Eryane

"Cowards will always choose themselves and their survival first," a young Arabella muttered under her breath as she heard the news. "Siding with those who would murder their brothers and sisters, and them too without remorse if they had the chance." She, despite her seemingly patriotic words, had kept a bag packed by the door. Having heard nothing from the incumbent regime, her fears had worsened and she was not naive to the truth - she simply refused to accept collaboration in what growingly felt like the inevitable. That is, for now.

As the streets remained silent and the common folk stayed in their homes, windows shut and curtains drawn, a blonde-haired baseborn girl of sixteen years roamed the streets in her own quietude. It was late at night by then, with only lanterns and candles to light to ward away the darkness. Arabella tenderly kept a rag to her nose as blood dripped from it as a consequence of the dry, airy night. As the rush of blood slowed, she pulled the worn cloth from her nose and watched as a collection of papers scattered across the empty city square. Perhaps it was a missive from the king, who she long awaited word from for a hint of solace. The letter was signed by another cousin of her Novellen (albeit hers tainted) blood, Alexandros Casimir. With a talent in unrestrained curiosity, she lifted the parchment close enough to read. And there was a longing she felt. Together, the Balian heir had written as his final word to the Orenian populace. Together. She sobbed, fell to her knees; the girl was not old enough to know a time where that togetherness existed within the complete Orenian society. She did not truly even know what it meant to begin with, or if it was a word with empty meaning and no true fulfillment to be given with it. What would today look like if yesterday had been different? What would tomorrow look like, if she chose to follow the path that Balian aristocracy beckoned for? Was this simply a petty political scheme to manipulate the scared common people who knew no better than to decipher deception? Or was it genuine concern? She could not tell as she wiped the tears from her cheeks. Another night, she would give it another night, and hope the best to come for those of her young generation.

Although amidst a series of travels abroad throughout the lands of Almaris, Ithirae of Celia'nor was able to collect a few bits of regarding the state of her homeland - among them, this. The publishing of the non-aggression pact made her smile, and she went into the depths of the small tent she stayed in to write Valyris and Illarion. So the board shifts and changes with the tides of history, and we must learn to read - to our utmost abilities - what the future holds ... And she continued, until she sent it off when she found a post down the road.

HOMELAND When I was much younger than I am now, I heard people echo this word all around me. They reminisce of the rolling fields and bustling pristine capital city and towns on its outskirts, the glistening manors perched not far from the main road, and the palaces that struck them with awe. Work for your homeland, fight for your homeland, die for your homeland. And what do you do - how do you choose - when your homeland fights itself? What comes of the word, how far does homeland stretch when constricted by infighting? It feels as though the luxury of this once far-reaching term in the context of Orenian society was robbed from me. Those older than me knew a time when there was not tension, perhaps not peace in the foreign sphere, yet at least little friction between the Orenian peoples. I was born and raised in internal conflict, amidst the Brother’s War after the dissolution of the empire, as were others of my generation. We have never known peace like our parents have, and it is questionable even if our parents knew it either. Can we not, as Orenians, come together as one alongside a governmental regime that listens closer to the will of the people, than to destroy our homeland in its entirety? I ask this of Acre, of the House of Novellen, of us all. Why is it that Oren must end, the Oren we have built, the Oren our ancestors died for? Why must we bring a conclusion to our customs and cultures, our community? I fail to understand the incessant need to bring the concept of nation that brings us together to its knees, to dissolve it, when it can be made better and we can put to rest the needless bloodshed of our own kin. Have we not killed each other enough already? We have seen kinslaying in the imperial family, brothers killing brothers, to that in our own fields. I cannot urge enough that there be some referendum, some conference, of the Orenian populace in its entirety. Dare I say regime change, but not the end of our home. If it is truly the end of our nation that the majority yearns for, then we shall see then rather than to murder one another viciously. There is never any honor in murdering those of your own nation, your brothers and sisters. We all, as Orenians, know that the true power is not derived from the miraculous nature of our rulers but from the people itself that uphold it. This rebellion should be an awakening, as was the Brothers War, that elites bleed red like commoners. To the Haeseni who watch as Orenian blood is spilt, mayhaps unsure of where to stand or what to do, please do not forget that we are as human as you and do not deserve the destruction of our homeland - as you did not, in the times before when Haense stood at the brink of death. I ask that you do not aid in the end of our home, as we did not with yours many years ago with the Rubern War. There is a chance that we, as humans, may prosper as two equal nations. There has always been a chance, I believe and pray that all have always known this potential to have existed, even if our rulers have not before been willing to take it because of their own grievances. I hope that one day I shall see my homeland in its calm, peaceful state once more that is no longer driven by chaos- a homeland that is willing to cooperate with its foreign neighbors rather than exploit them; a homeland that can flourish in its multicultural origins and have an age of tranquility without having to be removed from the map; a homeland named Oren, without fear being struck down by its own brothers and sisters within. PRO DOMO ET PATRIA, Arabella of Providence

