Nectorist

Adrian Military Order #0 In light of the Duchy of Adria’s forthcoming occupation of the whole of the Lower Petra, Justinian Basrid, Count of Susa, is hereby appointed as governor of the Tetsugawa. Sir Joseph Vasile @JoanOfArc

Viktor Sarkozic is gone. "You know, Viktor, it really isn’t good for you to be down here. We’ve talked about this before.” The young Sarkozic looked up to the cool, stern face of Owyn. Despite the darkness of the flat, ashen landscape around them, illuminated only by a burning bush a few yards away, the prophet’s face shone with a soft glow, making his sharp features easy to make out. The man’s great voice boomed across the landscape, as if he were speaking from above, yet it was also as gentle as a lamb. "You retreat from the challenges that God sends to test you far too often. It is not in the making of a man, a duke, a faithful Canonist. Being a boy is no excuse. You ought to expect better of yourself. I certainly do.” The prophet’s tone was more forceful now. While still not mean, Owyn was certainly tired of now having had to repeat himself several times over. At least by Viktor’s count. "I understand. I don’t mean to come here. Well, I do, but it’s more comfortable sometimes. It’s quiet and I feel safe.” That he did. The night sky- it was always night here- reminded Viktor of a summer dusk in Adria, his favorite time of day. The light had not yet vanished from the sky, but it had seeped away to such an extent that only the faintest traces of the nearly-set sun were visible through the clouds. It was not quite like the overcast before a rainy day, another favorite of Viktor’s, but it was close to it. "You need to be kinder, dear Owyn.” Lady Edyth’s voice was soothing, and with a large palm she ruffled young Viktor’s hair. The boy didn’t mind, though. She was a nice woman, bathed in an apricot-colored light that made her seem sort of like an angel. Viktor had never seen an angel before, but if he did they would probably look like Lady Edyth. “The poor boy has gone through a good deal- at such a young age, too! And you wonder why he is so stunted in mind and speech?” Well, maybe she wasn’t always nice, Viktor thought. The Prophet Owyn glared at Lady Edyth, pointing an accusatory finger at her. While he made no move for the weapons at his side, the great prophet grasped his hand so tightly around the shaft of his spear that Viktor thought it would shatter. "Don’t you try to poison him with your sweet words. You’ve filled his mind with sin since the start. Why else do we have THIS?” He pointed to the burning bush. “Or HIM?” With a wide arc, he pointed to the third and final friend, Vladimyr. Vladimyr was technically Viktor’s friend, at least that’s what Lady Edyth told him, but, as guilty as he may have felt for it, he could hardly look upon the thing. More in the shape and form of a beast than of a man, Vladimyr hardly spoke, hardly moved, and hardly made a sound. Whenever Viktor came here he simply saw his third friend standing upright, staring at him with a cold glare. Sometimes Lady Edyth joked that Viktor made other people feel the same way with how he stared. Prophet Owyn could hardly tolerate the man’s presence. Lady Edyth scoffed, or at least that’s what Viktor assumed it to be. From her, it sounded like the small laugh you would hear from a friend trying to make another friend’s tasteless joke seem humorous. She lifted her hand from Viktor’s hair and twirled about to face the boy. She rolled her big, blue eyes as she threw up her hands in defeat. "I don’t know why you keep Owyn around, poor Viktor. What comfort did he give you after the horrors you saw when you were but a babe? What care does he show now for your plight? Is his way really the best to follow? Will you just ‘tough it out’ now that you have lost?” Her incessant talking and questioning annoyed him. He hated that she kept bringing those things up. She was his friend, yes, but it seemed that every time he came one of them demanded that he kick out another. He didn’t want to kick any of them out. The prophet’s eyes went alight with rage as a great torrent swept through them. His massive, calloused palm reached for the hilt of his blade. With a blinding flash of light, a great many beams of sun rays emitted from the sword as it was slowly drawn from its sheath. The dark land around them, now basked in the holy light of the Prophet’s blade, was lit more brightly than a summer’s day. For a moment, Viktor shielded his eyes so that they could adjust. "Pagan witch! You speak as if you care!?” Vines of white clouds effused from the blade, surrounding Lady Edyth, who began to scream. She clawed at her face, which began to redden with each passing moment. Not just a flushed red, but a violent crimson. She was boiling alive. Viktor always hated it when they fought. He covered his ears to try and blocked out her cries of pain, but they filled the very earth he had created. The sound came from everywhere, and it wracked his mind as much as it did his ears. He wanted it to stop. He hated the noise. He tried to bury his fingers in his ears to block it. He could still hear it. Try as he might to shut his eyes closed, all he could see was the woman’s skin peeling from her face. The man’s ugly snarl as he tortured her. Then all went dark and Viktor could not hear a thing. He didn’t mind the empty, blank pocket of his dream that he found himself in. He could walk around on what felt like soft, flat ground. He heard nothing, saw nothing, and felt nothing, but the darkness he walked through calmed his heart. It beat more steadily again. His ears, which had been throbbing in pain, did not hurt so much anymore. He could breathe easily. Eventually, a small bit of light could be seen near what Viktor assumed to be the endless cavern. He continued to walk towards it. It took a while, much longer than the boy thought it would, but eventually he reached it. The light, which bore no source, shone dimply on the shadow of Vladimyr, hunched over beside a white wall. Almost frenzied, the beast looked up to him, then off to the right, then to the left, then back. "I got rid of them for you.” His voice came out as a hoarse rasp, a horrible, gravely tone that did not assuage Viktor’s fears in the slightest. His heart again caught in his chest, but he felt frozen as he stared down his friend. “They’ll be fine by next time.” Vladimyr’s thin, spindly figure began to slowly, laboriously, unfurl. The beast rose to its full height- several heads