Nectorist

Great post. Combined with the new war costs, it's clear that the general direction for war right now is to make it more grindy, more expensive, and more resource-intensive. I get that some people really love grinding, and that shouldn't be taken away from them, but even on maps like Atlas and Arcas, where the required grinding was minimal, you had an outlet for those people while not making it too demanding for people who just wanted to get the gear they needed before going back to RPing. I've always felt like the plugins/systems on this server should funnel back towards making RP easier and more enjoyable. Adding in extended periods of necessary grinding isn't fun for most people, especially those with limited time during the week who don't want to spend their evenings running around nodes instead of RPing.

warclaims on lairs should be a crp, mandatory-pk, squad-based tactics fight

Oh yeah, no worries at all. I'm not optimistic about the prospect at all, but there are some avenues that haven't really been explored in war systems yet. If there's an answer to be found, it probably comes down to finding wargoals for nations to pursue that can still result in fresh, dynamic RP. I.e., making a positive case for non-conquest wars, rather than just limiting the ability to wage them.

Thank you for the transparency and taking the time out of your day to write this up! Good to know that things are wrapping up and that war should (hopefully) be live soon. The news going around yesterday of wars coming back seems to have kicked people back into gear. That being said... As someone who was on the "let's have wars with broader aims than just full conquest," I just don't think it's feasible anymore. The original 8.0 war rules were shaped around the theory that if full conquest was rendered virtually impossible through elongated, expensive wars, more dynamic results would come of it. There were two wars fought under that war system: 1. The Oren vs. Norland War - Oren beat Norland in a non-conquest war, and as part of the peace negotiations demanded that Norland a) not fight against Oren for the next two wars and b) pay 40,000 mina in tribute. Norland did not abide by these conditions, nor did staff compel them to, nor did we have any means of recourse except for launching another expensive war with no guarantee of the conditions being fulfilled. 2. The Oren vs. Everyone War (hey this was me) - In what was the second-longest war in the server's history, there were a total of four warclaims fought over a nineteen week span, with four to six week gaps in between each warclaim, and extremely onerous war costs. The end result was that Oren had to give away 2 uninhabited tiles and a chest of leather and stuff. There was nothing inherently dynamic about the inability to commit to full-conquest, and at the end it was a long war where nothing much changed. My ban was more decisive than all of the raids and skirms that we had. This rule set was scrapped for what became the 9.0 rules precisely because wars were just worse during that period. Being long and expensive made satisfying, coherent outcomes nearly impossible, and even when negotiated settlements came, there weren't really any aims worth having. Ultimately, dynamism on here comes through political change, which is really only feasible through conquest/vassalization. It's what allows new players to rise to the forefront, political systems to be upturned, and ruling cliques to be replaced. Unfortunately, the server has a distinct lack of ambitious players, so we probably won't see the 2014-2017 and 2019-2020 era dynamism like before, but I still think cheaper (or no cost), short, decisive wars ultimately produce better outcomes than long and expensive ones.

"A wedding??... and... THEY'RE PALADINS?!?!?!?!!?" "LEITHRIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIL!" Screams Galar.

Cassius Mareno, looking out over the stormy, rocky cliffs of Trident's Peak, is struck by a glop of bird poop right atop his bald head. Grumbling, he looks up to see the damned seagull that was resp- What's a stork doing all the way out here?

Valentin Burgundy lends his vocal support to House var Vigo and their rightful claim!

@KBR "My lord, might we say, in undertaking this evil, that being the act of killing, we may redeem ourselves with the higher good in the eyes of the Lord?" Spoke the young Prince Valentin, fresh from his first battle at White Cavern, where his blade had felled a man. Chilled an unsettled by the life of another that now stained his hands- a deep crimson no lye soap could rub off- the young boy shivered as he talked. "I search desperately the light of God in the eyes of the dead, but I see only empty, hollow sockets." "Do not seek your ablution in the bloodshed, my ward," said Sir Lothar d'Amaury, the golden knight of the Lotharingians. "There is no salvation from the Lord in these we do, for that comes in what we bring about through the use of violence. Instead, find goodness in reason, our logic of chivalry, for righteousness strengthens our arms and softens our hearts. It is the remedy for the natural evil, that we may regulate our passions and stray from wanton slaughter."

did you remember to vote

The Count of Temesch was an unimpressive man. Having succumbed to the madness of an accursed birth in his youth, the violent tempers that plagued him were dispelled only by the light of the Lord, shone upon him in the hour of crusade. The life he lived from then on was a simple, good one. A devoted husband to Helena Augusta, a loving father to their children, and a kindly chaplain in the Augustine Palace, he was the man to be fondly-remembered by family and friends, though never one to leave his mark on history. However, on the 20th of Horen’s Calling, 1836, this simple peer and priest found himself responsible for a decision that would fundamentally alter the world, and the lives of millions within humanity. Appointed to the House of Lords to ensure its passage, he had a single role to play. There would be no heroism to be made in a decisive vote- the Rosemoor Bill’s passage was assured- thus all his role represented was the will of the movement itself, channeled within a representative who was entirely replaceable. It was an irony that was not lost upon him as his turn to speak on the bill neared. His sister, Josephine, an astute stateswoman, author, and future member of his father’s government (for all knew her capabilities), had no vote. His other sister, Anne, a far-voyaging traveler with a treasure trove of stories, and real treasure troves, from her adventures, had no vote. His wife, Helena, a woman most pious, whose skill with the blade had been raised in service of the Lord time and time again, who had been made a knight by the Pontiff himself, had no say. His mother-in-law, Elizabeth, who had breathed life into a cause, then guided the movement that rose from it, which swept the winds of change throughout the continent, in a way not seen since Joseph Marna himself, had been denied her say. Any one of them could have had his vote, for his place was not for him, but rather for the assurance that he would vote ‘aye’ on this single piece of legislation. The past, present, and future, of these women, and many more, all more remarkable than he, was a legal power that he held in his frail hands. But an awareness of the injustices in life does not excuse inaction in the face of necessity, when there is no choice but to do what is right or what is wrong. Therefore, the Count of Temesch spoke softly, yet firmly, in defense of the bill, voted for its passage, and returned home to live out his days in quiet obscurity.

I agree (most people should), but to what end? Feels like a consistent problem with 'evil' magics is that it's essentially impossible for them to get even close to winning on a scale that allows them to measurably impact RP. I get this isn't always in the hands of the ST, but the result is that even a well-organized antagonistic force is either going to basically be a player-led event, or its victories will be so inconsequential that they won't matter at all.

Naz kind of has to compete in the same space as Necro as being a 'summoner' magic (okay yes, u get some malflame spells that people in armor- which everyone wears- can ignore), both of which, as other people have said, are prone to have CRP lovers who have an aversion to conflict that isn't 'villain of the week' RP. I think another issue is that Naz inherently has an unachievable endgame. Your goal as a Naz is generally to control and dominate and scheme your way up the rungs of power, but there is an artificial cap put on this. You can never be a serious threat. You can never be a disruption. At most, you serve to be a speed bump to the 'good guys', an antagonist in another character's story. The more interesting dynamics SHOULD be found in Naz infighting as they scheme their way to the top, but the problem with that is that everyone in the community are friends, so they don't want to fight each other, or they don't get along at all, so they want to avoid each other at all costs. To draw another comparison, striga, while a creature and not a magic, was something I loved playing because there was no inherent goal that defined my character, just the limitations that it brought. My striga was the Imperial Archchancellor, but he also had to feed regularly, keep his coven appeased, avoid bloodshed or anything that would expose him, etc. His overarching goals had nothing to do with being a striga as they were centered around his politics and family, but being a striga completely changed how he went about pursuing those goals. The striga powers were cool, but my experience with that character was defined more by the limitations that his condition brought than its strengths, which made moments where I COULD use the striga powers much more rewarding. In my experience playing a Naz and interacting with them, it's maybe my second favorite lore piece after striga. It's got cool creatures to summon, magic that's fun to use no matter how much it never works, it's relatively easy to use, the lore is great, the theoretical dynamics between Naz are the best of any magic or creature, bar none. You can do so many awesome things as a Naztherak because it is a great piece of lore. Therein lies the core issue with Naz that I've felt while playing one. Because it is so open-ended as a magic, its limitations are uninteresting and artificial. While on paper, the lore is centered around the pursuit of power in order to climb this devilish hierarchy, in reality, your power is constrained by the OOC realities of the nation system and the requirement for players to consent to anything consequential being done to them. On paper, rivalry, manipulation, and deceit among Naz covens is a central premise to how the magic community is supposed to work, but in reality, people either don't want to be in conflict or don't want to interact at all, depriving this crucial (I'd even say necessary) fleche of social Naz RP. If I was the Imperial Archchancellor on a Naz character, I could literally just ignore the magic and play like a normal human. Sure, it wouldn't be faithful to the lore, but nobody RPs mental effects of magics as written because having them hard-coded is usually for the worse. This wasn't an option with striga because I would literally wither away if I did not people, and thus all of my RP involving that creature lore was downstream of that massive limitation. I think if Naz wants to get better, it needs to have some kind of mechanical element in it to force a greater degree of infighting and political maneuvering within its playerbase, because right now, there's really no objective you can have that makes it worth it to go against people.

"Oh, wonderful, of course THESE PEOPLE get to have the limelight again," Galar complains to himself as he sees the news of the Paladins whirling around the lips of every person on the streets of Caurost. He then returns to the home he shares with the Paladins.