"Let's hope that these peoples and their king have the sense in them to be wise about their next moves," Ithirae said to Illarion, as she spun about a bit of honey with a teaspoon until it dissolved in her tea. @VoxyNoir

Upon finding her sister - Valyris Wynasul - in the Celian palace, Ithirae gave her but a simple nod of her head not long after the release of the missive, one of subtle approval. She'd go deeper within the royal halls, then, in search of Illarion to advise on these new people's smooth integration into their nation.

Amidst the Celian streets, an auburn-haired elfess, Ithirae Wynasul, curiously eyes those who claimed to hail from the Akaln'riv family, with subtle observation and intrigue after having heard of the family's values and history that had spread in recent days. She hoped the best to come from them, for the prosperity of their nation.

"To our united success," Ithirae Wynasul said to her eldest sister, Valyris - hoping to see the success for the newly elected High Prince of Malinor, as she heard the celebrations and good wishes all around her. @Cepheid

From my own personal experience with this, I cannot agree more especially with this particular statement that I see you mention a lot throughout the post. Nectorist and I weren't even spoken to at all when the two of us got banned, as well as most of our other leaders in Oren across the board. We just tried to log on and that's how we learned. No communication, nothing. If there was such a high care for "roleplay" over "ooc", I'm not sure why admins are so okay with seeing nations thrown into turmoil over ooc issues because the NL/s broke a rule (or in this case it feels really confusing if Twi even broke a rule(?)) instead of alleviating as much ooc chaos from the community as possible. I also agree that NLs shouldn't receive "special treatment" but they should be spoken to before a ban, or at least to prepare the rest of the community. It is less about the NL, and more about the community that they lead. Whether people like it or not, an NL being banned suddenly does throw a community into chaos and confusion - that's any leader anywhere. admins please communicate more with NLs in general please let them know your thoughts or if it does come down to it - just help prepare a community for a ban

A curious young traveller takes ahold of the missive regarding the upcoming festivities in place within the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska. At first she hesitates on the basis of war, yet she does not toss the paper away. Arabella stows it into a satchel for safe keeping, and continues on with her little adventures.

Anastasia sleeps peacefully from wherever it is that she remains now, knowing that although she may not have drawn the line at the deaths of many in battles and wars, Canonists and all, she did draw the line at adultery - and animal cruelty.