taller than Viktor, who himself was tall for his age- until his head nearly hit the ceiling. With his small, white eyes, the beast glared at the Sarkozic from atop his mountain. "You lost.” Viktor blinked. Lost? The battle had been won. Even now, he could hear the cheers of the men of Adria in the distance, see his father’s fist raised triumphantly as the last of the Aaunic soldiers fled, smell the carnage of a battle won. But with each passing moment, the sensations of victory grew ever-fleeting as they were whisked away from Viktor, who, try as he did, could not follow them. The world about him changed. The darkness fled as the setting sun replaced it, its fading light cast over the trampled fields of the Lower Petra. It was the sight of victory. Bodies of men, women, children, and horses lay strewn about. In the distance, the rising smoke of burnt-out hovels drifted into the air. A few scavengers, crows and peasants, shuffled about the field as they looted. Above them all stood Vladmiyr, a giant invisible to them all save Viktor, who he kept his eyes locked with. "You fought well and nobly for your father’s cause. You’d fought no war before, yet you were able to fell a man on the field of battle. Your father’s armies, victorious, won the day, and the people of Velec were, mostly, allowed to welcome back their friends and family with cheers and open arms.” The beast pointed down to a cluster of lifeless, unmoving bodies, all stacked upon another like wood built for a pyre. Viktor neared it, each step feeling like an eternity. He dreaded the sight of what would be revealed, even if he could guess it already. There was a reason he could not revel in victory, yet sense its horrible aftermath. There was a reason he was here, now, and not back with his father in Velec, being praised for his conduct in his first battle. He saw himself, crushed beneath a shattered supply cart, gasping for life. His face, bloodied, matted, and scarred, was nearly unrecognizable, but on his chest he saw the sigil of the eagle. Limbs missing, plate punctured, his life visibly seeping from him, what Viktor saw was not himself, the boy who had so willingly and loyally followed his father into battle, but the dying remains of a butchered animal. His nightmares had come true. The boy forced himself to look away as he wretched onto the ground. He did not want this. Not this end. Victory could be forsaken, all of Velec could be forsaken, why had he lost? Why must he lay perishing, forgotten, left to rot on the lifeless battlefield of victory while everyone else could live? Tears fell freely from his eyes as he desperately looked up to the hulking figure of his friend, wishing for some answer. "You should’ve listened to your friends. They all told you what would come. You knew it yourself.” The beast seemed amused as it spoke, its boldness having returned. It paced around the battlefield, poking at dead bodies amusedly. “You lost, Viktor. Try as you might have to be dutiful, brave, noble, whatever it may have been, all of it came to this end. It’s all it ever could have come to.” The world about them changed again. They returned to the dark field where they had begun, but now that too had shifted. Fires burned all around. Trees sprung from the earth as they too were caught alight. Ghastly, shapeless figures danced and sang around their unholy pyres as they cheered for victory. "DOWN WITH THE FALSE LORD OWYN!” Cried they. "DOWN WITH THE VILE LADY EDYTH!” Cried they. "PRAISE KING VLADIYMR, HE, OUR SAVIOR!” Cried they. Viktor frantically looked around, but as the landscape twisted and turned, he could not see but flames and shadows whipping and whirling about. He staggered forward, backward, any direction possible to find Lady Edyth and Prophet Owyn so that he could save them, or they could save him. His staggering broke into a ceaseless sprint, but as he ran, pursued by the dancing servants of Vladmiyr, his eyes caught the empty silhouette of a man donned in thick armor suspended in the sky. He continued to run, and soon he outpaced both his pursuers and the flames that had engulfed his dream. Darkness shrouded the lands of his world again, and the boy, breathless, stopped a moment to rest. He doubled over, trying to fill his lungs with air, but the oxygen was caught in his throat, and he doubled over, clawing at his neck in the vain hope that he could breathe. In his struggle, he looked up. Inches from his face, appearing where it was not moments before, were the unblinking, withered eyes of the fallen Lady Edyth. He could not scream, but with his strength, the Sarkozic leapt to his feet and ran again. For miles and miles he ran, trying to wake up, trying to find safety. In the distance he saw a light, so he pursued it. Another few minutes passed, and as he chased the source of life it grew ever-brighter. Finally, as he was finally shrouded by the rays of light, he fell to his knees again, breathless. "All of your running, yet you still end up here.” It was Vladimyr’s voice, nowuntainted by a beastly form. When Viktor lifted his head, he saw the man himself. His friend’s humanity had returned to him, and the king that Viktor saw was simply an old man, perhaps twenty years his father’s elder, sitting atop a throne flanked by a pair of guards. Garbed in the fine attire of the Heartlands, yet sitting before a flag that bore allegiance to none, the king spoke more. "This is your life now, Viktor. You were given the choice to avoid war, yet you blindly ran headfirst towards it. Even if bloodlust did not drive you, the principles you believed to be noble caused you to meet your failure, one that you will never recover from. Learn this as I, your friend, King Vladimyr, give you my blessing.” The king lifted his scepter and pointed it at Viktor. "Your efforts led you here. You tried to be noble, like Owyn, to be kind, like Edyth, to be proud, like your mother, to be good, like your father.” Red flames leapt from the scepter of the king. They fell around Viktor and shot upwards into the sky. "You need to get matters done, like me.” On the fields of the Lower Petra, Viktor awoke with a gasp. His throat ached for water. He could barely see the stars of the night sky. He had not the strength to rise, nor to reach for the sword at his side. His whole body ached, from head to foot, but there he sat, alive. Several moments passed before he heard a muffled shout a few paces away. "Hey! I’ve spotted one over here! He’s still breathing- bring the wagon!”