THE ANNALS OF MARDON: Volume II; The Shadow of the Conqueror Written by Justinian Nafis, Count of Susa and Adolphus Gloriana, Earl of Suffolk, Prince of Sutica The Shadow of the Conqueror “As all grasped for the ruins of Tobias’s Courland, which was simply what had remained of John’s Oren, it quickly became apparent that what remained was like brittle clay. Clench too hard, and it crumbles apart into grains. Hold too soft, and there is no form for it to take.” - Thomas Baden, Count of Trier, c. 1671 It is difficult to fill the shoes of great men and women, as many failed successors have found, to the misfortune of their legacy and the lives of the thousands, if not more, of those whose lives are directly impacted by the decisions they make, often in the failing pursuit of their predecessor’s glory. It is thus that we come upon a fatal flaw of the monarchy: when one’s desire to ensure their legacy is the sole directive of state policy, risks are taken, as is required for one to achieve ‘greatness’. To the state, risks are an occasional necessity, but generally sound policy is built upon foundations of tradition, moderate and gradual reform when tradition is insufficient, and a willingness to adapt when initiatives are met with failure. Plenty of monarchs show themselves able to balance these two tremendous forces that pull at their mind, one that urges prestige, the other that urges good rulership, but history has shown that those who follow great men are most inclined to seek, and most unlikely to reach, their heights. It need not be more obvious that these authors believe that none of the men who aspired to replace Tobias Staunton came close to replicating him, despite his many flaws as an administrator and diplomat. As a result, hundreds of thousands died. Nonetheless, the demise of King Tobias of Courland, on the the 12th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1608, opened a power vacuum that had to be filled. The dwarves were now marching on Norland, intent to conquer it after destroying King Donovan Ruric’s army in the Battle of Blodskogr. Under the brutal governance of Franz Kovachev, the Archduke of Akovia, Haense was on the verge of a pro-Barbanov rebellion. Lotharingia had just emerged from a destabilizing civil war, and was united beneath the competent but poorly-situated King Odo. King Peter of Mardon, humiliated after his disastrous rebellion against Courland, was itching for revenge. Even in Courland, its unruly and war-hungry vassals seemed willing to test the competencies of the young King Joseph. The world was a powder keg waiting to explode: the question was no longer who would prevent the coming rupture, but who would mend it back together. As had so frequently been the case for the last two decades, the inciting incident of the collapse of the status quo, in this case being the Courlandic Hegemony, originated in Lotharingia. King Odo had come to the throne of Lotharingia on the back of the support of the Count of Cleves, Robert d’Anjou, and the Bailiff of Metz, Sir Bruce Hornigold, both of whom were ardent supporters of House d’Amaury against the coup of Anna Pruvia. Seeing the trouble that the rule of regency had brought the realm, and the instability that came after the death of child-kings, the aristocracy had backed Odo d’Amaury’s claim in the hopes that, being an experienced, forty year old nobleman, he would be able to right the realm. In this, he succeeded, successfully playing several of the internal factions in the venomous courts of Lotharingia off of each other, and appeasing his overlords in House Staunton. For two years, he walked a thin line, endearing few to him, but never offending so grievously as to incite a revolt or a foreign occupation. However, what King Odo had in political acumen, he lacked in a true power base. For as much as he could outfox any scheme from within his court, he could not muster an army to oppose the magnates of Lotharingia, who wished to see Courland’s end. For as much as he could earn the favor of the Courlandic government, it did not matter when their grasp on the world began to slip. Eventually, the thin line that King Odo walked upon would grow too thin to keep him aloft, or it would vanish entirely. The man to take advantage of King Odo’s uneasy position was his cousin, the fourteen year old Hughes d’Amaury. In many ways, Hughes was the polar opposite of Odo. Young, candid, and ambitious that spanned beyond Lotharingia, he was primed to learn from the mistakes of his dead brothers and unite the realm. Owing to his mother’s influence, he had come to see House Staunton as an enemy, one that oppressed his lawful subjects and destroyed his uncle’s Empire. With the sword of a legitimate claim, the armor of youth, and an army of noblemen always ready to revolt over one issue or another, he pressed his claim to the throne of Lotharingia in 1609. What followed was neither a bloody war of succession, nor an underhanded assassination. Instead, in a display of authorship and wits far older than his years, the young Hughes d’Amaury dueled his cousin in a series of letters, outlining his claim to the throne and his vision for Lotharingia. Undergirding these courteous letters, which made up a sensible, logic-driven debate, was the fact that Hughes possessed an army, which Odo did not. However, Hughes’s relatively benign intentions (for what was a coup) were not false: when Odo acceded and surrendered his throne to his cousin on the 12th of Harren’s Folly, 1609, he was appointed Lord Chancellor and allowed to continue to direct the reconstruction of Metz, which had been his major initiative. In Aleksandria, King Joseph, only two years older than the new King of Lotharingia, was now confronted with a war between his allies and a coup having overthrown one of his more loyal vassals. His Archchancellor and uncle, Prince Frederick Staunton, a competent official and veteran of King Tobias’s conquests, urged the king to march on Lotharingia and assert his authority over them, as his predecessor would have. Prince Frederick argued that King Hughes’ coup presaged an alignment away from Courland, and removing him would both allow the friendlier Odo d’Amaury to resume his reign and show that King Joseph was not to be trifled with. According to Thomas of Riga, Prince Frederick went so far as to summon the banners of Courland, “intent on pressuring the king into action when it seemed that he was dithering.” However, King Joseph would not march to war. Explanations for King Joseph’s inaction in the face of King Hughes’s coup have been given since the 1640s. Maria Carinus, a friend of Amina Kharadeen, who was the wife of Prince Frederick, claimed that during a dinner at Trier, the prince’s seat, the behavior and conduct of the king became a matter of discussion. “He is meek, unwilling to fight, and lacks the energy or aptitude for governance,” the Archchancellor supposedly said in 1610. “While he hunts, I witness charters. While he feasts, I organize the army. While he drinks with courtiers, I dine with foreign dignitaries.” The King of Courland’s sloth, sometimes politely phrased as ‘a reluctance to involve himself in government’, became a common explanation for his maddening inaction during this period of crisis. Later scholars have also emphasized the conditions under which King Joseph came to power, rather than any particularities of his character. Noting his youth, fragile position, and inherited foreign quagmires, these revisionists reframe the king’s apparent laziness as a deliberate strategy. Embarking on yet another campaign in the Heartlands would be a long and costly venture, which a dwindling Courlandic treasury could not support, and possibly invite rebellion from within. The Duke of Savinia, Abdes de Savin, had been a loyal general of King Tobias, but his powerful army could threaten House Staunton alone. Other, smaller lords, such as House de Castro, House Palaiologos, and House Hageljin, were weaker alone, but could be decisive if they threw their weight behind one faction or another. Preferring to make peace with the powers that be in Lotharingia, rather than risk being stabbed in the back while he was away, was the possible rationale behind King Joseph’s decision. Thus, the king decided, against the advice of his warlike councilors, to accept King Hughes’s coup as legitimate in exchange for his sister’s hand in marriage. The King of Lotharingia, no doubt believing that he had made off with roadside robbery, accepted. On the 4th of Owyn’s Flame, 1609, King Joseph and Princess Marie-Thérèse of Lotharingia were wed in Aleksandria, reestablishing the familial ties between House Staunton and House d’Amaury and ostensibly binding the latter to the former for the next generation, if not more. Prince Frederick, decrying the peace with Lotharingia every step of the way, was eventually forced to divert his attention elsewhere as events in Western and Northern Tahn spiraled out of control. In 1610, the Urguanites and their allies, having overrun most of Norland, surrounded the great citadel of the Krag with an army of 14,000. Although the Krag was a formidable keep, the seat of House Ruric was defended by only 3,000. The defeat of the Norlanders seemed imminent, and the balance of power on Tahn would certainly swing decisively in favor of the dwarves. Further north, Franz Kovachev’s iron-fisted governorship of Haense had led to a practical revolt. House Ruthern, led formally by Viktor var Ruthern, regent of Joren var Ruthern, Count of Metterden, had invaded the County of Istria, its neighbor, in 1610. During the brief campaign, the Count of Istria, Edward Roswell, was slain, and his lands were formally annexed by House Ruthern. Outraged at the act of aggression against his vassal and close ally, the Archduke of Akovia demanded that House Ruthern answer for its unprovoked invasion and began to gather his own army. Encouraged by the successes of House Ruthern against the oppressive Courlandic officials, other rebellions from smaller houses broke out, sending garrisons scattering and ambushing Akovian patrols and raiding parties. However, just as it seemed a full-blown civil war would engulf Haense, King Joseph ordered Akovia and Metterden to lay down their arms and summoned them to Aleksandria, where he hoped to mediate the conflict. In what would prove to be the defining failure of King Joseph’s reign, the meeting between he, the Archduke of Akovia, and the Count of Metterden (aided by grown advisors, for he was only an eight year old boy), would earn him only enemies, while achieving him nothing. “Misjudging the enmity between House Kovachev and House Ruthern as the product of restlessness, rather than serious underlying grievances, King Joseph attempts to direct them at the petty rebels in Haense- Prince Otto’s merry band, the forest tribes, and a paltry collection of fisher lords- a mistake which will undo his realm,” observed Duke Peter of Mardon, keeping an eager eye, and plenty of ears, on the events in Haense. On the 4th of Sigismund’s End, 1611, the King of Courland, joined by Prince Frederick, met with the lords of Akovia and Metterden. After hours of fruitless negotiations, where the possession of Istria would not be debated by either side, King Joseph eventually ruled in favor of Archduke Franz, which was immediately rebuffed by the Ruthern party. In a private counsel, Prince Frederick urged his nephew to allow the negotiations to fail, and to simply reinforce the governor so that he could either be in an advantageous position in a possible second round of negotiations, or so he could easily crush the armies of House Ruthern and the other rebels, who had not yet organized themselves under one cause. The Count of Metterden was a mere boy, and his ambitious uncle, the true lord of House Ruthern, remained in Haense, where he remained out of Courland’s grasp: arresting the boy would not matter, so long as the man held power. Incensed by his uncle’s patronizing instructions, King Joseph instead ordered that, for disobeying the word of the king, Count Joren and his followers be arrested. What followed was the quick slaughter of the Ruthern party, the young Count Joren among them, as they mistook the attempted arrest for the prelude to execution. Cut down nearly to a man, the Ruthern had been (in the eyes of King Joseph) decapitated. Assured that the death of their lord would strike fear into the hearts of the upstart house, the king ordered the Archduke of Akovia to return to Haense and quell the smaller uprisings there, though without the aid of a Courlandic army (deemed unnecessary, as the Rutherns would certainly comply). Biting back a rebuke of his liege’s actions, and the lack of support that followed, Franz Kovachev returned home with neither gold nor steel, but instead the blood of a boy on his hands. As he boarded his ship back to Tahn, he likely knew that it was a deed that would not be forgotten by the proud northmen. If House Ruthern’s invasion of Istria had inspired similar grudge-bearers in Haense to rise against the Courlandic occupation (save Prince Otto Barbanov, who had been harassing the Archduke since the Great Northern War), the word of the death of the boy-Count of Metterden galvanized even those outside of Haense. As word of an impending rebellion spread, opponents of the Courlandic Hegemony began to gather their strength. In the Crownlands, the barons and landed knights offered their swords to House Ruthern, while in Mardon, Duke Peter outfitted a company of Haeseni exiles led by Stephen Barbanov, and urged them to also commit themselves to the Ruthern cause. The only two men who acted as if war was not imminent were King Joseph and Viktor var Ruthern, now Count of Metterden, though in the latter case it was merely a ruse. Pretending to be cowed into compliance by the murder of his nephew, he pledged to support the Archduke in his war against the rebels. When Archduke Franz returned to Haense, and began planning a campaign into the Rothswood, which was buzzing with rebel activity, the Count Ruthern promised to commit a host of 1,000, led by Harren of Metterden, his finest commander. Over the next month, the combined Akovian-Ruthern army of 4,000 marched throughout the Rothswood, until on the 26th of Horen’s Calling, 1611, they settled outside of the small keep of Dunarsund, the center of the unrest in the region. A major reason for the relative success of the Ruthern armies over those of Courland, in contrast to repeated Haeseni defeats in the Great Northern War, was the adoption of light cavalry units by Captain Harren. These quick, heavily-mobile squadrons could be used to skirmish, flank, and harass the slower infantry and cavalry of the Courlanders, with their maneuverability providing a useful tactical edge. Heavily-armored knights continued to dominate the battlefields of Axios, but light cavalry saw an expanded role in many of the armies of humanity. It was at Dunarsund that Harren of Metterden laid his trap. While Franz Kovachev spread out his forces to surround the keep and secure the wider area, Captain Harren concentrated his in a single camp. Then, as the Akovian forces set about preparing siege weapons, the Ruthern commander gave the order for his men to strike. In what became dubbed the ‘First Battle of the Rothswood’, the forces of House Ruther, though outnumbered three to one, used the element of surprise to great effect. Scattering the first groups of Akovian soldiers they encountered, the Rutherns maintained great cohesion as they systematically attacked the enemy camps. Franz Kovachev attempted to rally his men and put up a stiff resistance, but their dispersion, mixed with the panic throughout his army, forced him to make a skillful withdrawal. The casualties to the Akovian army were not serious, only three hundred dead and wounded, but as word spread of their sound defeat at the hands of House Ruthern, now spearheading a new rebellion against Courland, it led many to believe that the end of the Courlandic Hegemony was near. When word of his governor’s defeat reached King Joseph, he was forced to reckon with the fact that his hesitancy to commit soldiers earlier had now put the Count of Metterden in an advantageous position. Having consolidated the various rebel factions under his command, and with soldiers from the Crownlands, mercenaries from the Westerlands, and a new Barbanov host from Mardon joining him, the Lord Ruthern’s numbers had swelled to around 4,200, outmatching the 2,500 that the Archduke of Akovia could muster. For the rest of the year, Franz Kovachev was on the back foot, desperately parrying the various raids, skirmishes, and sieges that were thrown at him across Haense. There were many fires to put out, but House Kovachev simply did not have the resources to do so. The Archduke of Akovia’s struggle to keep a hold on the north also brought a dilemma for Courland. The armies of Urguan were by now battering themselves to death against the walls of the Krag, losing thousands in futile assaults. The Clan Frostbeard, displeased with Underking Bastion Ireheart’s handling of the war, offered to send 700 of their own men in exchange for heavy compensation, which Prince Frederick, now effectively running the war effort, reluctantly agreed to. He also called upon King Hughes of Lotharingia to honor his marriage alliance and to join Franz Kovachev with an army of his vaunted knights, among the best in Axios. Prince Frederick also assembled an army of 4,000, almost exclusively drawn from the royal demesne, as there was not enough time to assemble the vassals of Courland. Unwilling to lead his army- the explanations posited range from cowardice to overconfidence to a desire to keep an eye on his vassals- King Joseph named Sir Louis de Felsen as his commander, with orders to defer to the Archduke of Akovia. In a journey marred by logistical difficulties, poor weather, and a lack of clear landing points after the Ruthern army captured the entirety of the Haeseni coast, Sir Louis de Felsen and the forces of House Staunton finally arrived in Haense in the summer of 1612. Joining the Archduke of Akovia and his army, already bolstered by the Frostbeard mercenaries and the knights of Lotharingia, the whole of the Courlandic host numbered 8,200. Wasting no time with the significant manpower advantage he had just gained, Franz Kovachev dueled Captain Harren in a campaign of maneuvering, until by the winter of 1612 he had blocked the rebel army at Dunarsund, the site of his embarrassing defeat a year earlier. Now preventing the rebel army from reaching their winter quarters at Metterden, the Archduke, who could sense victory in his grasp, waited. With few options before him, and the snows of deep winter fast approaching, Captain Harren chose to fight his way through to Metterden. On the freezing morning of the 7th of Tobias’s Bounty, he arrayed his battles, numbering 4,200 in all, before the Courlandic camp at Dunarsund. In the first battle were the soldiers of Metterden, the Haeseni exiles, and many of the other rebel bands throughout the region, who were accustomed to fighting in the winter. In the center were the hired mercenaries: less-adjusted to winter fighting but experienced and capable soldiers nonetheless. Making up the reserves were the lords of the Crownlands, few in number and less reliable than the other two. Captain Harren and the Haeseni lords agreed that if the battle was to go poorly, they would be the first to flee. The Archduke of Akovia drew up his army in a similar three-battle structure. In the front, nearly as large as the whole of the rebel army, were the soldiers of Courland, still regarded as the finest in humanity. Behind them were the soldiers of Akovia and the Frostbeard contingent, both capable in battle. Bringing up the rear, divided into two wings with which to defend the enemy flanks, were the knights of Lotharingia, easily visible upon the dark, snowy battlefield in their glistening armor. Their plan was simple: they would remain in the woodline, around the keep of Dunarsund, absorb the Haeseni advance, and, when both lines had been met, flank the rebels with the Lotharingian cavalry. The Second Battle of the Rothswood began at dawn, with Captain Harren ordering his first line forward to hold the Staunton infantry in place, while the second line, comprising the sorts of mercenaries able to perform complex battlefield maneuvers, was ordered to flank the Staunton infantry and extend their line. The third line was ordered to swing west, making it seem as if they were mirroring the second line, but instead seek to draw out elements of the Duke of Akovia’s second and third line, depriving him of reserves that would be needed to counter House Ruthern’s mercenaries. Both sides, blinded by a blizzard and dulled by the freezing temperatures, met around the forest-line of the Rothswood just after 5:00, with the clashing of steel signaling the beginning of combat. In adverse conditions, the Staunton soldiers initially fared poorly, which was compounded when Sir Louis de Felsen was struck by an arrow and forced to evacuate from the battlefield. Only the force of numbers kept the cold, hungry Courlanders from buckling, though the line was slowly pushed back towards Dunarsund. On the flanks, the Archduke of Akovia had ignored the obvious feint of the Haeseni third line, and instead directed his second line to meet that of the Ruthern mercenaries, hoping to outmatch the overwhelming edge in skill with numbers of his own. By 7:00, the rebel push had stalled, and Captain Harren, with only his weak third line uncommitted, ordered its archers to fire a volley of arrows near the King of Lotharingia’s position. It can be debated whether this gesture was a taunting provocation, a challenge to King Hughes’ manhood, or a pre-planned signal between the two, but in either case the effect was the same. As the battle for the Rothswood raged on, and the Haeseni army was being forced back into the clearing again, the King of Lotharingia ordered his cavalry forward, leading them into the rear of the Courlandic infantry. The charge was immediate and emphatic, crushing the unsuspecting Courlanders between steed and steel. Cut down in the hundreds, the line of infantry broke immediately, with thousands fleeing in every direction. The Archduke of Akovia and his own regiments made a desperate last stand at Dunarsund, but, defeated and outnumbered, they were wiped out within the keep as the sun broke through the thick layer of clouds, and the torrential storm abated. By the afternoon, the battle was over. No fewer than 2,000 Courlandic, Akovian, and Frostbeard soldiers lay dead, with another 3,000 captured. Over the following days, another 1,000 stragglers would be picked off or taken prisoner by roving rebel bands. The Haeseni losses were around 200 dead and 600 wounded, while the Lotharingians suffered minimal casualties. In the aftermath of the Second Battle of the Rothswood, Haense was brought under the control of House Ruthern, and Stephen Barbanov, the natural heir of the late King Marius, was crowned as King of Haense in 1612. Deprived of their leader, House Kovachev offered no further resistance to the restored Haeseni armies, and any remaining Courlandic garrisons were chased out by the year’s end. Across Tahn, word of Captain Harren’s victory, and the subsequent ejection of the Courlanders, was met with widespread celebration, “none so great as in Auguston,” wrote Odo d’Amaury, “where the Duke of Mardon treated the victory as his own, ordering a triumph in his honor.” Over the next year, one-by-one, the patchwork collection of petty fiefdoms and powerful lords declared their treaties with Courland abrogated. In Aleksandria, word of Archduke Franz’s defeat, Lotharingia’s betrayal, and the evaporation of House Staunton’s hegemony was met with shock. Almost immediately, the courtly factions surrounding King Joseph and Prince Frederick devolved into accusing the other of undermining Courland’s ability to win the war. The King of Courland and his Archchancellor did nothing to quell the vitriol themselves, but even infighting within the capital was of lesser importance to the disasters abroad that they faced. In 1611, the Urguani army had retreated from the Krag after destroying itself in a number of futile assaults against the