THE EVILS OF TRUTH "Three things cannot be long hidden: the sun, the moon, and the truth." ~ 1862 “We must speak,” uttered the aster-clad woman, of onyx hair and distinguished scarred features. Across from her, a broadly built soldier-like man inclined his head. The two whose reign started with chaos continued with it, and their faces told the story of it: the occasional greyed hairs that fell in front of the empress's eyes, or the wrinkles that collected on the emperor's skin. It is always an interesting question: how does someone sleep at night, knowing all of the deaths on their hands? How can a person make such decisions, knowing hundreds will be sent to their end? For good or for evil, no matter, the decision weighs heavily. The two departed from the echoing chamber of the throne room and across the hall. Servants passed by, rushing with platters as quietly as a mouse. They were meant to be left unseen, twisting and turning through the crevices of the palaces unknown yet the empress took particular notice of them that day. There, at the table in the room opposite the great hall, the Archchancellor had been sifting through a large stack of papers in front of him. There is no stop, only work, continuous work, only work. Joseph had taken brief notice to the imperial pair as he nodded them along. There was no need to practice such formalities in the comforts of a secluded room, where no lingering eyes could watch their interactions as researchers to their subject. It had been some years into their reign; greyed skinned of exhaustion was a common cosmetic of all officials who had been following the Aster monarchs through their tumultuous reign, like when a courtier would color their lips red and blush their cheeks. Schisms, war, death, betrayal. Assassinations and their attempts. How many times had it been now that she dodged death? At first, the weight of the world's eyes upon her had caused such intense convulses of pain in her heart that she could barely manage enduring a public speech without intense panics that controlled her way of thought. To see the people devastated without any internal reform left them all in a losing game pulled by a string - a string of international relations and the whims of foreign influence. Would there ever be peace in her time, as the youthful her had desired? As Anastasya Ruthern desired, yet Anastasia I was forced to resist? As the two climbed the stairs of the Tower of Sir Walter, a singular word rang in her head akin to a mother's lullaby to a sleepy child. Abdication. Abdication. Abdication. Abdication. Anastasya, why do you not abdicate and save thousands of lives? Why do you bring so many to early graves? Do you care not for what the nuns taught you, the values you were raised with? You fight religion. You fight your God. You fight yourself. She shook off the thought. Already, she had gone too far to look back, and had no assurance from the enemy nations that abdication would do much of anything besides boost their egos. Perhaps years ago, she could have trusted Sigismund III when she was still friends with Moliana, too. Yet now, after having begged him for peace and seeing him ignore it, she knew his words and promises meant nothing but more death and turmoil for her people. To abdicate would only satisfy him, and do nothing for her people. She could not think of herself, her salvation. She had to consider the well-being of her people. Likely she would be damned to hell, to a fiery or freezing eternity, but they would not. You are evil, cruel, ruthless, a voice so similar to her own whispered from the depths of her consciousness. Her reflection looked back at her, a shimmer in the pane windows. A scarred woman stared back at her with resentful eyes. Were they wrong to compare her to the demons of the Scrolls? To think of the remarks from John VIII, who claimed her to be the spitting image of Saint Julia many moons ago, was so silly now. Beyond the edges of the tower, Orenian peoples and perhaps foreign and local merchants went about their daily business. Courtiers crossed the small bridge leading towards the imperial palace, and their escorts were close behind or flanking near their side. The sea of buildings, particularly their colorful roofs, painted a picture before her very eyes. The air was colder, although not too much so, this high. Philip had also been watching the passerby, and what itched his thoughts brought such curiosity to her. Anastasia focused on every inch of otherness besides her thoughts, besides the very reason as to why she climbed all those steps and ladders to a place of utter solitude. For if someone was to hear this, all would be doomed. Or perhaps