As news of Adria's victory in history's second great battle at the Lower Petra spreads like wildfire across the world, the disappearance of Viktor Sarkozic, the eldest son of Duke Heinrik, is overlooked in the following days. Forgotten in the chaotic aftermath of the battle, it will be several days until the boy's disappearance is noted. However, with hundreds of bodies of young boys and men strewn across the battlefield, finding him will be an impossible task. With little available manpower to conduct an official search, the corpse of Viktor Sarkozic will likely be left to rot on the battlefield along with so many others.

A sketch of the ruins of a forward fort built across from Velec, but later burned by Duke Heinrik’s armies, c. 1917 To the people of Adria and all the Canonists therein, Fellow citizens and defenders, we are besieged by ten thousand or more soldiers of Aaun under the king. We have sustained hunger, bombardment, and pillage for months and have nary lost a man. The enemy has demanded a surrender at discretion, otherwise, the city is to be put to the sword if the walls are stormed. We answer their demands with cannon shot and sortie of our own- the flag of Adrian flies proudly from our keep. We shall never surrender or retreat. Then, I call on you, in the name of liberty, of Dumacracy, and everything dear to the Adrian character, to march with my father on the morrow. The enemy is receiving reinforcements and will no doubt increase to twelve or fifteen thousand in seven or eight days. Our time to march out in force and engage the enemy is now, for any further delay will cause us to cease our opportunity to find victory. If this call is neglected, I am determined to sustain as long as possible and die like a soldier and son who never forgets what is due to his own honor and that of his country. Victory or Death. Viktor Sarkozic PS: The Lord is on our side- When the enemy marched upon us we had hardly enough sets of arms and armor to supply a host of three thousand. We have since scavenged from cast iron pots and household jewelry enough steel to forge the equipment to fit a host of five times that size. Viktor

JNC Homies @[email protected] @Lyonharted @Braehn Elendil An'Hiraeth @[email protected] @AndrewTech @MRCHENN Day 1s @excited @Unwillingly Fellow Rivals in Arms @JoanOfArc @Proddy @Beamon4 @lionbileti @[email protected] @Dymase @Rainalyn @[email protected] @Axelu @[email protected] @[email protected]_ @rukio And many more I've forgotten to name I care for all of you

Viktor Sarkozic gets a buzz from an incoming letter-carrying pigeon. He sets off without a moment to spare.