impregnable fortress. At home, they were met by a rebellion from Clan Frostbeard, who slew a number of senators, as well as a Courlandic contingent retreating from Haense, in an uprising in 1612. With Bastion Ireheart tied down by a rebellion which he did not have the resources to fend off, and Norland devastated from the dwarven invasion (and not too pleased by their ally’s neutrality during the war), there would be no continental support that King Joseph could draw from to rebuild the hegemony. Even internally, there would be no support for another invasion of the mainland. The Duke of Savinia refused to pledge his forces to a fruitless endeavor, and the other principal lords of the realm followed suit. Forced to reckon with his own powerlessness, King Joseph acceded to the inevitable and permitted his uncle to formally make peace with House Staunton’s former tributaries. Hanseti-Ruska’s independence was recognized, all lands and titles were officially returned, and King Joseph’s sister, Princess Elizabeth, was wed to King Stephen to cement the peace. All obligations of vassalage and suzerainty involving Lotharingia, Mardon, the Westerlands, and the smaller Crownlands lords were annulled, and Courlandic garrisons were withdrawn from Tahn. Before the great players of humanity could even begin to imagine the post-hegemonic order, new problems in the Crownlands flared up. In western Lotharingia, the ill-reputed House Romstun, a former mercenary family that still retained its connections to the trade, had taken advantage of King Hughes’s absence to seize several of his estates near Metz, which were far more lucrative than their own holdings in the realm’s poor swamplands. The insurrection had resulted in the death of the king’s bailiff and two castellans, an affront by Deano Romstun, the patriarch of the family, that demanded a royal response. The King of Lotharingia departed Haense in the spring of 1613, promising his Haeseni counterpart that after stamping out House Romstun’s rebellion, he would call the masters of humanity to convene near the ruins of Johannesburg, where they would form a comprehensive agreement on what was to be done in a world without a greater power. The next year showed just what was to be done in that world. In the Crownlands, the petty lords jockeyed for power among each other, igniting the landscape with petty feuds. In Courland, King Joseph was effectively sidelined by his Archchancellor and forced to give numerous concessions to his vassals in order to keep his throne, which brought the centralizing-minded King Frederick into conflict with the Duke of Savinia. Even in Lotharingia, the self-assured and energetic King Hughes’s confidence in a quick victory had been broken with his armies, as by 1614, nearly half of his realm was under the control of House Romstun. Only in Haense and Mardon could there be said to be a measure of stability, though it was a matter of time until they were both drawn into the affairs of a humanity that was now fraying at the seams. It is here that the man who would unite these struggling polities finally emerged after nearly two decades of exile; on the 6th of the Sun’s Smile, 1614, John Frederick Horen, the eldest son of Emperor Philip I, arrived in the court of Metz. Where, oh where, had the Prince of Alstion been all this time? ‘The Exile of John Frederick, Prince of Alstion’, c. 1842 The early life and travels of Emperor John V notoriously lack a paper trail. The royal archives of Haense, the Westerlands, Johannesburg, and Lotharingia, which would house the information needed to piece together his early life, were all destroyed at some point from 1595-1630, leaving us only with what had been copied and disseminated elsewhere, usually to private libraries or the smaller archives of Mardon and Courland. John V, though something of a braggart, seemed to prefer to keep much of his life enigmatic: aside from a handful of far-fetched tales of great escapades, he shared very little. Thus, what we are left with is a cobbling of sparse quality sources, a handful of etchings on Mardonic and Courlandic parchment, and a few half-recalled stories that John V had shared, which vary in their reliability as truthful narratives. It is most likely that the five year-old John Frederick was evacuated to Haense, which was relatively close to Johannesburg and still ruled by men loyal to the Empire, just before the destruction of the Imperial capital. The duration he stayed in St. Karlsburg was probably not for long, perhaps only a handful of months, though these authors would permit 1603 as the absolute latest by which he would have departed. His next stop was likely at Barka, home of the nomadic Konchak peoples, whose oral traditions note the presence of a “grey-eyed boy named Alğışlı”, which scholars generally concur is a transliteration of ‘Alstion’. After an indeterminate amount of time with the Konchaks (whom John V, though not remembering the name of tribe, would credit with teaching him to ride a horse), the young prince would move on to the Kingdom of the Westerlands, ruled by King Caius, who remained loyal in spirit to the Empire. John Frederick’s poorly-recorded time in the Westerlands, from around 1597-1608, also leaves much to conjecture. In the penurious court of Bastion, where contact with the outside world was infrequent, and state revenues were devoted to the war against the hostile forces that remained a constant threat, there would have been few opportunities for the prince to receive a quality education. When he returned to the political scene, beginning with his journey to Metz, the Count of Cleves regarded him as “well-spoken and mannerly, but lacking in a thorough grasp of what had engulfed Canondom.” In his brother’s court at Auguston, the court confessor, Father Tanka Jahari found the future Emperor to be “dull, without the simplest grasp of history, philosophy, administration, or any qualities befitting a sovereign, much less a man of any inclination towards learning.” These assessments seem somewhat harsh in retrospect- we know now that John Frederick maintained constant communication with his brother, the Duke of Mardon, and remained curious of events in humanity, but few regard him as a titan of intellect or ability. The fall of Bastion in 1608, and the subsequent conquest of the Westerlands by the forces of the dark, forced the surviving members of the fallen King Caius’s court to reestablish themselves in the Duchy of Marna, his vast holding in the Crownlands. With Caius’s son, Duke Frederick of Marna, only fourteen, the large yet sparsely-inhabited duchy did not play a prominent role in the toppling of the Courlandic Hegemony, though 200 soldiers were sent to aid Vladrick Ruthern in the Greyspine Rebellion. It is unknown what Prince John would have been doing around this time, but he likely resided as a simple courtier of the Duke of Marna. However, when the twenty three year old John Frederick arrived at the court of Metz in 1614 (possibly at his brother’s urging, possibly at the urging of King Caius), he made clear that what he may have lacked in knowledge and experience, he did not want in ambition. Before King Hughes and the magnates of Lotharingia, he pledged to drive out the Romstun rebels with a united humanity at his back, so long as they swore fealty to him. He promised to restore Johannia, that golden Empire which had been wrongfully destroyed by House Staunton, and make whole again a humanity that had been divided for twenty years by war, intrigue, and murder. A strong orator, John Frederick’s words turned a skeptical audience in Metz to his favor, as noted by Donatien de Vimeur, one of King Hughes’s courtiers: “It was an impassioned speech that rested on the barest shreds of logic, yet to my surprise, the lords in the chamber acclaimed him unanimously, so captured were they by memories of life under House Horen, though these memories recalled only glory and triumph.” King Hughes, though more inclined to skepticism than his vassals, was in too dire of a situation to refuse his cousin’s aid. His success at the Second Battle of the Rothswood notwithstanding, he had proven to be an unexceptional wartime leader, and his army had been driven back from an initial offensive against Doggerden, the seat of House Romstun, by the fiercer, more experienced Deano Romstun. Thin on manpower and money to wage a losing war, while his foes' ranks swelled with their old mercenary allies, the proud King Hughes had no choice but to seek aid from outside the realm. On the 7th of Sun’s Smile, 1614, he swore fealty to John Frederick, committing Lotharingia to the establishment of a new Empire. In return, his sister, the young, Princess Claude, would be wed to the new Emperor. With Lotharingia now promised to the banner of House Horen, John Frederick ventured west to Mardon, ruled by a brother he had not seen since they were children. Arriving on the 14th of Sun’s Smile, wept with joy as he saw the face of his younger brother, and the two embraced before the court of Auguston. In yet another speech, John Frederick asked his brother to join his Empire so that they could rebuild what their father had destroyed. Duke Peter agreed without a moment of hesitation, offering his capital of Auguston as a temporary home for the Imperial court, until a new seat for House Horen could be built. John Frederick accepted the gift with grace, establishing his (admittedly small, for his entourage was light), court at his brother’s capital. Before departing for the Crownlands, he promised to make Mardon a kingdom after he was crowned. Next, John Frederick moved to the former center of the Empire, a place that was once the beating heart of humanity, but had since been reduced to a squabbling mess of petty lords and upjumped barons. Although many, even most, had been eager to offer their support for the rising prince, and had sent word in advance of his arrival that they would bend the knee, others remained possessive of the liberties that they had been afforded under Courland’s lax oversight. The subsequent negotiations to win their fealty took months, but just as one lord capitulated, another, desiring his neighbor’s privileges, would threaten to withdraw his support until he was given a similar or better deal. It was not until the fall that John Frederick had secured the Crownlands, a length of time that had given Deano Romstun several months to run rampant throughout Lotharingia. The last two uncommitted nations were Haense and Courland. While the latter was spiraling all the way over in Asul, as the absent King Joseph did nothing to abate the growing rivalry between Prince Frederick and Duke Abdes, and thus was deemed unnecessary to bring into the fold, the former commanded a strong position. King Stephen, a shrewd and capable monarch, had aligned his nobility behind him, strengthened his realm’s treasury, and rebuilt the nonexistent royal army, made possible by extensive land confiscations from Courlandic or Courland-aligned proprietors and noblemen. He had little need for the Empire, though he could benefit greatly from one. Thus, while the aspiring Emperor had been trying to win over the pennylords of the Crownlands, King Stephen had sent dignitaries in advance, making his demands, which he did not budge from, clear. Desperate for a crown, and recognizing that he had little leverage over Haense, John Frederick agreed to terms that would preserve near-total autonomy for the northern kingdom. No taxes would be levied on Hanseti-Ruska, all import customs to good from the region into the Heartlands would be removed, Haeseni law, outside of a few exceptions, would remain in force in the realm, and King Stefan would be exempt from the requirement to aid Lotharingia (though he did send a small force under his uncle, Prince Otto, as a show of good faith). John Frederick, in haste to put together the pieces needed to ensure a smooth ascension to a reborn Imperial Throne, gritted his teeth and signed the compact. “It was robbery,” Harren of Metterden is recorded to have said of the agreement between Haense and the Empire. Without a strong military commitment from the man with the largest army on Tahn, John Frederick had neglected to provide himself with the means to decisively end the Romstun Rebellion, which had been the entire rationale behind putting him on the throne. Additionally, he would be limited both his power and his potential revenue, both already diminished by the number of concessions he had been forced to make to everyone except King Hughes. The lords of the Crownlands would be both weak and dispersed, and Duke Peter, soon to be made King Peter, would now have the Emperor as his guest. If the problems that would arise from these conditions disturbed John Frederick, he either ignored them, or assumed that they could be dealt with in time. Prestige could be earned through victory against House Romstun, albeit now a harder task that Haense’s role was minimal. An independent source of power and funding could be established when a new capital was built, even though its location had not been selected and it would be years until it could match the cities of Metz, Alban (the new capital of Haense), and Auguston. New arrangements in governance could be made when the Imperial Crown was in a stronger position- if it was in a stronger position. “It was a gamble for power, with the currency being the functions of the state,” Philip Horen, Duke of Corazon, and younger brother to both John Frederick and Duke Peter, would later remark. However, these causes for concern would not yet evolve into dilemmas for the moment. John Frederick’s coronation, held on the 14th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1614, before a collection of lords and ladies of Tahn, gathered in Auguston, was far more pressing. With little coin of his own, he had borrowed heavily from the Mardonic treasury, itself not all too impressive. The coronation was modest, relatively small, but not without the optimistic anticipation for the revival of the Empire and the new era that humanity would embark upon. The “broad-shoulder, straight-standing” young man, though not the model of regal handsomeness, had done his part to look every bit like his grandfather, the beloved John III, whom he was compared to in appearance. Finally, as the sun rose at its peak, and the High Pontiff lowered a new crown, gifted by the King of Lotharingia, upon John Frederick’s head, he was made Emperor John V, restorer of the primacy of House Horen, and the founder of a reforged Holy Orenian Empire. Parading through the streets of Auguston to large, cheering crowds, John V and his new subjects made a slow procession to the Cathedral of the First Revelation, where his new bride awaited. The wedding, financed by the slightly wealthier King of Lotharingia (who nonetheless had to go into debt to pay for both it and a war), was less humble than the coronation, and Princess Claude, usually drawn to displays of opulence, remained visibly enchanted by the crowds of high lords and ladies. Even to many those gathered, those unaware of the disorganization within the Emperor’s personal household and the finances he had no means of accounting for or raising, the low expenses were thought to be something of a virtue: a commitment to the economic empowerment of the Empire in such dire times, when money was scarce and the problems it needed to address were frequent. Claude d’Amaury, Holy Orenian Empress, remains an obscure figure with weight in the historical record, an unfortunate reflection of the diminished state of women during the time, who saw greater prominence in the eras preceding and succeeding the Courlandic Hegemony and the Mardon Empire. Even the three Empresses of the period had little written about them. While some attribute this to the reduced literary, artistic, and bureaucratic output at the time, this plays only a small part, one that is overshadowed by larger social trends that were only truly reversed during the period of liberalization under the Petrine Empire. John V, enamored with the attention and adoration he now received as much as with his new bride, gave a speech after the wedding vows were concluded, and the union between Horen and d’Amaury was sealed with an exchange of rings. Facing the crowd of jubilant, uncertain, hopeful, and wary subjects of the Empire, he promised that after three days of celebration, he would commit himself to the defense of the realm, as was his duty as its sovereign. At the head of an army, he would drive back House Romstun, liberate western Lotharingia, and bring peace to the Crownlands. To end his wedding peroration, the young Emperor, his rich voice booming across the cathedral, said: “I will do what my ancestor, John II, could not. I will destroy the enemies from within, the flayers of men, who gather beneath the three-headed Romstun hound.” Three weeks later, in battle outside of Metz, John V’s army was soundly defeated by Deano Romstun. The Romstun Rebellion, which lasted from 1613-1615, remains among the most poorly-recorded in Imperial history, even in an era defined by gaps in the chronological narrative and a decline in written sources. Even within the timeline of the war, John V’s brief campaign, a mere few weeks during an unusually warm winter during the dwindling days of 1614, stands out as a puzzlingly diminished event from much of the scant historical record (though it will certainly not be the last). What is certainly implied by the lack of evidence is that the new Emperor found complete disaster at a battle, at an unspecified place and time, prompting him to suppress mention of it. In the scant reports that have survived, we find that his army was destroyed and King Hughes was captured by the Romstuns. If there was one virtue that John V demonstrated throughout his life, it was bravery. Although his generalship against the Romstuns (possibly nominal, for he had no prior military experience) was poor, he remained relentless in his desire to prosecute the war. However, he did not have the means to drain resources endlessly from his vassals: he simply did not have the officials, nor the will of his subjects, to wage a war that could take years. He coerced, pleased, cajoled, and commanded his vassals to join him in a renewed offensive to rescue King Hughes, but the realm was spent from twenty years of turmoil. An exhausted Oren begged for peace, and after a few more weeks of small-scale skirmishes and raids around Metz, John V relented. On the 2nd of Harren’s Folly, 1615, he agreed to the Treaty of Metz, which saw the western half of Lotharingia given to House Romstun and reorganized into their new fiefdom, the Principality of Skravia. Several members of House Romstun, and their allies, would be given key military and administrative positions within John V’s yet-to-be-organized bureaucracy, giving them great influence within his court. Finally, King Peter of Mardon, who was busy crowning himself during the peace negotiations, would be forced to wed Zoey Romstun, Deano’s daughter (this was likely to muddy the waters of succession). The terms were humiliating, especially for a man who had promised the stars even before he had sworn his solemn vows to defend the Empire, but he had no choice but to submit himself to them. To remind Emperor John that he had not gotten off lightly, there was one clause, left unwritten, that Deano Romstun demanded as a condition for his cessation of hostilities. King Hughes, languishing in a dungeon in Doggerden, was flayed alive on the 28th of Harren’s Folly. With his horrible demise came the end of the Kingdom of Lotharingia. His successor, Odo d’Amaury, whom he had overthrown six years earlier, refused his inheritance. Odo’s son, Leufroy, accepted rulership of King Hughes’s domain, but he would do so as Duke of Lorraine, for he believed that the crown of Lotharingia was cursed, and the Principality of Skravia, which would nominally remain its subject, was ungovernable. Thus, the Kingdom of Lorraine was given to Emperor John, who in that capacity could rule directly over both House Romstun and House d’Amaury, at least for a time. The debacle in Lotharingia had exposed the fragile foundations of John V’s Empire. Within a month, he had shown poor military leadership, allowed one of his earliest supporters to be flayed to death, signed away half of Lotharingia (and several government appointments) to a hostile family, and alienated his brother by forcing him to marry Zoe Romstun, a woman whom the King of Mardon derisively deemed “a woman so foul I would be forced to expel her should she wish to visit Auguston, for she is of a base and criminal character.” The hope that he had seen radiate from the faces of his subjects during his coronation were now replaced with fear- not of him, but rather of the man he seemed to have revealed himself to be. Trapped in Auguston, residing only at his brother’s behest, he and his threadbare council sought a means of ending the Imperial Crown’s reliance on its vassals. Thankfully for John V, there was one man who was to have a worse start to the year than he. On the 17th of Sigismund’s End, 1615, King Joseph of Courland was overthrown and killed in a palace coup orchestrated by Prince Frederick. The factional tensions in Aleksandria had reached a boiling point, but the king had neglected to do anything to manage the relations between his most important subjects. Frustrated with his liege’s idleness, Prince Frederick arranged for him to be stabbed while at dinner, and for the king’s three year old son, Henry Richard, to be put on the Courlandic throne. Unfortunately for Prince Frederick, the power of Courland was itself not independently strong, and within days the Duke of Savinia demanded that he relinquish the regency. In a preliminary agreement with Duke Abdes and other dissenting noblemen, the Curonian regent agreed to cede a number of substantial privileges for the realm’s vassals. As negotiations were underway, he opened diplomatic channels with the Empire. In exchange for retaining his regency over his great-nephew, and thus the lands of House Staunton, he would arrange for the formal dissolution of the Kingdom of Courland, to be replaced by the Principality of Evereux (it was hoped that a formal dissolution of the despised Courland would appease the fervently Staunton-hating Empire). The Emperor and his advisors hastily accepted the terms: on the 13th of Horen’s Calling, 1615, Prince Frederick, representing his nephew, Prince Henry of Devereux, traveled to Auguston to swear fealty to John V, bringing the Courlanders back beneath the Empire for the first time since the Riga War. Denied victory in Lotharingia, Emperor John was able to claim it over Courland, the feared, hated foe. When addressing the court, he would frequently boast that “in vanquishing the kingdom of Tobias Staunton, I have avenged my father, my subjects, and my young self.” His enthusiasm was generally met in kind by his people, who were pleased to see the Courlanders brought to heel. Unbeknownst to both, however, was the outrage among the vassals of the Prince of Devereux. Believing that he had been undermined by Prince Frederick, the Duke of Savinia notified his allies- principally House de Castro and House Palaiologos- in preparation for a rebellion. 