undead hordes. He watched the rising pillars of smoke in utter confusion.