she had been hoping to have a beautiful sight of what they had built before she was killed. "It was me," she said. “We never spoke of what happened in those haste months. We only acted, without speaking often to one another. Yet I admit it. Perhaps you knew. Perhaps you assumed. It was me who ordered the death of your father, and me alone.” Philip did not turn to her, nor question what she had meant by that. There was only silence from the two, and the wind filled the emptiness between them. "Although it was a letter to Mary, the governess. As far as I am aware, Olivier was not involved. I do not know what happened beyond the letter's delivery, who was spoken to, who was there." Metal smoothly crept out of its resting place and a cold weight brought shivers across all her skin. Her eyes laid on the city as she thumbed a pocketed letter; this letter which had been worn until the script was almost unreadable. A particular corner of the paper had been rubbed a strange tint as her fingers used it as solace for her nerves. The paper was unsigned, unfinished, yet addressed to "Victoria" - a little girl with an unwanted first name by her mother and bestowed by her stubborn father. Anastasia turned, and moved until the point of the sword pressed gently to the soft skin of her throat. Without saying, she beckoned him to do it. To end it. To send her to the place where she would be, one day, whether it was now or in several months, years. Yet it was not regret that she felt in her heart. She had never regretted writing the letter, for the future she forged for her children and the Orenian people mattered more than her guilty conscience. Guilt, disgust, resentment - yes. Regret? No. Death would be sweet in this moment, her life taken by the blood of who she took from. Eye for an eye, perhaps some may call it. Do it, she wanted to shout, Kill me. The thought alone brought her relief, as her shoulders dropped and her heart no longer raced. What happened from then on would no longer concern her, and Philip would reign as a monarch greatly as he had before. It was not the leaders, after all, who made things run, who made the economy stable, who housed the people. The leaders only inspired, and the empire had a spare. Inspiration of the masses didn't need to come from a duo, it never did before. Even under the reign of Joseph II and Anne I, they managed to uphold the country on their own. The sword was sheathed, and all of her relief left with the sound of the metal slipping into its scabbard. She wanted to scream, to rise further anger in him to lash out and strike her down, yet the subtle anger that was left in his eyes subsided. He hadn't anger in him at all; it was duty and necessity, perhaps knowing that the past was unchangeable and the future was where all value should lie - only speculation. His movements were slow, calculative, and he had no intent on avoiding eye contact with her either. He made certain to meet her eye, as she did his, with no hate or resentment as she had imagined in her nightmares when she admitted the truth to him again and again in an endless cycle with thousands of different endings. There was a mutual understanding that remained between them then, but the feeling of love and a joyful marriage was gone. This was not unfamiliar, however. They had let go of this feeling willingly, together, when they stepped on the ship to send them to Almaris. As they discussed the potentials and plans of revolution and the ship gently rocked closer to their homeland, the happiness sucked out of the room like clean air in an enclosed space. These were the sacrifices for changing the course of an entire nation to be that of something it never was before; of an empire whose foundations were so deeply rooted in slow bureaucracy and gentle military, in calculative actions and subtle outspokenness - especially in relations abroad. Philip climbed down the ladder and into the tower, where she could see him no longer. She followed soon after. "Are you well, Your Imperial Majesty?" Joseph asked as she passed by the table. This time, he stood from his place of work. Anastasia opened the letter from her hand, and stared down at the disappearing script of her mother's cursive; Dearest Victoria, Childe, you know I was remiss upon hearing of your betrothal - I do not blame you for failing to tell your poor mother, however, given my reaction when I did learn of it. Please, though, think of your own future - with Philip, you shall be shackled by the bonds of my relatives - and I fear you shall find yourself damaged in the process. With The letter was unfinished and unsigned. "Yes," she affirmed with a nod. "I am well, thank you."