1616 proved to be the sole year of peace that graced John V’s reign, though even in the silence, preparations for war were made. Abdes de Savin and his allies quietly gathered their armies, mustering 5,000 among themselves and hiring another 5,000 abroad from the depleted forces of Urguan, Norland, and Krugmar. Emperor John, not entirely negligent, ordered his vassals to summon their levies and sent an advance force of 2,000 soldiers, drawn mostly from the Crownlands, to reinforce Aleksandria, for Prince Frederick’s estimates put Evereux’s strength at no greater than 1,000, so depleted had the lands of House Staunton been. Little else occupied the small court of John V aside from the impending war, and all plans to build and shape the institutions of the Empire were postponed until the threat from the Duke of Savinia had been quelled. The Santegian Rebellion began unexpectedly on the 9th of Owyn’s Flame, 1617, when Duke Abdes and an army of 4,000 strong, having obscured their approach for two weeks under the cover of the dense Cascadian Forest. The assault on Aleksandria, which lasted for three hours, ended with mixed results. Although the Savinian army had ultimately been repulsed by the reinforced Staunton garrison, Prince Frederick had been slain in the fighting. House Staunton had been deprived of its most able administrator, dwarfing his replacement as regent of Evereux, Arnaud Halcourt, in political acumen, and the final living brother of Tobias the Conqueror. The last of King Tobias’s trusted lieutenants was now leading the rebellion against his grandson’s rule. In Tahn, word of Duke Abdes’s attack on Aleksandria sparked a frenzy among the courts of the Empire. Already prepared ahead of time, it was a matter of weeks before the armies of King Stephen of Haense, King Peter of Mardon, and Duke Leufroy of Lorraine, along with the banners of dozens of other smaller lords, had assembled. The Emperor would formally lead the army, joined by King Stephen and King Peter, but after his disaster in 1614, he agreed to cede formal command of the Heartlandic contingent, about 3,000 strong, to Sir Philip Marshall, while the King of Haense personally commanded his 4,000 soldiers. Moving at a rapid speed, aided by a competent logistical network developed by many of the Emperor’s junior officers (mostly appointees from House Romstun), the combined Imperial host reached the port city of Sunholdt on the 23rd of Tobias’s Bounty, and embarked for Tahn a week later. Although John V’s army had assembled quickly, in the three months that it took to reach Tahn, Duke Abdes and his army had overrun most of Evereux, aided by the newly-arrived reinforcements from his orcish, dwarven, and Norlandic allies. Only Aleksandria, held by Arnaud Halcourt and the garrison of 3,000, and the port city of Trier, held by Thomas Baden, son of Prince Frederick, remained in the Prince of Evereux’s hands, though the former was now besieged by the Duke of Savinia. In the spring of 1618, the Imperial army landed in Trier, and plans were immediately made to march to relieve Aleksandria. It was agreed that the army was to be divided into two wings, with the Emperor and Sir Philip Marshall traveling west, via the Hearthroad, with the Heartlands contingents, while King Stephen and his levied Haeseni would travel along the eastern coast of the Asulian Sea. The two armies would converge at Aleksandria, drive out the besieging force, and reestablish control over Evereux. The King of Mardon would remain at Trier to guard the supply lines. Unfortunately for John V, the landing at Trier proved to be the highwater mark of his campaign. While the Haeseni army, marching down the coast, could be easily resupplied from the sea, the same could not be said for the host that Ser Philip Marshall led. Logistical difficulties, compounded by Savinian raids, gave way to an undersupplied, underfed, and demoralized Imperial army. A brutal summer’s heat, as well as the region’s humid, damp weather, gave way to diseases that ravaged the camps and felled more soldiers than enemy arrows ever did. By the time the Emperor’s host limped into the small town of Castell, a fortnight from Aleksandria, only 2,500 remained to face Duke Abdes’ banners, at least twice as numerous and twice as prepared to fight, which suddenly emerged from the Cascadian Forests onto the plains before Castell on the 20th of Owyn’s Flame, 1618. The Battle of Castell remains yet another inadequately-documented event. The course of battle is left unknown to us, save that at some point, the Imperial army was surrounded and annihilated after putting up only a brief, half-hearted resistance. John V and Sir Philip Marshall were among the twenty who were able to escape. Fleeing from the battlefield, hotly-pursued by Savinian freeriders, the Emperor was forced to leave behind his baggage, which contained his treasury and jewels. Over the next fortnight, seven of his companions were killed in ambushes laid in hostile villages, or from roving search parties that Duke Abdes had ordered to find them. Only the safety of the gates of Trier, which they reached on the 6th of Godfrey’s Triumph, enabled them to rest. The defeat of the Emperor’s army at Castell was, if one presumes the Empire to have enjoyed an advantage at any juncture, the turning point of the Santegian Rebellion. King Stephen’s army, which had seen success in marching down the Courlandic coast and brushing aside diversionary attacks, was informed of the Emperor’s defeat and compelled to withdraw to Trier, lest they be isolated. Despite the defeat of the Imperial offensive, Aleksandria held out for another month, but with no means of relief or resupply, Arnaud Halcourt surrendered the city, and Prince Richard of Devereux, to the Duke of Savinia. If the Battle of Castell had crippled the Imperial war effort, the loss of Aleksandria had rendered it needless. Duke Abdes had reunited virtually all of what had been Courland beneath his banner: all that stood was the lonely port of Trier. Over the winter of 1618-1619, many of the lords and officers within John V’s army took heed of the direction the winds were blowing and fled Asul to return to the mainland. King Peter departed on the first boat to Auguston, promising that he would raise another army and return by the summer. Sir Philip Marshall claimed to have been afflicted with a debilitating marsh sickness and was evacuated to the Crownlands. Even Thomas Baden, the Count of Trier himself, absconded and fled to King Peter’s court. The King of Haense made no pretense: after rebuking John V and his diplomatic and military mishandlings, he and his army boarded their ships and sailed for Auguston as well, daring any of the paltry forces present to oppose them. By the time that the spring suns rose in the horizon, only the Emperor himself and a 2,000-strong garrison of the sick, wounded, and infirm, remained in Trier. On the 5th of Harren’s Folly, 1619, the five month Siege of Trier began. The armies of Abdes de Savin and his allies, numbering around 7,000, though possibly as many as 9,000, had spent the lull in fighting amassing their strength, while the Emperor had spent his losing it. As the Savinians, Norlanders, Courlanders, orcs, and dwarves surrounded Trier by land and sea, the total defeat of the Empire became inevitable. It would only be a matter of time until the city was starved into submission, stormed with ease, or merely collapsed into itself in the face of the daunting inevitability of the prior two. The siege occupies only a brief place in recovered Savinian dispatches, such as one from the Baron of Castrov, Sir Elias de Castro: “The Emperor of Oren shows bravery- there is not a day that we do not see him atop the ramparts, exposing himself to our fire. We question why this brave man remains there, when all those sworn to him returned to their homes months ago. Does he truly believe that they will return? Does he seek a glorious end in battle, to absolve himself of the stain of failure? Perhaps, as suggested by the Baron of Hagios, he refuses to leave behind those who could not be evacuated, dying for them as they would for him.” In part because of the spirited defense that the Emperor commanded, his first and only show of military capability, Trier held out for far longer than expected. What was expected to last only a few weeks dragged out into months. Time brought with it disease and hunger, ravaging defender and besieger alike; while the people of Trier starved in their homes, reduced to eating boiled leather, a summer fever desolated whole sections of the Savinian camps, taking thousands with it as it fluttered out into autumn. Come winter, though the garrison at Trier had been reduced to 400, and the city’s population had been culled by two thirds, if not more, the flag of the Empire still flew above the ramparts. However, time had run out for the Emperor, and no sign of his allies, no fresh host to save him, or even to aid him in his hopeless struggle, would come. In what may have been a desperate breakout attempt or a dramatic charge with the intent of death, John V took to the head of the 400 men and women who remained able to lift a sword and sallied from Trier. Brittle bones and empty bellies meant that their advance came at no greater than a weak shamble, and by the time they reached the first line of the siegeworks, containing about 2,000 soldiers, they moved more as a horde than a trained army. Within ten minutes of meeting the Savinian line, they fell dead, either struck by repeated arrow volleys or, should that have been avoided, cut down by the blade of a healthy man-at-arms. Emperor John V, at twenty nine years of age, joined his soldiers in death during this final charge, though no account of his death, besides a vague reference to being shot through the eye by a dwarven crossbow bolt, has been uncovered. The death of John V did not send out shockwaves across Axios, nor did it prove to be a particularly decisive historical inflection point. Ironically, only in the now-conquered Courland was the Emperor’s death of significance. Having united Asul beneath the banner of conquest with the capture of Trier, reforging the kingdom that his old liege had left behind, Abdes de Savin crowned himself as King of Santegia. However, on Tahn, the principal actors in humanity had already been planning what was to be done when the Emperor perished for the past year. As he and his soldiers starved within the walls of Trier, those with means gathered their allies in their bid for control over the Imperial Throne. The most obvious ‘kingmaker’ in this dynamic was King Stephen of Haense, one of two men in the Empire with a substantial army at his command (the other being the Prince of Skravia, Deano Romstun, who despite encouraging the war, had wisely stayed out of it). Instead of immediately returning to Haense with his army in early 1619, he had effectively occupied Auguston, ostensibly to defend in case of a naval invasion from Asul, as unlikely as the prospect was. The unexpected length of the Siege of Trier forced King Stephen to allow most of his army to return home for the harvest season, but even with 1,000 men-at-arms still in the Imperial capital, he had more than enough soldiers to control the city. Additionally, he had secured his alliances with many of the lords of the Heartlands, chiefly the Duke of Lorraine, which enabled him to act freely in the region. The second actor was the man whose capital was being occupied: King Peter of Mardon. As his brother’s only son and heir had died at age three, he was the natural and legal successor. However, most of his available manpower had been reduced in the wars against Courland, House Romstun, and now the Savinians. Removed from exercising authority over even his own seat, and without sufficient allies to offset King Stephen’s power, he had no means of advancing his own claim. The future of the Empire was to be decided by the King of Haense. When word of Emperor John’s death arrived (albeit prematurely, as a false report put his death on the 13th of Godfrey’s Triumph), King Stephen made his move to secure control over the Empire. His army took to the streets of Auguston to establish order, while he summoned the Imperial court to his lodgings at the Castle Lorath an hour outside the city. There, before the great lords of the Empire, he announced his intention to name Brother Robert Horen, the former Emperor Robert II, who had briefly ruled in 1585 before abdicating the Imperial Throne to take up the monastic life, as Lord Protector of the Empire. Brother Robert, a seclusive monk since his abdication, had elected to return just before his nephew’s death in Trier, so that the Imperial government could be stabilized and any factional infighting prevented. King Stephen’s ownership of Castle Lorath exemplified a startling reality for many of the lords of the Heartlands: large swathes of their traditional lands were owned by the Haeseni Crown or its vassals. The period of economic downturn from 1608-1622 had led to a financial collapse in Lotharingia, typically regarded as a hub of commerce, after a series of simultaneous defaults on loans that had been taken out by the poorer Crownlands vassals and the Kingdom of Mardon. The ensuing deflationary spiral in the Heartlands allowed Haeseni lords and landowners, as well as House Barbanov, to use their greater access to liquidity, made possible in part due to their robust trade ties with the dwarven clans, to purchase hundreds of estates from cash-strapped lords in the Heartlands. By 1620, it was estimated that nearly a third of all land in the Heartlands was owned by Haense. If the Protectorate of Brother Robert was intended to stabilize the Empire, it was only in its collapse that a clear resolution to the succession could be made. Acting at the reluctant grace of the King of Haense, who likely found the former Emperor to be an ambitious and capable figure despite his powerlessness, the Lord Protector, from the 6th of Godfrey’s Triumph to the 8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1619, drafted new articles of government and reordered the Council of State, hoping to establish an Imperial administrative apparatus that could at least exert some oversight over the Heartlands, if not yet the whole of the Empire, but in the chaos of the Haeseni occupation of Auguston, and the conflicting reports of John V’s death and the fall of Trier (which were only confirmed on the 15th of Tobias’s Bounty), all that could be pursued was the management of the barebones government the late Emperor had left behind, effectively making the Protectorate a transitional period. On the 8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1619, coincidentally the same day that John V met his end, the Lord Protector, a quarrelsome and ill-tempered man, exhausted his goodwill with the powers that be after he demanded the removal of Haeseni soldiers from Auguston. Compelled to return to retirement by King Stephen, he announced his resignation from the Office of the Protectorate and returned to his monastery. Now, with no substantial opposition, no other source of theoretical Imperial legitimacy, King Peter of Mardon was able to ascend to the Imperial Throne. He made no mistake in believing that he exercised sole power over the functions of the state: he ruled at the whims of King Stephen, and many elements within the Imperial government were hostile to him, namely his own Empress, but the Empire that Peter of Mardon had longed to rule since he was a child was now his. Peter II, Holy Orenian Emperor, charged with fixing the broken Empire that his brother had come into and further ruined, would now face the tribulations that had sent many to an early grave. Or so the traditional histories will tell us, which these authors accept as generally credible, though not without serious contentions. Were one to consult contemporary authorities in Haense, and certain Haeseni scholars on the subject, they would tell you that Emperor John did not bravely die in Trier with his men in a doomed sally from the city’s crumbling walls. Instead, they would tell you that he fled alongside his subjects, abandoning the sick and wounded to their fates as the Savinian noose tightened around the city. Some scholars would say that, having lost face at every turn in a brief reign that saw countless embarrassments, John V, without a single man or woman willing to stand at his side, was overthrown by King Stephen and Brother Robert in a coup in Auguston around the 8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1619 (or perhaps even earlier), which saw him either killed in the brief fighting or executed afterwards. Were one to look into the assertions of Father John of Bastion, a chronicler of the Westerlands, they would find a much graver accusation: that John V was no son of Emperor Philip I at all, that he was an imposter. In 1595, the year of the end of the Johannian Empire and the destruction of Johannesburg, a young John Owyn, five years old, was listed among the companions of King Leopold of the Westerlands. This John Owyn, whose time of birth, sudden appearance, and proximity to King Leopold, would support the thesis that he was, in fact, the true son and heir of Philip I, died in 1608 during the fall of the Bastion, fighting bravely alongside King Caius, whom he was squiring beneath. If this John Owyn was the son of Philip I, was John Frederick an imposter? Was he a younger brother who had escaped the archival record before then? Was he the actual son of Philip I, while John Owyn was a mere coincidence, an obscure nobleman’s son? Were John Owyn and John Frederick the same man, with both the name, and the supposed death, being falsely-recorded? Were they two separate men, but accidentally mixed up by a scribe’s sloppy work, meaning that it was John Frederick who died with King Caius in Bastion, and John Owyn who survived to become John V? What is the truth of John V’s enigmatic past, revealed only in pieces to us by infrequent, often exaggerated, retellings and a thin written record. The truth is that in 1614, John V’s heritage, whether he was John Owyn or John Frederick, and who John Owyn and John Frederick were, did not matter to those who made him Emperor. The toppling of the Courlandic Hegemony had brought with it a period of violence, economic collapse, and political uncertainty that swept across Axios, sparing no polity, human or otherwise. The reign of Tobias Staunton had been marked by warfare, but there had at least been some promise of a new human order, which flowed through Courlandic power, to guide and orient the world. His early death denied any opportunity for this restructuring to occur, as unlikely as it was to ever happen, and in the aftermath, his successors proved unable to maintain the unwieldy foundations which the power of Courland was built upon. King Joseph was young, lazy, and uninspiring, while Prince Frederick was experienced and able, but needlessly argumentative. As the two fought bitterly, the inheritance they had been expected to steward began to split at the seams. Even among those who stood to gain from the end of the hegemony, few were equipped with the means of replacing the void that Tobias ‘the Conqueror’ had left. Franz Kovachev, Archduke of Akovia, was hated for his servitude to House Staunton and thus could never win the affections, or the submission, of the whole of Hanseti-Ruska. King Peter of Mardon did not possess the ability or means to project power outside of his realm no matter how much he tried. Kings Odo and Hughes of Lotharingia, though well-positioned in theory to compete for primacy in the Heartlands, were hampered at every turn by a political order in their realm that incentivized intrigue, regicide, and betrayal. By 1614, this state of affairs, where none could dominate humanity, but one was needed to do so, led the princes of humanity to put their loyalty, albeit not without condition, behind John Frederick. His personal ability did not matter, nor did any authentic claim to an Imperial Throne that was now buried under the ice-rubble of Johannesburg. What mattered was that he represented a return to the ‘Golden Johannia’, a time of prosperity, glory, and stability, that was now the foremost objective of the human actors. In pursuit of this, the principles that the adroit governance of the Johannian Dynasty were entirely forgotten, and the compromise that was enacted constructed an essentially fictional Empire, wherein John V was a mere figurehead, exercising none of the control that his ancestors had over his vassals, who, though always in search of the stability that a liege brought, were not willing to surrender the privileges that anarchy had given them. It was this contradiction that deprived John V of any means of creating an Empire with the strength to advance its interests. Hampered by the conditions of his ascension and his own shortcomings in statecraft, diplomacy, and war, even the virtues he did display- personal bravery, an unconditional devotion to his subjects, and captivating oratory (though if certain accounts are to be believed, even these may be questioned)- were sufficient for an infantry captain, but not a man with whom the nominal lordship of humanity was vested in. Chained by the autonomy of subjects who did little to aid him, personally unsuccessful on the battlefield, and without the ability to create and rule a functioning government, John V’s powerlessness and inability to reign defined his period on the Imperial Throne more than any one factor. The two men who made the most of this era were the two who shattered this illusionary Empire and exposed it for the hollow superstructure that it was. The first was Abdes de Savin, Duke of Savinia, who could perhaps claim to be the true successor of Tobias Staunton, rather than King Joseph of Courland. Recognizing the weakness of the Empire of John V, and the many fault lines within it that could be exploited, he defined his rebellion as an ejection of Courlandic influence from Asul. This served to alienate many of Emperor John’s vassals, who had little love for what remained of House Staunton, from the war being waged in defense of their control of the island. Although he had humiliated the Empire, and had done so in part due to the support of many of its historical enemies, he cunningly avoided threatening the new, brittle human order that had been constructed, for it was of little threat compared to what could replace it. The second was Stephen Barbanov, King of Haense, who quickly rose from an exile in Mardon to the most powerful man within the Empire. Unlike John V, he had won his kingdom in battle, defeating Franz Kovachev and ejecting the foreign occupiers that had subjected the realm to tyranny. Stephen Barbanov had not been at the forefront of the Greyspine Rebellion, that had been Vladrick Ruthern, Count of Metterden, and Harren of Metterden, but he had fought well at the Second Battle of the Rothswood and, as the son of the late King Marius, was naturally viewed as the next King of Hanseti-Ruska. In the aftermath of the rebellion, he maneuvered deftly to secure the support of the Haeseni lords, heading off a serious challenge from the Count of Metterden and building a framework of loyal vassals that would support him during his rule. Well-secured in his position, by the time John Frederick began to solicit support for his bid to the Imperial Throne, he was in a position to leverage substantial concessions for his support, which was wholly necessary. The Empire that emerged was one that, in the words of Prince Philip, Duke of Corazon and brother of John V, “seemed predicated on the directive of the King of Haense, as if it had been made with the intention of benefitting he and his people exclusively, for from it he was promised everything and needed to sacrifice little.” Unlike what his critics have come to allege, King Stephen was not a wholly self-interested party, just one who recognized the unworkable base that an Empire ruled by John V rested upon. Ultimately, when it came time for the more-experienced King Peter, a man with a base of support he could draw upon, to succeed his brother and attempt to transform the Empire from a loose union of kingdoms into a unified country, the King of Haense allowed this process to happen. As the next volume will in part show, though these authors leave the histories of Haense to the Haeseni historians, the King of Haense was content to enjoy the laurels of a lucrative inheritance from House Pruvia, used to benefit his kingdom, while providing support where needed for the new Emperor, Peter II. Or, perhaps as he had done before, he recognized the future of the political landscape and accordingly chose to withdraw himself and his kingdom from the calamity that would overcome it. Vale, John V ‘the Vagabond’ 3rd of Sun’s Smile, 1590-8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1619 (r. 8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1614-8th of Tobias’s Bounty, 1619) O Ágioi Kristoff, Jude kai Pius. Dóste mas gnósi ópos sas ékane o Theós. Poté min afísoume na doúme to skotádi, allá as doúme móno to fos tis sofías kai tis alítheias. O Theós na se evlogeí. The reign of Peter II and his efforts to consolidate the Empire shall be covered in the next volume of The Annals of Mardon.