The assistant coach takes a deep breath as the 14th-seeded Adrian squad prepared to take on the 3rd-seeded Aaunic team. It was time to bust some brackets.

A starving peasant in the Lower Petra clutching a road shrine as they seek a final audience with God, c. 1916 It feels wrong to pray to you up in heaven. This is why I write instead. While it is not because I am far from God, I feel like the place I inhabit now is close to hell. While rations flow steadily, and no great battle has erupted since the Battle of Velec, the countryside weeps. Those who flee the armies of this Second Duke’s War have flocked to the city, overcrowding us and forcing us to ration out supplies. Thankfully, the Duke of Minitz’s army has retreated to their lands, which has allowed us to secure our southern trade lanes. The city now, while not under siege, must care for a great many who are poor, hungry, wounded, and sick. My visits to the hospitals are daily now as I am called to sit beside the suffering and dying. Thankfully, I have called upon the Lord’s strength to aid me as I sit beside them. While I feel selfish saying this, for I know their plight is greater than mine, I sometimes wonder if I have the strength to manage. While standing guard atop the barricades of the southern gate is hot and tiring work, it is nothing compared to hearing an old, blind farmer crying out for his missing grandchildren who we have yet to find. Still, even in these hard times, the faith of the people of Adria has not faltered. More join our ranks, many of them from across Aaun, while those who have been with us do not falter. Whole families have taken to providing for our armies. Mothers sew winter clothes for the soldiers, fathers help move ammunition for the cannons, daughters learn how to become medics, and sons are taught how to care for the horses. This work seems to have brought these families close together. Although the occasion is not the cause for merry, rather the opposite, I still hear regular choirs of people around the campfire in the square when the moon has risen over the city. They sign hymns and share food and talk about how our cause is the right one. I cannot share these sentiments with them. My sisters are gone, probably having joined the king’s side, while my brother is usually busy with the foraging parties that venture from the city. Father is, of course, always having to attend to some matter or another. I sometimes go days without seeing him. On occasion, I have been visited by some friends of mine, but as the danger of visiting Adria grows, our meetings become fewer. I have made some new friends in the city. One of them is a girl named Nimueh. She speaks a bit oddly and thinks that she is closer to being a woman than I am a man, even if she is only a year older, but I know she has a good heart. She seems to be some sort of squire who is friends with Morgan, Briar, Alasdair, and Wilhelmina. Of them, I only know Morgan well, but they all seem to be of a good sort. You probably would not like them, but I think you would understand why I do. I know that we were strangers to each other despite being mother and son. I grew up in the shadow of my sister, for good reason, while you never saw much in me. You were never a cruel mother, even if you occasionally threw a kitchen pot at my head whenever I disobeyed you, but you were not the sort of mother that I see other children have. I was never able to learn your favorite color, what sort of instruments you liked to hear, what you did before you met father, or what season you liked the most. We never talked like most mothers and sons do. We almost never talked at all. Despite this, it was difficult for me to visit your grave. Although I still do so dutifully and pray for your soul, there was one thing you did for me that I will never forget. It is something that, if it did not make you a good mother or a good person, it made you a mother I could love. When I was a boy, you tried to shield me from the things that I have to see now. The tragedy, pain, and death that war brings. It came with the attack on the keep many years ago, when I was just a child playing under the apple tree in the middle of the courtyard. As the Greycloaks had gone out to fight some bandits, I saw a stream of red cloaks enter the keep. What few guards were there held them off in vain as the mass of bandits advanced. It is hard to remember much, but I remember you rushing out from the keep and scooping me up from your arms. Before you shielded my eyes as we rushed indoors, I saw Richard Hoss speared through the neck by one of the bandits, the man named Dune, as he shut and locked the doors behind us. Even today, Henry Hoss looks at me with eyes that are pained, almost enraged, even if his words are friendly. I think he might wish that I had died instead of his brother that day, but I will never ask him. I probably cried as we huddled in the basement kitchens by ourselves, not knowing if they would storm the manor and kill us. But you stood bravely. I remember you singing a song to me, though I don’t know what it was. You covered my ears as the returning Greycloaks doubtless made battle with the bandits outside. Even if I still see the tip of sword protruding through Richard Hoss’ throat every time I dream, that is the only memory I have of the violence that happened that day. Even though I hated that you prevented me from leaving Adria after that day, I know it was probably because you did not want me to see the worst of this world, especially before I was ready to. Although I might be too young now, I think I am ready to face war. I have seen people dead and irreparably wounded. I spoke with a captured enemy and set her free. I take to the barricades of Velec each morning and evening. I have yet to see a battle, but I know that I will soon. I am glad that the first true violence I see will be now, when I know more of what I am to face, than what could have been if I was young. I see the children in the hospitals now who have had to see the worst. Their eyes stare off into the void, yet they cannot speak or see, only utter the occasional sob. You kept me from having to face the same fate as a boy. While I cannot say that I was ever a dutiful son, or you a kindly mother, I know that you must have loved me. At least once. On that day, you chose to risk your life, rushing outside as bandits surged into the courtyard, so that you could save me. You saved me twice that day: first from death, the second from the death of my childhood, which I have seen to be nearly as horrible. I cannot thank you for much, but I can for that, and as I pray at night my hopes that you are in a better, happier place than you were down here are wishes that I believe may reach you. I hope that when I die, we may be able to meet in heaven so that we may know each other as mother and son. I hope that we can talk about things like our favorite colors, or favorite instruments, or what you did before you met father, or what season we like the most. I hope that you know that I love you and that I know you loved me. Viktor Sarkozic