~ * ~ To the imperial court and potential sponsors, For the upcoming Astercalia season, it is my hope to receive a sponsorship so I may partake in the events of debuting into imperial society. My name is Arabella, and I am almost fifteen years of age. Because of my parentage, I cannot participate by my name alone but perhaps I can with the kind help of another. I promise to represent my sponsor and their family’s name to the best extent of my abilities. I plan to release some of the plays and poems I have been writing for the season, and I can write a play of any genre and story for whoever sponsors me as well if they so wish - or poems, too. One day, I would like to be a real playwright, but for now being a debut for the season is all I can hope for. Please write to me if there is any interest in sponsorship on my behalf. With gratitude, Arabella Aster

OPERATION AUGUSTINE "When you are a mother, you are never alone in your thoughts." 1849 The Duchess of Furnestock woke in the midst of the night with only an hour of sleep. That singular hour had been the most significant amount of time in weeks she dedicated to the endeavor that is resting. Since her first footstep upon Almaris soil, she had refrained from eating. Anastasia claimed it was fasting and a display of her piety, and perhaps some of it was. The strength she was required to display in the face of the world would not allow her a moment’s respite; she could show no weakness. Yet each time her eyes clamped shut in hopes of acquiring a moment’s slumber, or even amidst her prayer in the San Luciano cathedral, the faces of her children as they left Ulyssa port haunted her. These faces had been frozen. Catherine was five years old; scared, trembling, yet stalwart for the little princess who was being sent off by her parents to attend to her title’s royal duties. This was a falsity of the mind, a trick, for her cheeks likely hadn’t remained as chubby and her auburn brown hair had grown in length. Victoria clutched a wooden sword as if it had been Anastasia’s own hand - she could see it still, she could see it always. Peter outlined the embodiment of royalty, as much as could be possibly exhibited in a child. Anastasia tossed in her bed sharply, as if an assassin entered her private chamber in the Palazzo Aggarde and twisted a serrated knife into her stomach. Her throat constrained as guilt strangled her and suffocated her of any air. She prayed that their eyes still remained the same; their big, beautiful eyes full of wonder and excitement; joy and happiness - and horror, abandonment, as the ship continuously left when each child was of age. They are in the palace, her consciousness reminded her with temptation. They are in the Augustine. Sweat poured into her palms and anxiety rushed through her bones. Whilst Philip slept at her side, Anastasia slipped the covers and blankets off of her and grabbed a tattered blue robe to cover her nightgown. Her heart sank as Philip stirred. And she released a stiff sigh as he hadn’t woken to the sound of her rustling. She could no longer feel her fingers and wondered how the blonde wig had snugged its way onto her hair, how the cosmetics were horribly plastered onto her face, how she appeared as the handmaiden Angelica without remembering any of her preparation. Feeling came back into her hands, tingling bit by bit until touch was as real as it always had been to her. Then she was out the door, breathing erratically, unrhythmically, and hadn’t remembered her paces to the grandeur exit that led to the outdoors, where a beautiful garden and the city of San Luciano had been. The buildings looked as if they were from a novel now, painted, rather than a realty as they flashed by. Her heart pounded through her chest and thumped in her ears. By God, she could feel the blood pulsing in her fingertips as she reached for the reins of a horse she stole from the stables. Something had taken over her, an instinctive feeling that she must find her children. They would be held hostage. They would be prisoners. Not my children. Not my children. Whether the ride had been short or long, she hadn’t known. The unruly men, bandits, she passed on the street had not brought her any worry as she rode past them without a chance to see more than a fast blur of their muddied expressions. My children. Her thoughts were split, barely managing coherent sentences or phrases. The gates of Providence were upon her now as she rode up the stairs that dipped her mind into nostalgia unlike any time before. The pristine, pearl white walls were not as welcoming as they had once been; now they held her children behind them. Now they were an obstacle. A kind woman she could not remember the name of let her inside - let Angelica inside, that is, not the Duchess - where had the horse gone? She moved forward, step after step after step. The streets were longer than she remembered, and greyer. The buildings were taller, the houses were brighter. Or were they duller, grimmer, given what was to occur in only a few saint’s days? The elongated walls of the imperial palace beckoned into her view. These walls were now the iron bars of a prison, in which it held her children as its hostages. She moved down from the horse and tied it, somewhere - she had not known where, as her feet led her onwards into the courtyard. A red-headed child halted her. “You look lost!” The little princess exclaimed. Underneath her arm was a book tucked away, and on her face was a beaming smile. Anastasia grasped the shoulders of her child as she rushed forth, frightening the young girl, as the Duchess fell to her knees. “Katyushka, Katyushka,” the mother cried out in a pained whisper, her fingers tightly holding onto her shoulders still. “We must go. Quiet now. It is me. It’s Mother. I’m home, and Father is too. Come now, let’s go. Where are your siblings?” Confusion sprawled over the princess’s features; happiness, relief — yet confusion more than anything else. “But Father, he died—” “He is alive, Katya, it was fabricated by your great grandfather—” “We buried him, we had a funeral—” “It was all a lie!” She muttered to her daughter in a hushed voice, yet it raised in intonation as her voice, in her pleas, broke. “Listen, Katya,” she