i defer to your judgement in these matters

Letters fly from the Krak des Châtaigne, carried upon the wings of pigeons, lofted by the soft, sweet breeze that had come with a lull in the war. Although the letters travel neither far nor wide, a few replications certainly circulate, though word of mouth spreads what parchment does not. Fresh, unadulterated copies of the announcement, written on flaxen and bound by mauve ink, as was the traditional style of the County of Metz, display their authenticity by virtue of gilded crests outlining the sigils of d’Amaury and Mareno. The contents, be they read or discussed, can be reasonably surmised as such: The Count of Metz, Sir Lothar d’Amaury, announces the intention of matrimony between he and Cassia Mareno. The consecration of this holy union of leal families, alike in their undying fealty to God, Emperor, and Empire, if different in origin, shall mark a new era for the House d’Amaury and bring to the Imperium a future for the Aurvergnian people. In custom of the highest order, the promised couple have registered their intention to wed by means of a bann of matrimony, so that any lawful objections of canonical impediments may be presented and known. In observance of the war effort, one which both parties have committed body and spirit to, the wedding shall be postponed until His Imperial Majesty deems it appropriate for the luxurious splendor that it will require. Lady Cassia has made her intention known that her hand shall be withheld from the ring until her future husband has proven his worthiness, a stipulation that Sir Lothar has accepted. When this time comes, when the immediate threat of the invading hordes of un-man have been driven from the rightful estates of Man, precise details for the ceremony and all associated festivities shall be made public.

I honestly think something like this is better off as a ruleset agreed to by nations at war, aided by whatever staff can use worldedit to move the boats, than as an official set of war rules. It conflicts a lot with the staff team’s preferred direction for wars, but it would be perfect as something utilized by two warring parties between themselves.

Examining the Accusations of Genocide Against the Imperium, c. 266 A study of the definition, present accusations, and Faithful view of the act of genocide. ☩ ☩ ☩ Recently, I had the opportunity to speak with one Doctor Castien von Ehrenwald, a physician in service of the Reinmarans and an elven subject of the Empire. Throughout his long life, he has rendered his service to humanity, and to the Empire, through his talents in the medicinal arts. He is a baptized Canonist, one guided by faith to perform good works, and by the testimony of those I spoke to, he is respected among the Reinmarens. Over a year ago, he was assaulted by soldiers of the Empire, who demanded that he, as an elf, be taken by them for the purposes of being slain. Only the intervention of his community succeeded in preventing his life from being taken. It need not be examined why the assault of a brother-Canonist, and a brother-Imperial, who is committing no crime, ought to be met with horror and outrage, which the matter predominantly has. We are besieged by a base and vile enemy, one who would see the world dragged to their level, one that would uplift the mediocre at the expense of the worthy. However, we must not act lawlessly in the pursuit of victory. Allow bloodshed to be drawn with honor, on the field of battle, and not within our own ranks. The act overeagerly, to turn the sword on those whom we defend, is to feed the rumor of this coalition, and, in popular conscious, not in the realm of fact, lay waste to the truth that, within the Empire- There is, definitively, no genocide. So I find that you are strict in your arms, but lax in your prayers. But to pray is to gird the spirit. The hand of GOD is the greatest weapon to bear, and His word is the paramount strategy. There can be no laxity in faith for any reason, not war nor peace, not wealth nor poverty. The Lord lasts through all adversities, for He is their source and their remedy—without Him, they are uncured. Spirit 2:11-14 The Conditions for Genocide There is no single, universal definition of genocide. The term, enigmatic in its origins, seems to have first been used by some to describe the events of the Purge of the City of Galahar in 1341. While sources are scant, the name of the event itself brings us to our first problem: the official historiography of Galahar does not support the idea of a wholesale slaughter, which has generally been one of the few consistent criterion for the application of the term ‘genocide’. At worst, a large swathes of the city guard and municipal bureaucracy were killed, perhaps without cause, but the city, which was the capital of the Kingdom of Renatus, remained an important economic and political center in humanity until its desolation by the forces of Iblees in 1349. Deprived of a suitable example in the event that the term ‘genocide’ was initially applied to (I cannot believe that any well-intentioned scholar would equate a series of political assassinations and executions with the eradication of an entire group), we are forced to turn to other, better examples where the term ‘genocide’ has been widely-used. I) The destruction of Fenn in 1587 by Emperor Philip I, which saw the mass-slaughter of the Fennites, the violent dissolution of their state, their expulsion into the dwarflands, and the subsequent invasion of the dwarflands in 1590, with the intent of completing the slaughter. II) The Massacre of Crestfall in 1390 by the Order of the White Rose, which slaughtered all non-humans within the City of Crestfall. The Order of the White Rose openly despised all non-humans and non-Canonists, and actively sought the complete non-existence of both. III) The reign of Phaedrus Lle'hileia, which began with the overthrow of the Haelun’orians by he and his mali’ame followers. During Phaedrus’s reign from 1487-1493, it was state policy to eliminate all mali’ahaeral within the Laurelin, forcing them to take refuge outside of Elvendom and go into hiding. It is with these examples that we can determine two conditions that must necessarily be present for a slaughter to be deemed a ‘genocide’: Intent of the whole, of near-whole, slaughter of the targeted group - The targeted group, be it special, cultural, religious, etc., must be the object of a campaign seeking their complete extermination through violence. Slaughter of the targeted group on the basis of their identity - The targeted group must be so as a result of their special, cultural, religious, etc. identification. Horen advised his brother Krug of the wickedness of Iblees, and Krug was wroth, and he slew many of his own kind. Those that lived were fearful, and repented of their sins. They submitted to Krug, who sought out Iblees. And Horen did not admonish Krug, for the tribe of man was greatly diminished. The two went into the east, and were joined by Urguan and Malin, and the virtuous of their tribes. Many were slain in a state of iniquity, and their bodies littered the earth. Gospel 2:49-54 The Lack of Evidence for Genocide in the Present Intent of the whole, or near-whole, slaughter of the targeted group - The existence of elven polities, primarily the state of the Caurosians, and dwarven and orcish subjects, within the Imperium speak against any intent to slaughter the races themselves. If one were to object, and assert that the destruction of the orcs as an autonomous, stately people is the design of the Empire’s war, then one would have to extend the term to the destruction of any political entity, regardless of the presence or lack thereof of violence, or the intent of extermination (e.g., the dissolution of Haense, wherein several prominent Haeseni families now reside within the Empire). Slaughter of the targeted group on the basis of their identity - The state actions of the various enemies of the Empire more than suffice as a means of explaining the direction of hostilities. In the case of Haelun’or, it was thoroughly compromised by Ibleesian forces, including within its political leadership. In the case of the Horde, it was their harboring of human subjects and their support of the unlawful coup against the righteous, Canonist Duke of Lotharia. But Joren Son of Horen was never to be found. In his grief, Owyn went into the greatest city of Edel, and reproofed the wicked for seven days, until every servant of Iblees lay dead at his feet, and he collapsed. The Lord saw the penance of Owyn, which was the death of the unrepentant. And Owyn was made again as the light of his blade, and the great city was destroyed. Gospel 5:17-20 Genocide and the Holy Scrolls The Holy Scrolls, namely the Scroll of Gospel, describes, in-length, events that could be interpreted as genocide. These are distinguished from other acts of violence, such as war or murder, by their direction: typically, they are taken against existential enemies of the Faith. These acts of significant violence, which may be described as genocide, are: I) The slaughter of the Saulicians, who had been tempted by a man named Saul, who “worked Iblees’ iniquity” and turned them away from the Lord. Although the events described in the Scrolls speak more to ritualistic mass-suicide rather than a campaign undertaken by Ex. Horen, this may be subject to some interpretation, as when he warned his brother Krug of what had befallen his came, Krug slew his own Saulician followers. Following this, the two brothers aided Urguan and Malin in cleansing their camps of the Saulicians. (Gospel 2:28-54) II) The destruction of Edel at the hands of Ex. Owyn, who cleansed the city of “the wicked” and “every servant of Iblees”. For the deed of personally seeing to “the death of the unrepentant” within Edel, Ex. Owyn was forgiven of his sins and brought to the Sixth Sky. (Gospel 5:18-21) III) The war against the agents of Iblees undertaken by Ex. Godfrey, though its account is admittedly vague and brief. However, the evocative language of “plagues sweeping the lands of iniquity” and “walls crumbling before Godfrey’s armies” pre-empting the unification of a great, pan-human Empire, speaks to a widespread cleansing of Ibleesians. (Gospel 6:38-40) From these examples, we are able to outline three conditions under which widespread slaughter, or genocide, may be permitted by our Faith. Egregious Sin - If the targeted group is irredeemably removed from the light of God, treating virtue as sin and sin as virtue, in every facet of life and society. Ibleesian - If the targeted group knowingly and willingly acts on behalf of Iblees or any dark power of Ibleesian origin. Necessary - In the Epistle to the Orcs, they are cautioned against the passions which may lead one to purposeless slaughter (Spirit 6:9-12). While this is traditionally interpreted as an admonition of murder, it logically follows that if peaceable means may convert sinners, or a people are not wholly Ibleesian, the mass-slaughter of genocide is unwarranted. Valentin Burgundy

Valentin Burgundy, on the path to becoming a priest, reads the announcement with trepidation. At least he was young enough to not have to worry about these matters for now, though the prospect of getting older does not necessarily excite him.

This is easily one of the greatest archival undertakings the server's ever had. This is hours upon hours of people's own writing that's now preserved forever. Glad it's centralized here!