The Adrian people taking to the barricades in defense of Velec, c. 1916 I do not know why we must fight. I am only thirteen. I am the son of the Duke, but I have not learned much about politics. That is more important for my elder sister, Suzana, who will succeed my father one day. She is a lot more likable than me and I have heard people say that she has what it takes to be a good Duchess of Adria. I agree, which is why I have spent the past two years in Valfleur learning how to become a better brother so I may support her when her time comes. I did not want to return when I first heard that war was upon Adria. I did not know who was right or who was wrong. I was not scared, but I thought that, because I am only thirteen, I would be useless. I would only get in the way and get someone killed, or get myself killed, and end a life in a war I know nothing about. Even now I am unsure. I am not good at much, and I am not old enough. What difference could I make? I thought. I also prayed to God, as that helps me think when I am in need of enlightenment. An illumination of the path I need to take. I struggle with it even now. I see good men and women fight on both sides of the battlefield. War is not something for children. Today, I returned to Velec after sneaking through northern Aaun by myself. The city I returned to was nothing like how I remembered it. The streets were flooded with soldiers barking orders, laborers stacking couches, chairs, rotting bed frames, wooden beams, and other pieces of furniture atop each other at the entrances of many of our important roads. Those whose houses had been cut off huddled in tents around the square. Women and children made food for the refugees and for those who were working. Several men and women had made fires in the center of town, where they were melting down candlestick holders, rings, necklaces, anything that could be used for weapons and ammunition. I heard from a passing soldier that a great victory had been won. An army had been sent to take the city, and they had been beaten back. Few if any had died, but several had taken serious wounds and were set up in a hospital inside the keep. I walked there because they told me it would cheer them up to see the Duke’s son. When I arrived, I was greeted by happy faces and many ‘thank yous.’ Not everyone was cheerful, though. One girl had seriously wounded her leg after a roof tile had smashed into it. She was younger than me. I had to hold her hand to comfort her as members from the Medic’s Guild amputated it. She screamed and cried, and I wanted to leave, but my heart hurt. I didn’t know her name, but my heart hurt for her. I wanted to trade places and have it be my leg that was being cut off and my voice that pierced through the whipping airs of the Lower Petra. It was not me, though, because I was not there for the battle. I had been in Valfleur, worrying about how useless I would have been, while this young girl stood firm in Adria and lost her leg for it. While I cowered away, the people of Velec stood firm. Despite being outnumbered, despite facing the army of Minitz, they took to the barricades and defended our city. Battle raged as our people, many of them donning rags and armed with kitchen utensils, drove out the invaders. Children younger than I partook, as seen by the young girl whose hand I held as she screamed for God and her lost father to make the pain stop. She was a hero defending my home, while I was too worried to even fight. I cannot forgive myself for the mistake I made. Her lost leg is blood on my hands, even if I did not inflict the wound. I cannot bear to stay away from my friends and family in Adria. I do not know anything about our cause, but I know about the city that we live in. Velec is my home and it will always be my home. It is the city where I have met my friends Lina, Nadia, Olivier, Morgan, Lorina, and many more. It is a city where everyone on the streets will always stop to talk to me, even if I know that I annoy them sometimes. It is a city with life, and I do not want to lose it to war. If the enemies win, then Velec will be burned. It is the city of my mother’s grave, the spot where her body was laid to rest. The place I was born will be turned to ash. The people will be hurt and killed. The city that has become the home of so many and has been the place of my fondest memories will be gone. I may only be thirteen, but I cannot watch the worst happen from afar, so I will fight for the best. I cannot do much, but I can stand atop the barricades of Velec like the others do. I might die in battle. If I am captured, then I will be killed. If we lose the war, then my home will be lost and I will have nowhere to go. None of this matters to me. All that matters is that people get to keep the city that they love, our city of Velec. If they can live the same sort of life that I have enjoyed there myself, then I will happily die for my father’s cause. Until that day comes, I will stand atop the barricades of Velec each day, awaiting the next attack. I will stand tall beside the people of Adria. I will defend my home until there is no home left, or until I cannot defend it. Viktor Sarkozic

