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THE DRAKE RESTS Sang s’ha d’unir Blood Shall Bind Issued on the 9th of The Grand Harvest, 185 SA It is with great sadness that the House of Vilac announces the death of its longstanding Patriarch, Casimir Marius Vilac. For many decades, he served as the house’s leader, following the abdication of his father Gwendel Vilac. From fleeing the ruins of the Petran Civil War to gaining the peerage of Viscounty in the Kingdom of Balian, Casimir Vilac has served faithfully to his house. He passed on as a warrior, a scholar, a husband, and a father. We thank him and mourn his loss. THE VISCOUNT IS DEAD. LONG LIVE THE VISCOUNTESS. Lord Casimir Vilac’s heir, firstborn, and only child, Viviana Ximena Vilac, takes up the title of Viscountess Viviana Ximena Vilac, Matriarch of House Vilac. Despite the gloom of the coming days, House Vilac additionally announces the new Heir Apparent, the firstborn daughter of the Viscountess: Naida Sophia Vilac. If the Viscountess decides to abdicate or ascends to the seven skies before her daughter is of age, either Dame Gwenyth Vilac or Maria Giavanna Vilac will be named Viscountess Regent until the Heir comes of age. Blood binds us all. SIGNED,

The sharp thwack thunk of wooden practice swords echoed in the Vilac fighting pits of the brisk Petran River Valley. A young boy stood there, no older than seven, with stark, Novellen features of dark red hair and stormy gray hues. A fire burned within these eyes. The fire of drakes and gods. An elder man stood above the young boy, with long blonde hair, flowing down his armour. Sir Gwendel Simon Vilac, knight of Petra, father of Casimir Marius Vilac. Too Slow! Gwendel swatted the sword away. A grunt from Casimir as the force of the blow ran through his arm. Sloppy! Casimir’s practice sword went careening out of his hands, landing with a soft thump in the practice sands around him. His hands balled into fists, and he launched himself toward Gwendel. Disgraceful! Gwendel turned, a practice sword striking Casimir in the back, sending the boy tumbling into the sand. The father kneeled next to his son, a face of disappointment still filled with the unyielding love of a father. He offered a hand to the boy, yet he swatted it away, standing on his own. The boy spoke: No matter what, I will stand. The clashes, clangs, and screams of battle surrounded Casimir. His brother stood next to him, fear and determination in both their eyes. This is the end. A boy, no older than fourteen, would meet his end in the streets of his home. The Archduchess and her cohort of traitors closed around him. Casimir glanced at his uncle, the Archduke Constanz, as he swung through the masses, sweeping arcs with his warhammer. Constanz made the path. Blood and bones marked his steps. The boy and brother charged after, swinging swords and spear at the bandits. Coated in sweat, ash, and blood, House Vilac left. The pillar of smoke and fire that once marked their home blazed behind them. Proud swords trudged in the mud. Friends followed, many alone. Good men and women left to rot and be scavenged by crows in the wake of defeat. Most of all, the Archduke Constanz, left bleeding in the fighting pits of Haense. Casimir left him, cowering and crying. In the face of defeat, I will stand. This is what the Church calls justice? Casimir screamed toward the pontiff. His father, on trial for the murder of a Barclay, stood unmoving. His mother wrapped her arms around Gwendel, facing judgment as one. Casimir’s body shook, the fire within him beat into an inferno. Hands held the man back. His chestplate convulsing and rattling with each shaky breath. No matter, the Church dealt their injustice. His father stripped of knighthood and any respect that a man of his caliber deserved. The Church called it a 'mercy’ to leave his mother and father’s marriage intact. Casimir called it a taunt. It was a half eaten piece of meat, thrown just out of reach of a starving dog. That day, Casimir became Patriarch of Vilac. That day, Casimir became the heretic he would die as. When dealt the injustices of man, I will stand. The booming of a war horn rolled over the mountains and into the city of Alisgrad. Thick snow blanketed the city, covering everything and everyone. The descendants had gathered for the defense of Norland. Casimir stood on the ramparts overlooking the desolate wasteland of the north. His twin sister stood beside him, brooding and waiting. Another blast of a warhorn came and the thralls began their climb. Thousands of them clambering up the mountain. The stretching of hundreds of bowstrings was vaguely heard in the distance. Then the throng of arrows firing and whizzing overhead. Men cried and fell. Casimir was struck, launching off the battlements from the force of the impact. A crack was heard. Breathing became difficult. Vesta