THE WINTER CROWS: Volume XVII; Andrik IV - The Good Written by Demetrius Barrow Andrik IV - The Good “Before Anne and I first met the King of Haense [Andrik IV], we feared he would be of his father’s character: a roaring mountain of a man that spoke in the language of the hunter, and whose passions lay only in violence. We were pleased to find, I more than her, that his interests align with my own.” - Joseph de Sarkozy, Duke of Adria (later Emperor Joseph II), c. 1764 Born on the 9th of Owyn’s Flame, 1729, Prince Andrik Lothar enjoyed an upbringing that was not clouded by the most cataclysmic civil war that the Empire had seen, nor beneath the shadow of the ominous, looming threat of the Pertinaxi. War still occurred, in part assured by his father, Andrik III, never one to give up one of his favorite pastimes, but even the turmoil of the Time of Troubles did not see the same violence that had washed away all virtue during the end of the Pertinaxi Dynasty, or of any other period of significant strife. The division of humanity, while always at threat, did not occur, and so the Empire survived, Haense survived, and House Barbanov survived. The world that Andrik Lothar would come to find his place in was rife with opportunity for one to enjoy its bounty, not just defend his own. However, the intrinsic advantages that Andrik Lothar’s generation received did not necessarily grace his life at all times, and he still found himself challenged as any other child. As was often the case with royalty, company was provided by tutors and same-aged peers, not by family. Andrik III’s frequent campaigning removed him from Reza for long stretches of time, but even when he was at the royal court, the responsibilities of fatherhood never fit him quite so well as his armor did. Even at Prince Andrik’s birth, the king was found not at the bedside of his son and heir, but in the streets of Reza, drinking Carrion Black with the people of the city (all provided from his coffers). Queen Milena was slightly more involved with her son’s upbringing, but it came from a distance far enough to never nurture a close relationship between the two. The most formative experience in Prince Andrik’s early life was undoubtedly the kidnapping of him and his mother when he was only two. The circumstances of the abduction, which took place on the 14th of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1731, still raise questions to this day. A group of bandits (or cultists) gained entrance to the Prikaz Palace through methods that were unknown even at the time. Similar attacks in Adria and Rubern, none nearly as infamous as this attack, suggest that these actors preferred to target the great Karovic vassals of the Empire, either due to inherent animosity or connections that permitted them to do so. The abduction, conducted in the middle of the Prikaz Palace without alerting a single guard or servant, also suggests a more sophisticated operation at play than a simple bandit raid. For four months, Queen Milena and Prince Andrik were held captive in a small cabin by these brigands, forbidden from stepping foot outside of it. Although they were treated somewhat respectably, never being subjected to torture or abuse beyond the occasional yelling, it was an understandably traumatizing experience for the young mother and son, as the possibility of execution, brutalization, or prolonged captivity hung over their heads. Only when Ser Alaric Hanethor, an otherwise unremarkable knight in the Marian Retinue, came upon the cabin while in search of a privy during a hunt, were the two finally rescued. Cutting through the poorly-armed brigands, Sir Alaric managed to slay six of the captors before untying the queen and heir. Many attribute the circumstances of Prince Andrik’s early trauma as the cause of his later personality, but Queen Milena’s response may have been an even greater influence in his timidity. After the spell of captivity, the queen began to see enemies in each shadow within the Prikaz, possible assassins who would end the life of herself or her son in a blade’s stroke. From that day forward, Prince Andrik’s daily schedule was tightly-regulated, and he was not permitted to leave beyond the palace grounds, not even in the company of his ever-present tutors. Contact with anyone outside of his family or his household, hand-picked by Queen Milena, was forbidden unless deemed absolutely necessary. In his most formative years, Prince Andrik was removed from his parents, his peers, and the world outside. Deprived of socialization, the prince explored the myriad of worlds one could find in the endless library of House Barbanov. A voracious reader, much unlike his father, Prince Andrik’s life of solitude became entwined with the histories of old, the observations of early field scientists, and the adventures of maptrotters seeking new lands and new peoples. Although the prince would never share his father’s itinerancy, he would come to possess a deeper, more intellectual curiosity about the wider world. “There is no finer student I have seen than His Highness, whose diligence and seriousness towards the subject of study rivals those in my courses,” wrote Georges Melenchon, one of Prince Andrik’s tutors and a professor of natural sciences at the University of St. Charles. Indeed, it was Prince Andrik’s aptitude for scholarship that distinguished him from his father more than anything. Where Andrik III’s natural element was on the battlefield, his son and heir preferred the quiet of the greenhouse. Botany was a favorite subject of the prince, who established the first arboretum within the Ekaterinburg Palace (when the royal court moved to New Reza in 1735). As he grew older, and was afforded more autonomy as a result, he brought in herbalists and planters from across the Empire to introduce him to new plants and growing methods, which he would proceed to experiment with himself. His interests in botany never quite extended to alchemy or herbology, but his gardens, which he opened to all reputable healers and alchemists in the realm, were regarded as an excellent source of herbal ingredients. By the time he was nine, Prince Andrik’s restrictions were lifted, and his mother allowed him to receive more guests and travel throughout New Reza. Unfortunately, the damage of his years of soft isolation had been dealt. In the words of Sister Franziska, a nun in his household: “[Prince Andrik] spoke kindly and honestly. I never worried for that, for he was an obedient son of God, deferring to the instruction of the Scrolls and their interlocutors. However, his eyes averted those of the object of his conversations, which were always brief and never audible. If he raised his voice too much, or would grow too excited, he would stammer so severely that he could not communicate at all. A slow, deliberate pace allowed him to string enough words together, but his stammering remained, if diminished.” Despite lacking the natural charisma of his parents, Prince Andrik’s genial nature did make him a few friends. Maya Alimar, daughter of the Red Prince of Muldav, would prove to be his best friend and lifelong companion. Princess Arianne of Kaedrin, betrothed to him in 1736, would also take well to the prince during her visits. Both girls were in many ways what he was not: bold, gregarious, and hard-headed, but they would remain loyal to him throughout their lives. Others, such as his cousin, Tiberias Barrow, made up a small circle of friends and confidants around the future king. However, it was consistently the women in Prince Andrik’s life who wielded the greatest influence over him. As his intellectual capabilities showed themselves early, Prince Andrik’s curriculum was expanded to match that of university students. Aside from the natural sciences of geology, biology, botany, and physics, which he excelled at and found himself most passionate practicing, he grasped algebra, trigonometry, and geometry quickly, was well-read in law, philosophy, and history, was a capable poet, and was fluent in five languages by the age of thirteen. Additionally, though the tall, thin prince would never adopt the warrior’s mold, his father personally ensured that he was adequately-trained in sword-fighting. “I’ll not see a son of mine grow up to be a soft-handed pansy,” Andrik III supposedly said as part of a drunken tirade after he had returned from a gameless hunting trip, “If his mother allows himself to bury his head in any more books, it will grow so large he won’t be able to lift it.” One course of study that the prince pursued on his own was theology. While House Barbanov had been a longstanding ally of the Church, the family itself had not been particularly religious since perhaps the reign of Robert I. King Andrik and Queen Milena themselves only rarely attended mass, and neither’s demeanor- fraught with indulgence, drinking, and infidelity- could be described as anything but impious. In a radical departure from the example of his parents, Prince Andrik took his faith seriously, attending mass each morning and taking confession no less than once a week. He frequently sought the wisdom of the leading theological minds of the Empire, and his household contained more priests, nuns, and deacons than were in the employ of the Ekaterinburg Palace. The prince’s personal conduct reflected his outwardly pious nature: he drank only at meals, which were always light, arranged for modest living quarters, and only ever boasted in jest. Already shaped by trauma in his upbringing, the deaths of Prince Andrik’s mother (in 1742) and his sister, Princess Aleksandriya (in 1744), did not seem to break his spirit as it did his father’s. Although he mourned publicly, in private his nature, while sobered some, did not change, as noted by Maya Alimar after the death and public funeral of Queen Milena: “14th of Harren’s Folly, 1742, When we were children [Author’s note: Maya Alimar was twelve at the time of writing this] I would have to comfort him every time he so much as scraped his knee, for tears would be liable to spring forth like droplets from a melting icicle. It would not be becoming of a future king to be seen vulnerable, so I would wipe his eyes or shield him. However, today at the funeral his face remained pallid, like a statue of marble, yet strength was present in the stillness. We had only a brief moment to talk, but I heard no break of the voice, no half-restrained sob, only a tone that I could hear from the king himself. He’s grown, hasn’t he?” Personal animosity towards his mother for her alternating phases of strict control and outright negligence has been an explanation for his muted response to her death, though it must be noted that he displayed great filial piety towards his parents throughout his life. More likely is that the political circumstances of the time came with a heightened focus on the Haeseni monarchy, of which Prince Andrik had a part in representing. In this tumultuous period from 1740-1750, Prince Andrik was forced to evolve from a quiet, timid prince to a contributing member of his father’s government, to eventually the King of Hanseti-Ruska. Thus, we shall examine under what conditions Prince Andrik had, in the words of Maya Alimar ‘grown’. Most obvious is the Rubern War, which had been waged since 1740 and was the cause of the deaths of his mother and sister. Early in the war, it seemed that Haense was on the verge of being conquered by the armies of Godric of Morsgrad, but the height of the threat dissipated as the Siege of New Reza was abandoned in the winter of 1741. Although the armies of the Alliance of Independent States continued to occupy territory in Haense and the Crownlands, the efforts of King Andrik, Prince Otto Alimar, and others saw the front of the war pushed back to the borders of Rubern. In 1742, Prince Otto’s victory over Duke Godric at the Battle of Hangman’s Bridge reestablished the vital trade links between Haense and Kaedrin, securing a steady flow of grain for the duration of the war. Despite New Reza no longer being under threat, the Rubern War would continue. As verified by soil samples taken by Sir Charles Napier at the time, an unusually-cold atmosphere across Arcas rendered much of the soil nutrient-poor, even in regions such as Kaedrin and the Crownlands, which were historically agricultural powerhouses. Napier, writing contemporaneously, also noted that Rubern, Haense, and the Crownlands, most-affected by the War of Two Emperors and the direct aftermath, had yet to recover from the extreme population loss the brutal war incurred (Norland being effectively wiped out by 1725 supports this assertion). These two factors- a ‘small ice age’ and depopulation- prompted a change in the style of warfare in the period. Where before, large, set-piece battles had defined the ebb and flow, the margin of victory and defeat, of warfare, the environmental and demographic realities of the 1740s (which would persist for another sixty years) forced wars to be fought by raids, skirmishes, and brief sieges of lightly-manned targets. From the Battle of Hangman’s Bridge in 1742 until the Battle of Outer Arentania in 1821, the world would not see a single engagement in which the combined manpower of both combatants numbered greater than 5,000. The ‘total conquests’ that defined the world before the Rubern War, in which the victorious party would essentially desolate, vassalize, or usurp the entire country of their enemy would also fade out, becoming an impossibility as armies grew smaller and the most consequential fighting was occurring between cavalry squadrons, patrols, town garrisons, and raid parties. Another unique feature of this changing pattern of war was the almost-paradoxical centralization of military forces across Arcas into standing armies with centrally-coordinated logistics, strategy, training, and officer corps, replacing the small, more disparate and ad-hoc feudal levies and locally-raised units of before. Part of this was due to the changing nature of the campaign itself; with no large-scale offensives aimed at besieging strategically significant targets or drawing enemy armies into battle, the schedule of campaigning, which saw armies raised in the spring, march in the summer, conclude operations in the fall, and disperse for the winter, no longer applied. Winter remained a time of diminished activity, but the simple raiding and skirmishing that defined war could take place at any time. Constant presence in the field from trained, occupational soldiers was highly-sought, as the brief schedules of the peasant levies were unsuited from the constant state of warfare nations found themselves in. The changing style of war suited Andrik III well, for there was nothing more that he enjoyed than to ride out on campaign with a band of 800 or so Marian knights, especially after the deaths of his sisters, wife, and daughter, which sparked an aversion to residing in his court for long periods of time. During this time, Prince Andrik saw his share of duties increase as his tutelage transformed from scholarly matters (he would continue these in his spare time) to the hands-on learning that a role in his father’s government provided. With the king constantly out in the field, the Lord Palatine Markus Kortrevich, Baron of Koravia, handled nearly all matters not related to the conduct of the war itself. Even when Prince Andrik was named regent in 1744- a mostly-symbolic posting meant to prepare him for rulership- the Lord Palatine still directed the day-to-day administration of the kingdom. Markus Kortrevich, Margrave of Korstadt, remains an understudied and underappreciated Lord Palatine. Bridging the gap between the reigns of Andrik III and Andrik IV, he competently fulfilled the major initiatives of the warlike father and the peaceable son. While both had strong enough personalities to ensure that the Margrave of Korstadt rarely directed policy on his own accord, he was particularly adept at navigating the Duma’s factional politics, ensuring the dominance of the Centralists in the government. Even as regent, Prince Andrik’s role was to learn from the experienced statesmen of the realm, but he still wielded some influence. As he already maintained a regular correspondence with the leading clerics of the realm, he was entrusted with handling matters as they related to Church relations and the spiritual welfare of Haense. Diligent and capable despite his age, he endeared himself to his father’s councilors, who, in the words of Augustus Stromberg, saw the “humble reception of His Highness to any tasks that were assigned” as “the pinnacle of virtue for a young heir”. The prince also had a voice at meetings of the Aulic Council, though he was noted to prefer observation rather than try to steer conversations of his own accord. It proved to be a wise decision on the part of the young regent, as it was through quiet, attentive listening that he learned of the myriad of problems the realm faced, problems that would become his to solve. One man who did not appreciate Prince Andrik’s efforts was his father. During his rare visits back to New Reza, Andrik III would berate his son for a myriad of things: half-understood quibbles with the royal administration, not joining the army in the field (despite his appointment consigning him to the capital), perceived flaws in his character, among other things. Prince Andrik mostly took these haranguings with solemnity, but on one occasion in 1745, after the reported disappearance of Princess Arianne of Kaedrin (an act attributed to Ruberni patrols), the prince struck back with a fierce wroth he had not mustered before. The argument between the two grew to shouting, which enveloped all of the Ekaterinburg Palace. The next morning, Andrik III departed without a word, returning to the war. Whether father and son eventually reconciled is still a matter of open debate. While Andrik III’s final words for his son were magnanimous, it may have just been the product of near-death guilt. Prince Andrik seems to have harbored some ill-will for his father, but it never manifested into any acts against him or his memory. In public, and mostly still in private, the younger Andrik continued to show devotion to his father and never once strayed from serving his government. As had been the case with his mother, any retribution that Prince Andrik would take would solely be in the molding of his character and style of rule. Only Maya Alimar seems to have understood the depth of their tumultuous relationship, but she would never be forthcoming about whatever Prince Andrik may have told her of the early days of his youth. Maya Alimar’s place of confidence at the prince’s side eventually blossomed into love between the two. A romantic man at heart, Prince Andrik had long desired to have her be his future queen, but his father, whose marriage had been nothing short of a disaster, was incredulous at best. Prince Andrik’s marriage prospects, which theoretically were decided by his early betrothal to Arianne Helvets, were yet another subject of contention between father and son. Only the Kaedreni Princess’ disappearance in 1745 could resolve the situation, and Andrik III, too consumed with war to care, relented and permitted Prince Andrik to marry his dear friend. The pair were married on the 2nd of Tobias’s Bounty, 1745, in a respectable yet humble ceremony in the Basilica of Fifty Virgins (both had agreed that a luxurious, ostentatious wedding in the middle of a war would have been an insensitivity). The wedding between Andrik and Maya was important in effectively introducing the prince to the realm, which had been postponed by his cloistered childhood and assiduousness as regent. Even within the court of the Ekaterinburg, he had not been a particularly prominent fixture, as his shyness meant that he was reluctant to partake in festivities, dances, and the like. At his wedding, before the eyes of his subjects, he presented a tall and strong figure, though also a benevolent one. While the reception that followed saw the prince mostly keep to himself (Princess Maya did the better part of the talking, being far more used to the social responsibilities of the court), he was dignified and kind in his speech. Little did the newlyweds know that within two months, they would be King and Queen of Haense. The death of Andrik III on a hunting trip on the 9th of Harren’s Folly, 1746, came as a great shock for the realm. While it had been an open secret in the court of the Ekaterinburg that the king’s health was failing, he was still young and expected to live for several years longer. Prince Andrik, now King Andrik IV, was suddenly thrust to a position for which he had some training, and a wealth of knowledge to draw upon, but could never be truly prepared for. He was formally an adult, though just barely one, and his youth belied a lack of true experience. After overseeing his father’s expensive, well-attended funeral procession, the new king immediately summoned the Aulic Council so that his policy directions could be decided. Most advantageous to King Andrik’s inheritance was the continuity in