ran her hands over the back of her head, combing desperately through her hair in some attempt to comfort yet with little to provide in her own fears of what was to come and swirling thoughts of the danger ahead. “What’s going on here?” A courtier approached, seeing the blonde woman grasping onto the royal before her, perhaps with —from a perspective of the unknowing eye— a strange unwillingness to let go. Anastasia froze, her entire body stiffening at the foreign voice behind her. When she rose, she stood upright and proper at the princess’s flank. And she prayed. There was a brief silence, and they could hear the gentle chirp of the insects in the early morning. “We’re going through a night stroll, sir, and I got a bug in my hair,” the child displayed a smile. The man, whatever be his occupation, only offered the two a little nod and continued on. The knees of the duchess crashed into the hard cobble as she lost her balance as soon as there was the sound of a closed door behind her. “My sweet Katya, I have never needed you to listen to me more than I do now.” The thick smoke that consumed her head began to dissipate and her thoughts came to her in precise sentences rather than jumbled words. “You and your siblings will become hostages, do you understand? You will see your father soon, but we must move quickly.” Disbelief, hesitancy - she could see it all so blatantly displayed on her daughter’s features. As soon as Catherine moved, Anastasia followed in tandem. Those glittering walls that towered high above had always resembled no more than an illusioned prison, and now the decorative painting of a lie had fallen further from any inkling of respects she may have held. The only detail that was no longer an illusion was the matter of it being a prison, for in fact now it held her children as hostages against the regime. It all passed in subtle blurs in the corners of her eyes, and the deeply red carpet turned to white stairs that echoed each footstep. And with each sounded footstep, she winced. It felt no less than bile that tightened her throat with anxieties. Catherine opened the doors to the imperial quarters, a part that even the Duchess had never seen throughout her life as the daughter of Princess Helen nor after her marriage to Philip. Perhaps it was the situation that made such secretive apartments have no shine, no godly appearance that marked a regal reign under divine right, or perhaps her views were skewed with desperation to seek out her children and hatred for the population that was suffocated. “Victoria? Peter? James?” Catherine called out, and one by one the three peaked their heads out around the grandeur door. And their eyes widened at the sight of their mother. There was no time for anything more than a short reunion, no time for the warmth of an all-embracing hug that she dreamt of with all her children together. One was missing. “Where is Julia?” She asked so quietly, and suddenly that all held back feeling of bile resurfaced. “Where is your sister?” “She’s away, as a ward,” the little princess, blonde as akin to her grandmother Amadea, voiced. Anastasia could feel a wobble in her stance, a pressure in the corners of her eyes as she fought tears. A scream was muffled in her throat, suffocated out, until it was nothing. She pressed her shoulders back as though to straighten her posture, resolute, and she gestured the children on. “Let’s go, quickly and quietly now. Not a sound from any of you, and follow me exactly. It’s-” “A game,” the young Catherine chimed in, and Anastasia nodded in assurance. “It’s a game.” Eyes of the paintings lining the wall stared down at her as she rushed down the steps and across the red carpet once more. The people of the past; relatives, leaders, soldiers - all of them stared at her as if they knew what she and Philip intended to do. Emperors and empresses and archchancellors watched with careful eyes until one by one her children ran from the palace as the prisoners they had become and into the carefully lit night. The crunch of gravel was not alone this time as it was in the approach towards the palace. Now the sounds of little feet shuffling through the pebble paved path coincided with Anastasia’s, and in that sound alone her shoulders drooped. There was one missing from that queue, and in each step she could hear it. Or perhaps it was her imagination that tortured her. The horse would have to be left behind, for there was no way for her to gather all her little ones atop it and the noise - she couldn’t risk it. She untied it, hastily, to at least be free of its bindings. Leaving felt simple; she gathered her children and walked now as she saw no guards in sight. It was strange, to never see a soldier of the Imperial State Army about, and to see the streets so desolate. Never were they empty at dark; the setting of the sun hadn’t an effect on the city’s liveliness. She gathered Victoria under one arm, and Peter on the other. Catherine tailed close and James wandered a little further until the eldest of the lot gathered him back in. The gates remained open, and out they stepped on their long journey through the early morning and into the sun’s rise. It was picturesque when the sky was gently painted in light reds and oranges that stroked the rippled clouds and shimmered over them in a warm blanket as the sun crawled higher. Tiredness caught in her throat, as it did the children, yet they still walked along that quiet road with quiet yawns and slow steps. Home, where they would at last reunite with their father, not a gravestone, and to meet the youngest of the family; Anna, and the newborn Frederick.

Anastasia sweats

A dwarven woman pumps her fist into the air in support of dwarf things.

An empress, from a time not long ago but a time long gone, smiles. Tradition lives on.

From a quaint place, high above the grounds, in a tree after a long day of roaming forests in search of adventure, Depheri Ipos nods with subtle content at the writings of her brother. “Straightforward, honest,” she muttered, and stowed away the parchment in a pocket.

what’s been the most interesting rp experience and do you feel like you’ve been taught anything from this game or the communities within it