"BAHAHAHAHAHA!" Joseph laughs after reading the poem and shoves it in Alysanne's (@Asutto) face, despite her probably having read it already.

I LOVE ADRIA

Joseph Vasile remembers how he once had to sentence Allessandra to pigsty duty. He takes some pride in knowing that his actions that day completely turned her life around and made her a great leading figure within the court of Adria. In fact, although he doesn't say it aloud, he takes complete credit for it in his head and wonders what could would come of the Adrian people if everyone was assigned to pigsty duty at least once in their lives.

A Discovery by the Petra Lo unto the flock of Petra, Your Bishop proudly announces a great, miraculous discovery along the banks of our great River Petra. As a laborer working in the vineyards of our countryside took to fishing during his allotted window for supper, he came across several fragments of bone buried in the muds along the bank of the river. Collecting these fragmentary bones, many of them indistinguishable shatterings save a few recognizable finger and knuckle bones, the laborer collected them in a small box with the intent of bringing them to the sheriff the next day to see if they matched the profile of the recently-missing Miss Belinda de Roth. However, as he returned home that night, set the box underneath his bed, and went to sleep, the laborer was visited in a dream. Before him stood the personage of Saint King Caius of the Westerlands sitting atop a steed with a great range of mountains in the distance. He was flanked by a dozen clowns on each side, who all danced and sang. When the laborer tried to cry out in fear, only a honk came where his voice would have been, but he was soon calmed by the saintly king. The Saint King Caius told him that the bones that the man had found along the banks of the Petra were his own, and that they had been carried in a small pouch by the eldest daughters of the de Roth family for generations to ward off evil spirits. Belinda de Roth, in whatever incident had caused her disappearance, dropped her pouch and spilled from it the bones of the saint, which were found by the laborer. Having been visited in his dream and assured that it was a true visitation from the saint, the laborer visited your Bishop to relay all that he had experienced. After administering the proper tests and rituals to confirm the truthfulness of the laborer, Your Bishop came to the conclusion that the man had spoken with truth, and that the bones were indeed those of the Saint King Caius. The laborer willingly handed over the bones, and for it The Bishop allowed him a special exemption from his work in the vineyards for a fortnight. The bones were in turn given to Sir Lucien of Blackwald, who has proven himself to be a faithful servant of God and a pious knight faithful to the chivalric code. With these bones, a great sword was crafted at the forges of Amathea, which housed the necessary supplies to make such a weapon befitting of the man. Together, your Bishop and the good knight made a weapon of boomsteel that will stand the test of time. It is in this blade that the bones of Saint King Caius of the Westerlands are infused, where they will serve the good of Canondom for generations. To celebrate this miraculous discovery, your Bishop declares a feast to be held at his personal expense in the coming months. It is evident that good fortune has come to bless the Commonwealth. Father Blackwater