government that his father had not enjoyed. As a result of the tumultuous times that he lived in, Andrik III was constantly having to shift the priorities of his reign in response to the rapidly-changing political situation as well as the fallout of father’s failures. Andrik IV had no such dilemmas, and thus he did not need to come to the throne at a tender age with a head full of ideas of sweeping reform. His role would be managing what his father had left him, both good and bad, a task made all the easier by dynastic and governmental stability. However, a smooth succession did not mean that these challenges would be overcome with ease. The Rubern War was obviously the most immediate focus of the government, as it came to envelop all facets of Haeseni life. Although Godric of Morsgrad had been mostly bottled up in Rubern, and could only strike out at lonely garrisons and wayward travelers with his large, restless army, he remained a dangerous threat in the field. His victory over the Imperial State Army at ‘Doran Ruric’s Folly’ in 1742 had nearly destroyed the Empire’s fledgling centralized military, which was saved only by General Darius Sabari’s skillful withdrawal. From that point forward, the Marshal of the Empire, Alren DeNurem, would refuse open battle with the AIS, instead opting to fight the Duke of Morsgrad in a war of attrition. Wilheim Barclay, the Baron of Freising and Marshal of Haense, opted to do the same on the quieter eastern front of the war. Not a military man, Andrik IV allowed the war to be run by his experienced officers. He would often ride to the encampments of the Brotherhood of St. Karl to review his soldiers, raise morale, and address the many problems that had arisen during the war (logistical inefficiencies, manpower misallocations, and corruption within the officer ranks), and on occasion would oversee skirmishes, but he did not interfere with the conduct of the war. His role was to support his generals through delivering them what supplies they needed, maintaining open lines of communication with the Imperial court and the courts of their fellow vassals, and resolving the inter-Haeseni battle between the “Centralists” and the “Feudalists”, which was the second most-pressing quandary he had inherited. The Duma had seen its powers curtailed somewhat by the charismatic and military authority that Andrik III had wielded, but also by the immediate danger posed by the AIS invasion in 1740-1741, and the subsequent long war that followed. To squabble with Andrik III as he held off a Morsgradi invasion would have been seen as tantamount to undermining the war effort itself, thus the battle between the Centralists, those who supported strengthening the Haeseni Crown and the central government, and the Feudalists, those who supported devolving the states powers to vassals and regional governing structures, had swung decisively in favor on the former. However, the prolonged stalemate in the war, along with the ascension of a young, far less authoritative Andrik IV provided the Feudalists with an opportunity to raise their grievances again. Lastly, the Empire had begun to see its own struggle between those who favored centralization, and those who favored regionalism. The Imperial Senate, the legislative body of the Empire, had a slim majority in favor of further centralization, citing the need of the Empire to marshal its resources fully against the Duke of Morsgrad. Senators from the Crownlands and Kaedrin had fully backed Emperor Peter III’s wholescale takeover of the Crownlands, abolishing old levies, noble privileges, and laws of serfdom. Local lords were replaced with representatives appointed from Helena, marking an end of the feudal order in the Crownlands. Reporting warily from the Imperial capital, the senators from Haense and Curonia expressed their concern that centralization would not stop at the borders of the Crownlands, and soon the vassals of the realm would all be tightly-constrained beneath Peter III’s governance. It would be in the context of these concerns that Andrik IV worked with the diligence he had shown his entire life. On his first day as King of Haense, he addressed the Duma, calling for tensions between the Centralist and Feudalist camps, which had devolved into brawls and (allegedly) outright assassination attempts, to be simmered in light of the still-ongoing war. Despite never being famed as an orator, his speech passed over well enough, for in the months preceding, his wife had helped coach him out of his stutter when speaking publicly. The two factions made a public show of unity before the king, each pledging themselves to him, promising to put the health of the realm above factional disputes. King Andrik accepted these shows of fealty, but in a later conversation with the Lord Palatine, he confessed that they were “the sort of theatrics that may stir one’s heart in the reading of a chivalric tale, or of my father’s reign, yet only serve to turn mine uneasily.” Bridging the divide would require a more substantial solution. As the central focus of the Centralist-Feudalist debate was the Brotherhood of St. Karl, and whether it needed to be augmented with feudal levies or subsume them, it was the area where King Andrik devoted the bulk of his attention. The retirement of the Baron of Freising from the marshalcy at the start of his reign provided the perfect opportunity for the king to wield some political muscle for the first time. Within the Feudalist camp, Lord Barclay’s son and heir, Erwin Barclay, was the preferred choice, as he was willing to cooperate with existing levies and prevent the Brotherhood from encroaching upon their existence. Within the Centralist camp and the officer corps, Otto Alimar, now the Prince of Muldav, was their favored candidate. King Andrik’s reluctance to ‘politicize’ the throne was soon to be tested against the reality that a consequential decision would have to be made. Prioritizing the perception of political neutrality within the monarchy, King Andrik enforced a compromise. Erwin Barclay, a competent officer in his own right, would be named Lord Marshal, but he would be required to implement a number of reforms favored by the Centralists (as well as King Andrik personally). To prevent corruption, high-ranking officers would be barred from participating in electoral politics: even so much as endorsing a candidate was expressly forbidden. Additionally, smaller levies, those deemed unfit to withstand even a small AIS patrol, were disbanded or incorporated into the Brotherhood of Saint Karl. To smooth over any remaining ruffles, lands and titles were distributed to some of the prominent lords in both camps. Sigmar Baruch, the Count of Ayr and a leading Feudalist, was granted the Duchy of Valwyck. Markus Kortrevich, the Lord Palatine and a leading Centralist, was named Margrave of Korstadt. Having papered over his first challenge, and addressing it sufficiently, it was only a matter of time before King Andrik was forced to adjudicate yet another matter from a long-unanswered question. In 1738, Karl Vyronov, the heir to Duke Lerald of Carnatia, was killed by bandits. This historical fact remains relatively uncontroversial today (surviving sources indicate that the problem of banditry throughout the Empire still had not been resolved), but the then-unclear circumstances of the death of the heir to such a prestigious and lucrative title was something of a mild sensation. No fewer than twelve investigations, all but two of them private, sought to uncover the ‘truth’ of Karl Vyronov’s death. At the center of these investigations was Robert Vyronov, his younger brother, who stood to gain from the elder’s death. The actual evidence was scant, but a combination of unfortunate timing (Robert’s other elder brother, Jan, died at the Battle of Hangman’s Bridge), and a great deal of sensationalism around House Vyronov, as shown by the long-discredited ‘Vyronov Conspiracy’, meant that when Robert Vyronov became Duke of Carnatia in 1742, the Empire was ripe to accuse him of having murdered one, if not both, of his brothers. Believing the case to be under Imperial jurisdiction due to Karl Vyronov’s death along the Haeseni-Ruberni border, the Imperial Archchancellor, Simon Basrid, personally ordered a renewed investigation. A combination of the ongoing war and the lack of physical evidence remaining meant that the investigation had to utilize prior work, thus making the process slow-going, but by 1747, the Imperial Office of the Attorney General believed that it possessed sufficient grounds to arrest and charge the Duke of Carnatia for the murder of his brother. The Duke’s arrest in the spring of 1747 led to an immediate uproar across Haense, as its people believed that the Imperial government had over-reached, not to mention that many within Haense thought the Duke of Carnatia to be innocent. Faced with a challenge to his jurisdiction and authority, King Andrik was pressured from nearly all sectors of Haeseni society to protest the Empire’s decision and demand that Duke Robert, as his vassal, be tried in Haense. Never the most decisive man, the king dithered. On one hand, he did not wish to risk upsetting his liege, and put the coordinated war effort in jeopardy. On the other hand, he did not wish to appear weak to his subjects. As the days dragged on, and the trial of the Duke of Carnatia began, the king continued to deliberate. Unfortunately for Andrik IV, his indecision resulted in the choice effectively being made for him. On the 8th of Harren’s Folly, 1747, the Duke of Carnatia was found guilty of murder and sentenced to death. His lands and titles were also confiscated by the Emperor. King Andrik, now contending with protests in the cities of Haense and an Emperor who by now had certainly overstepped his authority, scrambled to rectify the situation. Sending out a frantic flurry of letters and public missives, he confirmed the legality of the trial of the Duke of Carnatia, always adhering to the law, but also demanded that his lands and titles be returned to the Haeseni Crown. Disgruntled at being ordered about, but also not willing to needlessly aggrieve his largest vassal, the Emperor acquiesced. The controversy soon subsided as the war consumed everyone’s attention, but lingering tensions over King Andrik’s stumbles remained. With the tumult of the first year of his reign now over, Andrik IV now focused on regaining the favor he had lost with the Emperor and with his own subjects. He was by no means hated, but his insistence on compromise at every turn, while typically the best course of action, pleased no one. To the Centralists, he was too lenient with the Feudalists, who prioritized their welfare over that of the country. To the Feudalists, he was too willing to advance the agenda of the Centralists, who wished to run roughshod over the ancient rights and privileges of the nobility. To the government in Helena, he was an obstacle to their desires to centralize the whole of the Empire. To the people of Haense, he was far too willing to cede power to the Emperor and his ministers. Few people were a greater help to Andrik IV at this time than Queen Maya. A more ruthless and experienced political actor than her husband, she played a significant role in navigating the interpersonal relationships among the nobility, exploiting them to gain the favor of one house or another, thus keeping a balance among the factions. While the king preached unity in public, and forged compromises in the Duma when necessary to keep factionalism from limiting his government, the queen implicitly threatened, cajoled, and persuaded wavering vassals into retaining their support for the monarchy. The relationship between King Andrik and Queen Maya remains one of the more curious ones in Haeseni history. On the surface, the two could not be any more different. While the king had ardently followed law and custom throughout his life, the queen was more flexible (as evidenced by her childhood, where she would sneak into Rubern to learn axe-fighting). While the king spent his youth in the library, the queen spent hers within the courts of Alimar and Reza. Much like Andrik III and Queen Milena, the pair’s interests diverged significantly, but opposite of that infamously-volatile union, their differences strengthened the bond between them. A perfect example of this phenomenon comes with the practice of execution during Andrik IV’s reign. With one exception (in the case of a particularly notorious Morsgradi diplomat), King Andrik refused to wield the headsman's blade, deeming it sinful, brutal business. However, he also recognized its necessity in the sort of war that was being waged, where enemy morale and command cohesion needed to be broken. Queen Maya, with fewer morale scruples than her husband, volunteered to shoulder the burden. Her willingness to oversee the executions of captured enemies, around twenty seven in all, earned her a reputation for ruthlessness, one that, while well-suited for war, endeared few to her. At his wife’s expense, yet in a tacit agreement between the two, King Andrik was able to maintain his image as a paternal, merciful monarch. Even more politically gifted than her husband, Queen Maya was well-read in history, rhetoric, and theory. She went through great strain to shape the image of the monarchy, shaping the perception of House Barbanov from a dynasty that produced boorish, warlike kings into one of enlightened autocracy. Her role as an executioner helped emphasize the latter, while her husband’s public-facing role as a benevolent, reform-minded sovereign helped reinforce the former. While the war loomed large over the course of Andrik IV’s reign, which accounted for the many executions personally carried out by Queen Maya, it did not dominate every facet of government, as it had for his father. Free to pursue interests closer to his heart, he sought to remake the realm not through war, as his father and grandfather had, but instead through sound governance and ambitious domestic policy, as had been done by Otto II and Robert I. In 1748, renovations were planned for New Reza, which would beautify the grey, dull capital that had been built under the financial constraints that Andrik III had contended with in 1735. These improvements, which included defensibility (overseen by Tiberias Barrow), were financed in large part by a rationalized tax code, better-protected trade routes throughout the Empire, and a reduction in the budget towards the households of the various members of the royal family. To make up for the reduction in the Crown’s expenses, Andrik IV consulted several of Haense’s more successful merchants, namely those who had extensive ties to the markets of the Crownlands, which were experiencing unprecedented economic growth. One businesswoman, Hana Kovachev (a distant scion of the disgraced House Kovachev), advised the king to invest in the fledging CarringtonCo, as well as a number of other smaller enterprises that had been born under the liberal economic policies of Archchancellor Simon Basrid and his government. An early and important investor, King Andrik not only provided much-needed capital for what would become some of the Empire’s most important businesses, he also greatly expanded the personal wealth of House Barbanov. Always gracious to those he deemed competent subordinates, the king appointed Hana Kovachev as Lady Treasurer in 1750 for her services. In 1750, Ser Nikolaus Kortrevich, the faithful, long-serving Knight Paramount, was felled in a duel with his brother, Ser Rodrik Kortrevich, who had betrayed Haense for the Pertinaxi Empire on the eve of the War of Two Emperors forty years ago. In his triumph over his younger brother, the Knight Paramount had failed to notice the blade’s point that struck his side, causing him to succumb to his wounds hours later. Ser Tiberias Barrow was appointed to the Office of the Knight Paramount, but the Marian Retinue, deprived of their beloved and able leader, fell into a period of rapid decline, aided in part by a number of ill-timed deaths during the Rubern War. Other facets of Haeseni society would flourish or be born under Andrik IV, but the flower of Haeseni knighthood, which had propelled Andrik III to the height of his power, wilted during those years. A scholar first and foremost, Andrik IV initiated (though did not live to see the fruition of) a new era of learning and patronage for the arts and sciences. Mirroring the flourishing literary tradition that had begun to develop in Owynsburg (the new capital of Kaedrin) and Helena, New Reza began to evolve from a relatively poor, banal feudal city into the center of Haeseni high culture. The poetry of the famed Diedrik van Jungingen, while not yet at its zenith, found its voice during the reign of King Andrik. Otto the Tarcharman, perhaps the most prolific scholar the realm ever produced, collected, transcribed, and published a number of oral legends and myths from the Waldenian, Haeseni, and Raevir cultures that dated back centuries. The University of St. Charles, which had seen prospective students dragged into the Brotherhood of St. Karl, to feed the war effort, was now free to attract talented young minds to study, discuss, and publish within its halls. The internal stabilization and economic growth that Haense now found itself enjoying due to Andrik IV’s policies did much to alleviate the tensions that plagued the outset of his reign. The fragile unity government that had seemed under threat in his first days was now held firm by the cooperation between the Lord Speaker of the Duma, the Duke of Valwyck, and the Lord Palatine, the Margrave of Korstadt, who bridged the Feudalist-Centralist divide and brought their camps to a set of agreements on common principles. Some would continue to grumble about the king’s unwillingness to commit to backing a single faction, but as the Centralists acquired more power, and had a greater influence in directing the country, the fiery political debates that had once engulfed the Duma would subside. In foreign policy, where he needed to respond less to the factional politics of the realm, Andrik IV set about repairing Haense’s fraying relationship with the Imperial government. It was in this arena that Queen Maya again aided her husband. Instructing him on some of the more subtle necessities of diplomatic rhetoric, the queen ensured that he could communicate his policies in a way that never strayed from the truth, yet were exactly what the Archchancellor and his diplomats wished to hear. For his part, King Andrik was a wonderful host to the agents of the Basrid Ministry, and on the occasions where he personally met with the Archchancellor, the Crown Prince and Princess, or even the Emperor, he made for a brilliant conversationalist and a personable man. However, in an Empire now governed by reason and philosophy far more than the interpersonal relationships of the feudal era, personal charisma could not replace concrete policy. Andrik IV, who understood this well, gradually learned how to balance the competing demands of the Imperial government (ceding power to the state) against those of his subjects (preserving Haeseni autonomy). When in an audience with the Emperor or the Archchancellor, the king would stress the need for unity in the face of the AIS, while in private ceding nominal authority to the ISA on grand strategy and war-related infrastructure. When before the Duma, he would laud the independence of the Haeseni spirit, exemplified by his father, and point to the fact that his concessions to the Empire were minor, temporary, and unlikely to ever interfere with how Haense governed its affairs. It was far from a permanent solution, but the king and the Lord Palatine had agreed that preventing fissures that might cause a decisive swing in the war needed to be avoided at all costs. Peter III’s state visit to Haense in 1751, the first of any Emperor since Godfrey II, marked the culmination of Andrik IV’s work to mend Haense’s relationship with its lieges. Met with cheering crowds in New Reza, where just five years prior he may have been ripped off his horse, the Emperor was pleased with the warm reception of the people. Playing host brilliantly, Queen Maya prepared a number of ale-tastings, poetry readings, and theatrical performances, rather than the typical jousts and melees, to appeal to the cultural sensibilities and artistic interests of the Emperor and the members of his household. As delighted with the court of the Ekaterinburg as he had been with the public, the Emperor left Haense with a newfound appreciation for its non-material contributions to his Empire: “The landscape of one’s conscious lends itself to the depiction of a landscape of the lugubrious, where the stone-woven towers, just above the trees, mark the height of sophistication. I am pleased to know that the Petrine values have been imparted.” The period of Andrik IV’s rule also saw a repaired relationship with the Church, which had drifted towards the patronage and support of the Crownlands. As both a personal example of piety (the High Pontiff