ferdaboy

LOL

Upon its arrival, it was understood that the dinghy only came for those that had unraveled themselves too far to turn back. It came for the intruder, drifting from the waters to the shore. The boat was composed of no natural materials, as the intruder understood it, but rather of a reflective surface that caught light from the stars above and reflected its light onto the water. The intruder stood at the edge of the shore, catching glimpses of himself ripple across the reflective surface of the boat. The mirror-like surface of the boat was warm to the touch, as if it had sat in the sun for hours, yet when the intruder looked up, he saw only the blue-greyish hues of a sunless sky. He stepped into the boat, and grabbed hold of the oars, careful as to not tip the measly boat over. With a single push of the oars, he began drifting away from the shore. The current took him immediately, guiding him into the horizon. The intruder rowed until time became meaningless, until the ache in his arms was the only rhythm, the only measure he could rely on. The sky above never seemed to change, keeping its melancholic hues throughout his journey, only the odd ray of light seeping through and reflecting from the boat’s surface. Yet, as he rowed, the mirrored-surfaces of the boat grew crowded. These surfaces shimmered with movement, no longer reflections but windows, then they were doors. Faces flickered before him, his children, old and gaunt, eyes tired from waiting. His son, calling him from a garden he never wished to explore. His wife, silent at a feast hall long abandoned. The boat shook as these reflections leaned closer, men he might have been. One spoke apologies to a daughter that no longer believed in him, the other held a child with steady hands and laughter in his voice. Visions of what he could of been, what he should of been, and what he had been came to him. Yet the worst of them all, didn’t speak at all, and only stared at him with eyes devoid of love, sunken with the ache of shame. They assaulted his mind, his emotions. The grief of it all nearly paralyzed him, for he understood and lived through all of the visions that came across the reflective-surface of the boat. His breathing intensified and he felt his stomach turning, wrenching himself away from the stares to face the water. Yet the intruder found no respite in the water. There, he saw what pained him more than the other visions. There, he found only his reflection, as mundane as any other. He saw only what was bound to repeat itself. His face burned with the shame of what he had been, of what he knew he was bound to be once more. Without warning, the sky flared with light. As he looked above, the sun tore through the sky. It descended, roaring silently with perfect, blinding heat. As it came to him, the visions around him began to shatter. In that moment he felt not punishment, not forgiveness, but relief. He reached for it with a trembling hand, arm stretched as if to touch the descending star itself. As his fingers brushed its surface, his mind began to swell with promises of a second chance. He knew that if he could just grasp it, even for a moment, that he could just begin anew.

Name: Otto Affiliation: Burgundy Relevant titles/aliases : n/a

“There are no Crows left in Norland” muttered Josef upon noticing the lack of his nephew’s signature. With a sigh, he filed away the document and wondered what fate had fallen Joren. Regardless of what had become of the last King of Haense, he prayed for his wellbeing.

VE DENLICHTE NIKIRALA OE TRIEK THE HOUSE OF GALAHAR “And Owyn recanted the Askanites, ‘Do you not remember the words of your sire, that none shall ever take the north without the favor of your Maker?’” The Confessions of Eldreden (3:21) THE NORTH FALLS. These are the words of Marius I, the namesake of my brother, your father, written some four-hundred years past in the wake of the Great Northern War. He and his armies were routed first at Elba, then from Vasiland by the Courlanders. His loss was total, yet he fought with honour. He led all his people into the lands of Marna, where they licked their wounds as one. I presume this to be your intent with this “Karoslund.” Know that there is no shame in defeat. It was not long ago that the children of Edel laid low the Heartlandic Empire beneath the banners of Sigismund III. And it was his son, Karl III, who crushed the Royalist Orenians on the fields of Acre. Aleksandr II destroyed the Burgundyist host utterly in his campaigns in the Midden. Had the sons of the sons of the sons of our enemies drowned in their guilt, Hanseti and Ruska would stand a thousand years more. But it was not to be. They maintained their dignity, their faith, and their will to fight. Yet you, unlike our enemies and our forefathers, have forfeit the honour of your great house and the spirit of your people. You have yielded the ancestral styles of our dynasty. You have sworn yourself and our house to apostates enthralled by wicked gods. You betray the faith of our fathers by tarnishing our sacred lineage with the unspeakable act of apostasy. It was our honoured ancestor, Saint King Otto II, who marched in crusade against the Nordlings and their Red Faith. And now it seems his efforts were in vain. But these acts, you did with no crown. Know that as I write this, there is no feud between us. You fought, and you lost. It is the way of things. You shall forever be my kin, but I cannot bring myself to follow you into the waste. I am the eldest of our line, and I shall not kneel to a Nordling. I shall not swear oaths in the absence of my GOD, and I shall forever sing the praise of the Prince in Black. And so I have chosen to remain in the land of my birth. On this day I name myself Josef Stanimar, patriarch of the House Barbanov-Bihar-Galahar. I make no claims to the titles yielded by the House of Barbanov-Bihar. I shall be styled Baron of Ghaestenwald, the holding of my mother, and I shall rule from my seat on the Isle of Maenvestiyaeo beneath the banner of Burgundy. Upon my death, all I hold shall be given unto Vasilia, whom I hereby name my legitimate daughter and heir. In some ways you are a better man than I, Joren. You have endured the greatest of hardships. You have spilled blood, and bled for our kingdom. For this I shall always respect you. But I shall never again be ruled by you. GODAN BLESS THE HOUSE OF GALAHAR. GODAN PRESERVE THE KINGDOM OF BURGUNDY. SAINT KARL PRAY FOR US. THE DARK NIKIRALA IS COME. HIS LORDSHIP, Josef Galahar, Baron of Ghaestenwald, Lord of the Isle of Maenvestiyaeo On this month of, VZMEY AG HYFF, 577 EHR SIGMUNDA.

it already is for u bro

Kenswey, first Thegn of Nordengrad, rolled in his grave. He thought back to his home, destroyed by Rurikid politics and infighting. He had hoped the cycle would end, yet it seemed it would never.

Jealousy festered in the Oracle’s heart, a bitter rot that threatened to consume him. He knew with certainty that he would never be mourned as Villorik was. He had been the father Sigmar never had. The father Josef could never be. Yet within the depth of his selfish heart, there lingered the Little Oracle. The boy that Josef had once been, that stood before Villorik with awe. The boy that had defied the Patriarch and ventured into the crypt of a necromancer. The boy that had dreamt of joining the White Comet. Josef, the Oracle felt little at the Patriarch’s death. But the Little Oracle, the child buried within him, mourned

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