rushed to his aid, propping him up and removing his armour. Following treatment Casimir stood, continuing the fight. He stood in the streets, memories flooding back of the Civil War. I will not be defeated this time. I will not run. Flames began to spread in the streets. Legions upon legions of Mori poured into the city. The tavern was alight in flames. Wooden beams creaked and moaned under the stress until the building collapsed in a crash of sparks. Screams of help were abruptly cut silent. The flames cleared and a figure stepped before Casimir. A Mori Dreadknight. The figure loomed over the few remaining fighters. A resounding cannon blast echoed from across the square, removing half of the dreadknight. It continued forth. Men were thrown to the side like pebbles, crashing and burning. A piece of rock embedded itself into Casimir’s thigh. He continued, fighting till he was tossed aside like the rest of them. The world faded. Alisgrad fell. When embraced in the grip of death, I will stand. The world began anew. New lands to settle. The city of Portoregne rose from the sea. Hammers rose and fell and Balian had found its home once more. The bell rang. Bandits! They cried. A simple bandit raid on Balian. Casimir rallied with his King and Ezren Kervallen, a young boy. There, they fought off the bandits in the square with relative ease. Yet, one arrow landed in Casimir’s leg. The man reached into his thigh, digging out the arrowhead and tearing with it, muscle, tendon, and nerve tissue. The man became a cripple. He wandered the streets of Balian with a distinct, rhythmic tap. Tap. of his cane. That day, Ezren lost his eye. Casimir lost more. The Vilac lost pride in himself, pride in who he was. If my pride is shaken, I will stand. There, Casimir awoke. On that wretched battlefield. The plain that has haunted his nights for decades. The cold grimy grip of the mud on his features. But this was no longer a dream. He awoke different. His armour was still drenched in the sweat and blood of a battle. Yet his breastplate was torn to shreds. Large razored marks ran the length of the proud metal. Casimir’s vitals exposed to the putrid outside air. Even more still, Casimir’s right arm was gone. His shoulder reduced to a pulp of twisted and jagged metal. But, no blood poured from the injuries. Casimir glanced around. Flames licked at the dead around him. Men were speared through, and large monsters littered the battlefield. Manticores, trolls, thundermaws, and the like all lay strewn about, cut to shreds by the Descendants. The fighting raged on elsewhere, on the plains of eternity. Forests burned, and men screamed. But Casimir was alone on this desolate plain. He trudged along the field to the familiar grave. Casimir’s own body lay there. Lifeless eyes stared up at the sky, his hand reaching out to touch the sky. Storm’s Fury and Inferno’s Embrace lay across from the corpse. One was shattered in the blade. The other stood proud, even as the fires blazed around it and its wielder lay cold in the mud. IT IS DONE. A familiar voice spoke from behind Casimir. He turned, spying the young child, who spoke with an ancient voice. The child held the small blade that he held every night. The blade he used to save the Archduchess’ life. Tears flowed from Casimir’s eyes, down his face, and onto his ruined armour. “You damn well know it is” Casimir said to himself, stepping toward the boy. I HAVE ONE LAST QUESTION FOR YOU VILAC. “Ask away, you wretch. I am powerless to stop you” Casimir grunted. His eyes flickering down onto the blade below. DID YOU LIVE? A stunned silence enveloped Casimir. He staggered away from the boy. The boy that was himself. A young Casimir bright with life and passion. The boy that was the man’s past. Every action, every word, every thought, and every regret made flesh and bone. More tears streamed down his face as he reached down and clutched the knife in the child’s hand. “I..tried. I tried to live for Viviana. For Gwenyth. For Annette. For them all. I lived more for my family than I lived for myself. I burned my life for my kingdom, uncertain of its future.” Casimir paused. “I failed..didn’t I?” YOU LIVED MORE THAN MOST MEN DREAM OF. YOU ARE A DRAGON. THE FIRE OF HOPE BURNS IN YOUR HEART. YOUR TIME MAY BE AT ITS END. BUT LEGACY CARRIES ON. Casimir trembled as he took the knife in his hand. Its blade shook as he turned it on the boy. His past. YOU ARE REDEEMED IN THE FIRE. He plunged the blade into his past. The boy faded in a blinding light. The fields around him shook as fissures broke the plains apart. The sun broke the clouds, flaring in brightness. Flames licked higher into the sky. Casimir extended his arm, feeling the warmth one final time. A light formed within him. Expanding and flaring. Until he too faded in the aether of time. Casimir Marius Vilac 100 S.A. - 183 S.A. 29 B.A. - 112 B.A.