remarked that the king “inclined towards sin only in the incidental”) and a pragmatic diplomat, King Andrik craftily integrated the Church into Haense’s burgeoning institutions, appointing clerics to key bureaucratic posts and positions within the Brotherhood of St. Karl as chaplains. The support of House Barclay, which would come to produce a number of prominent holy men and women, proved vital in this endeavor, as the Margrave of Korstadt was at the forefront of encouraging families to send second and third sons to the Church. It was in this manner that, despite his youth, Andrik IV would simultaneously head off any challenges to his authority, which in turn freed his relatively ambitious domestic agenda. While ultimately constrained by a ballooning military budget to fight a way that was entering its second decade, with no clear end in sight, King Andrik initiated a series of reforms that would vaguely mirror the liberalizing, enlightened revolution occurring throughout the Petrine Empire. Arts, culture, history, and learning would capture a public interest that went beyond state sponsorship. Haense’s political culture, which had been transitioning away from feudalism, now shed off its last vestiges as violence was monopolized by the Brotherhood of St. Karl and political power and favor was found within the bureaucracy, courts, and Duma as much as it was in the army. The Haeseni Crown, which had historically been weaker than several of its vassals, accumulated land from the inheritance of childless lords and what mild conquests came from Rubern, bolstering the wealth and manpower that it could harness. Although it would only be an undercurrent of his reign, a development that would outlive him, Andrik IV presided over the beginnings of a wider transformation of Haeseni society, though even this was the culmination of many other political, economic, and cultural changes that were reshaping humanity. The feudal era, marked by power held firmly by local lords, who in turn would offer fealty to successively higher powers, gave way to the state as the paramount authority. This in turn saw war as a more deliberative and diplomatic effort than before, where complete conquest, which before had been the aim of nearly every major war, became a rarity. As a consequence, social advancement, once intrinsically tied to one’s skill-at-arms, could be achieved through other methods: business, scholarship, the royal court, law, electoral politics, etc., opening avenues for those outside of the nobility to find a place in high society. Even those who did earn acclaim through military success did so within the Brotherhood of St. Karl, which allowed for a more egalitarian officer corps that did not limit prestige to those who could marshal forces themselves. At the center of these changes, Andrik IV’s impact was most directly felt in the matter which was closest to his heart: scholarship. Although Helena would be the center of learning, philosophy, art, and politics within Arcas, New Reza quickly outpaced Owynsburg and Ves as learned and cultured minds found patronage from House Barbanov. In 1750, Haense conducted its most comprehensive census ever, directed by ethnologists and linguists that had studied at St. Charles University and were appointed by the king. The results of this census allowed the Lord Palatine to improve literacy in the peripheral towns and farming villages away from the capital. Acting on the king’s desires, he saw that a school was built in every village with a population above 500, and a library was built in every city above 10,000. The benefits were immediately apparent: 1760, the literacy rate in Haense, which half a century before had sat at 17%, had swelled to 44%. Despite the flurry of change that was at times at his direction, and at times as a consequence of trends that preceded him, Andrik IV always made time for his family. Determined to never leave behind a family as broken as the one he had been raised in, King Andrik often set aside his duties as king for his duties as a father. He and his wife enjoyed a loving relationship, unusual for the time, and aside from their personal commitment to each other as monarchs, they were personally close. While their closeness would not often make itself into the public sphere- where Queen Maya’s reputation for ruthlessness needed to be maintained- but in private they were each other’s confidants. In seven years of marriage, the two had five children When his first son, Otto Sigismund, was born in 1748, “he nearly sung every word from his lips, a ripe melody, as he announced the birth of the heir,” according to Ser Nikolaus Kortrevich. The birth of triplets in 1750 (Analiesa Reza, Alexandria Karina, and Amelya Valeriya) caused some distress, as the taxing birth of three daughters left Queen Maya bedridden for a month. The king, scared for her health, sat by her side day and night until she recovered. Their final son, Nikolas Stefan, was born in 1752. As a father, Andrik IV was doting and attentive. In his infancy, Prince Otto, in poor health, would often cry deep into the night. Instead of leaving his child to the care of a wet nurse, the king would take him to a balcony high up in the Ekaterinburg Palace, a place overlooking the city, where he would rock his son until they both fell asleep and were found by Queen Maya the next morning. His daughters, less noisy, would be rewarded with daytime walks along the battlements of New Reza, where King Andrik would tell them about the topography of the landscape, now accurately-measured by surveyors the realm had produced. They were too young to understand him, something the king seems to have known, but he wished to establish a bond with his children from an early age. A final episode of near-familial affection, if not truly an expression of family, was the king’s reunion with Princess Arianne of Kaedrin, in 1751. The princess, thought to have been killed five years before, revealed that she had escaped her captivity, but having suffered wounds in doing so, she was forced to find aid in a small village. Indebted to the villagers, and hearing of Andrik's marriage to Maya Alimar, she spent several years in relative obscurity. Taking up the sword in exchange for a life as a queen, she had defended villages in her father’s realm from the beasts that stalked the woods. Now, with her former betrothed secured in his seat, and the Kaedreni army in an assured enough position to defend the countryside, she wished to swear her sword to her old friend. King Andrik accepted, and the former princess became one of his close companions for the rest of his life. In a cruel twist of fate, it would be the king’s love for his family that would take his life. The Rubern War, which had been in a lull for the majority of his reign, saw heightened activity towards the end of 1752, as a desperate Godric of Morsgrad, running low on money, supplies, and political support from his allies, escalated his offensive aggression. Renewed assaults against Muldav and into the Crownlands, undertaken by armies larger than the scattered raiding parties, threatened to see many of Haense’s gains over the past twelve years reversed. Responding to this threat from the west, the Lord Marshal relocated the headquarters of the Brotherhood of St. Karl from New Reza to Nenzing, where he could exercise greater control over the response. The developments to the west eventually proved to be little more than an early alarm, as the Duke of Morsgrad’s fraying alliance proved unable to organize itself for a major offensive against Muldav, but the Haeseni army remained in the area for the winter, vigorously patrolling. 1753 brought the last recorded famine in Haense, though its range was limited. A craft strategist, if not gifted with his father’s aptitude for field command, Prince Marius had thoroughly studied herding Haeseni herding patterns. Over the course of 1752-1753, he ordered a number of targeted attacks on popular grazing areas, shepherds, and other farmsteads. The ensuing shortage of lamb, beef, pork, and chicken, important staples in the Haeseni diet, led to a brief period of famine that required King Andrik to purchase large quantities of grain from the Kaedreni to abate its effects. It was one of these patrols, a unit no larger than forty, led by one Vasily Agapkin, that soon found itself in Rubern on the 2nd of Sun’s Smile, 1753. There are conflicting accounts of how they found themselves amidst the enemy. According to the followers of Captain Agapkin, they had been surrounded by a larger party of Morsgradi soldiers just outside of Muldav. Brought back to Rubern as captives, they were forced to submit to the Duke of Morsgrad’s command, lest they be killed to a man. Others, some of them AIS soldiers, attested that Captain Agapkin and his unit willingly defected, hoping to leverage their usefulness for a hefty reward from the desperate AIS. The following events will demonstrate that the latter is almost certainly closer to the truth. Captain Agapkin, a longtime palace guard before his promotion, had an intricate knowledge of the Ekaterinburg, which soon surfaced in his conversations with Prince Marius of Rubern, the twenty one year old son of the late Prince Vladrick. Eager to prove that he was the same caliber of a strategic mind as his father, the young Prince of Rubern approved a plan for Captain Agapkin’s unit to return to New Reza, feigning having escaped captivity. Given their capture and the heavy casualties they incurred, they would take up posts in the garrison, as was policy in the Brotherhood of St. Karl, giving them a perfect opportunity to raid the Ekaterinburg Palace. In conjunction with this, the Prince of Rubern would launch several diversionary attacks across the Haeseni border, prompting the Lord Marshal to draw stronger reserves from the garrison, thereby removing critical forces that could stop Agapkin and his men. On the 8th of Sigismund’s End, 1753, Captain Agapkin and his unit returned to New Reza. Their story of captivity was believed, and they were assigned to garrison duties. Five days later, Ruberni forces launched a coordinated series of attacks against several towns and castles along the Haeseni border, while word from the west arrived, reporting that Duke Godric had led an army of 7,000 into the Crownlands, the largest host that had been seen in over a decade. Fearing that a consecutive campaign into Haense was near, the Baron of Freising did as expected, drawing up reserves from the capital and spreading his forces out to repulse the Prince of Rubern’s attacks. A stalemate developed over the course of two months’ fighting, but as news of Duke Godric’s success in the Crownlands continued to pour in, the Lord Marshal remained convinced that the limited incursions merely presaged a fall campaign. Receiving constant updates in New Reza, Andrik IV resolved to join his army in preparation of an attack on Muldav in the autumn, which his war council believed was the object of Prince Marius’ ambitions. Throughout the month of Owyn’s Flame, the king made preparations to hand off the government to the Lord Palatine, and he resumed his training in swordsmanship, which for years had only been a passing hobby for his exercise. Each morning, he, Queen Maya, and Prince Otto would stand by the gates of New Reza, reviewing new units that had been drawn from the capital to fortify Muldav. At the advice of Ser Tiberius Barrow, the king formed a personal guard, known as the Barayan Company, made of the fifty most trustworthy knights from the declining Marian Retinue. They would ride with him on campaign, though with all but ten of them already in the field, the king intended on meeting them at Nenzing. It was under these circumstances, a perfect spell of good (or bad) fortune, that Captain Agapkin made his move. At midnight on the 10th of Owyn’s Flame, 1753, he and forty supporters, intent on killing or capturing the king, stormed the Ekaterinburg Palace. While they entered without any resistance, they were dismayed to find that the king was not there. As roused servants, suspicious of the soldiers, began to search for help (and sneak out all but one of the royal children), the frantic group of deserters decided to take Queen Maya and Prince Otto hostage, which would give them leverage to negotiate their way out, sparing their lives if not their foiled plan, or lure the king into making a rash attack to save his wife and son. In a way, Andrik IV fell right into the trap. With his war council at the home of the newly-appointed Lord Palatine, Georg Alimar, son of Prince Otto Alimar, Andrik IV received news of the assault upon the Ekaterinburg Palace, he leapt into action, and, according to Arianne of Kaedrin, “showed to us an uncharacteristic fury not seen since his namesake, as he ordered every available soldier be assembled, so that he could retake his palace and save his queen and heir.” Some believe the king’s zeal to give battle lay in his own childhood, when he and his mother had been taken captive by violent rebels. “In the distance, could he see the same noose that hung just above his own head as a boy, now above his beloved wife, who had been the fount of his support, and his cherished son, whom he had spent so many nights rocking to sleep” Georg Alimar would later wonder aloud in a speech addressed to the Duma. Within an hour of the initial assault, sixty men and women had been assembled outside the Ekaterinburg, with their king, unarmored (his set was still in his chambers), at their head. With Ser Tiberias and Arianne of Kaedrin at his side, King Andrik led the charge into the palace. Several minutes of hand-to-hand fighting ensued as the desserts, behind hastily-assembled barricades, fought for their lives. With a warrior’s spirit, the king found himself in the thick of the melee, neither relenting nor retreating, as his own life was put at risk. Eventually, as numbers and skill came to bear, the deserters were chased into the hallways of the palace, where they were systematically hunted down by bands led by Ser Tiberias and Arianne of Kaedrin. Taking the few Barayan knights that were with them, King Andrik proceeded to his chambers, where his wife and son were being held. The few deserters who remained, led by Vasily Agapkin, attempted to bargain for their lives in exchange for the queen and heir, but in his wrath, King Andrik refused any negotiation, instead bursting into his chambers with the few knights at his side. In the chaos, Queen Maya was able to escape with Prince Otto, as no one had been assigned to execute them. With his wife and son safe, the king was urged to fall back by his men as the remaining deserters were subdued, but he refused. Instead, as the last of the traitors were felled by his men, the king entered single combat with Captain Agapkin. Urging his men to stay back, King Andrik dueled the leader of the deserters with a speed and brilliance he had not shown before, according to all eyewitnesses. With silence falling across the palace as the last of the deserters were slain or captured, only the ringing of dancing steel filled the halls as the two fought. However, the king’s newfound deftness with the sword was not enough to overcome the skill of Captain Agapkin, who for all his faults had a long career as a proven soldier. In the course of the fighting, King Andrik was slashed and stabbed repeatedly, while his blade found only the skillful parries of his foe. It was at the height of the fighting that King Andrik, slowing from his wounds, allowed an opening to his chest. Seeking to end the king’s life with a pierce to the heart, Vasily Agapkin thrust his blade at his exposed chest. Gasps rose and soldiers surged forth as it seemed the brigand’s sword had skewered the king, but the screech of clashing metal raised above it. The deserter stumbled back, stunned, as did all others in the chamber, as King Andrik remained afoot, undaunted. A cross he wore around his neck, given to him by the High Pontiff, Pontian III, as a sign of gratitude for his services to the Church, had rebuffed the traitor’s sword. Mustering the last of his strength, Andrik Barbanov swept with his own blade, catching his foe in the neck as he staggered backwards. Vasily Agapkin, he leader of the deserters, captor of Queen Maya and Prince Otto, then fell dead, choking on his lifeblood until he lay still. A moment later, the king gently set aside his sword, then collapsed. He was rushed to his bed, and the physicians of the court were brought to his side, but his wounds, plentiful and grievous, were certainly fatal. Clinging to life for a few weeks longer, fighting with his father’s resolve, the king ensured that the functions of government would not flounder in his absence. An uneasy regency was established, wherein the Lord Palatine, Georg Alimar, would oversee domestic and foreign affairs, Ser Tiberias Barrow would oversee the prosecution of the war, and Queen Maya would manage the household, continue her husband’s enlightened initiatives, and oversee the raising of Prince Otto. After a few final matters of government were arranged, he forbade any but his family, Arianne Helvets, and Ser Tiberias to visit him. In his last days, Queen Maya, grieving for her husband’s inevitable end, never left his side. Prince Otto, in a marked change from his infancy, shed no tears, though his sorrow was evident. Thrice, Arianne Helvets and Ser Tiberias begged forgiveness from their king for failing to have saved his life: as was always the case with King Andrik, he acted magnanimously, telling them that there was nothing that needed to be forgiven. Holding back any signs of the terrible pain that he endured, he spent his final week with his family, praying with his daughters, having his sons read to him, and imparting his final wishes with his beloved wife. Surrounded by the young family he had made, he gently passed into the night on the 22nd of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1753, at the age of twenty four. With his death being an inevitability, his funeral the next day was well-organized and thoroughly prepared ahead of time. While he may not have been the great champion that his father was, King Andrik had done well for his people, and he was widely-mourned throughout the realm, and the wider Empire, upon his death. Crowds of tens of thousands gathered around the Basilica of Fifty Virgins as he was finally laid to rest. His death, at far too young an age, could not have been celebrated for its heroic manner, though an oration by Arianne of Kaedrin succinctly captured the accomplishments of his reign. “He leaves us too young, but good men as he, righteous in conduct, pious in heart, have an early place at the side of God. We may question what legacy he will leave behind, having so short a period to do so, but I question the logic that speaks to a necessity to glory, to have reached the heights of his father, for in pursuing it may lead one to the depths of his grandfather. He has right-footed our kingdom, continued the good policies of his grandfather, and instituted necessary reforms of his own, which have put our realm upon the gilded path. We succeed him in spirit, and it will be our responsibility to see that the Haense that he dreamt of, the Haense that is now coming alive before our eyes, is fulfilled. He died to keep the future, may we live to see it be.” For as optimistic as her words were, they could not entirely cut through the sorrow, nor the uncertainty. The realm had been set aright- Andrik III had seen to that- but the ascension of a child to the throne was always a matter that caused concern. In the west, Duke Godric was directing his most successful campaign in the Crownlands since 1742, while Prince Marius, desperate to find victory in the war, had marshaled what forces he could in Rubern. A final confrontation would come, and while the Empire was firmly winning the war, all it took was one disaster to shape the course of the war. Assassinations, raids, skirmishes, remained a threat for the lives of many, and as the death of Andrik IV proved, those in high places could not be assured of their safety. Would the boy that now watched as his father, who died so he could live, fulfill what his predecessors had begun, or would all of the sacrifice, all of the bloodshed, be in vain? Dravi, Andrik IV ‘the Good’ 9th of Owyn’s Flame, 1729-22nd of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1753 (r. 9th of Harren’s Folly, 1746-22nd of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1753) O Ágioi Kristoff, Jude kai Pius. Dóste mas gnósi ópos sas ékane o Theós. Poté min afísoume na doúme to skotádi, allá as doúme móno to fos tis sofías kai tis alítheias. O Theós na se evlogeí. The reign of Sigismund II shall be covered in the next volume of The Winter Crows.

Valentin prepares to host a joust for the future monarchs of the Empire!

Where before the battle, the lance may have caused Valentin to crumple to the ground, having emerged from it victorious, with a kill to his name, he now lifts it abreast as he walks to a nearby stream so it may be cleaned.