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Owyn was the sixth born amongst his siblings, and the second son. It was a loving family he had been born into, in times when peace was abundant. Yet fate would not leave it so. Tension and turmoil would sink their roots in as Owyn first learned of the world. First was his mother’s death, not so long after his final sister had been born, little Laurentina. Then came estrangement as his eldest sister, Henrietta, would be cast out for what she wrought upon their father in her marriage. Next a sister, Daphne, would be taken this time by that Pale Rider. Years passed and Owyn grew, confiding himself as no more than the spare to his brother, Helton, the heir. That was the task he gave himself in quiet, availing these deaths in righteous delusion that he would one day as Duke make this pain and suffering worth it. But that was a lie, all to mask the covetous nature of his heart. And then came war. From then on all was calamity, the complete and utter upheaval of the world Owyn had been born into. Institution after institution crumbled and decayed, smashed to bits as surely as Southbridge had been. Owyn had fought then, alongside his father and brother, for an Emperor and Empire the world despised. He did so because he thought it made him better, for only a dutiful son could ever hope to inherit. Where others fought for wealth and baubles, land and wives, he did so only because he was obliged, a true nobleman. Only this was another way Owyn deceived himself, for he had his prize in mind, though pride and patriotism were there in equal measure. The war dragged on and the nation’s fortunes withered. His father, an already elderly man by the war’s onset, had passed away between campaigns, leaving his brother as Duke. Owyn had spent much time away from home then, finding comfort in traveling abroad between campaigning seasons. Still he was drawn home with his father’s death, embracing his remaining siblings at the funeral. With his brother, though they quarreled, he still felt the fraternal bond, and the two wrestled as they had in younger years. Glad that despite their divergent paths, they were brothers still. Not long however after, was their family visited with death once more. Murder is what Owyn likened it to, the day the news broke of his brother’s demise. Caius de Ravensbourg, may his bones be crushed, had issued the execution of the Duke at his capture, affording him no ransom or cell to wait out the war. This was a blade through Owyn’s heart, an impotent fury that engulfed him, for while the war was waged this murderer was beyond his reach. So then the task of raising the orphaned children of his brother fell to Owyn, children who bore the title he once so coveted. The prospect dangled in front of him so, he needed only to reach out and take the title he so righteously considered as his own, like so many others would have done. But Owyn did not, after all this time Owyn’s ambition faltered, it was not right. The prospect was a poison to his soul, he could not imbibe it in his grief and his zeal. To do what is right, Owyn obsessed himself with this now. So then when his youngest sister, Laurentina, went to him with her prospect for marriage, Owyn was inflamed. How could she have possibly considered such a match? For she would forsake what Owyn considered to be right and good in the world, the faith and family that they had been brought up in, for so trite a thing as love. Owyn challenged the man on the spot and was promptly refused and beaten by the suitor’s men for it. Of the hands that pulled him up to recover from the pummeling were those of a Prince whose place in the succession was not so dissimilar from his own. From then on, Owyn was estranged from Laurentina, a rift that had only just begun to mend when fate would next reveal its hand. The war was at long last lost. A conflict that had consumed over half of his life, of his families’ lives, was over and they were defeated, the entire nation laid low as the vanquished. The country was then put into a tailspin; the defeated monarchs sought to quarter the realm in their final act before death. Quickly enough, armies were again raised, beneath one banner was the heir, who claimed righteousness to reunite, and under the other was the spare, who had once lent Owyn a hand. Owyn went to neither initially; there was no right in this Brother’s War, either side would have seen him slay comrades and dear friends alike. But then this civil war came to Providence, where his kith and kin had resided, the entire world being drowned in the fever pitch of the armies. Owyn damned what was right and wrong right there and then, abandoning the false pretenses that had guided his life until then. With victory came a dead niece and the title he had long ago coveted. Then his sister Laurentina died. Laurentina had flung herself from a tower, taken by madness. Owyn could not weep a tear for her, heart hardened to news of death, instead his sorrow manifested in the hollowness he felt inside. Years passed and friends died just as they had before Owyn became Duke. Owyn took a wife and tried to find love with her, but his growing reservedness held him back. She bore him a son, but he remained unfulfilled. Ever the Duke reigned, the more alone he felt, prone to a brooding depression. Time would pass still but eventually that too would be cut short. A word on his youngest sister drew him from home, and then his demise. Owyn Leopold Helvets 1836-1876

MORNING GLORIES Theodosia Illaena O’Rourke 1826 - 1876 “You have to be strong… You’ll be okay. We’ve gotten this far, hm?” ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 1 It started when an arrow soared across the cloudless summer sky, and a scream followed, echoing throughout the ivory capital; the sniper was unseen but the aftermath was oh too evident. A man keeled forward with it lodged between his spine and shoulder blade. Soon, a cacophony of deafening yells and chaos ensued– medics were called, army men paraded about to find the perpetrator. The man was alright, and the nigh assassin had escaped, but the source of that scream– a girl, was not. Her name was Theodosia, aged only five. Haunted and disturbed after her young father’s almost-death, she cried and cried till her eyes were dry. Then, she’d hold her head high and muster a relieved, meager smile in the wake of his survival. He lived, and life went on. That was the day she was reminded of the transience of being; anything could be taken in the blink of an eye. Although she may not have realized it then, the aftermath was oh too evident. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 4 “AAAH!” She once shrieked, aged eight. Two figures, masked and foreboding, had entered the Augustine Palace prior and held her mother as a hostage; she and the other noble children were mere helpless witnesses to the horror afar. That is until she was stabbed in the leg, around her calf. She’d be alright, as would her mother, but a limp followed her forever thereafter– as did a cane gripped in her right palm. As did questions about the aforementioned things: irksome questions, and judgemental stares she was never unbeknownst to. So, Theodosia changed; she tripped and stumbled, staggered with little grace, but she gathered her bearings and adopted an almost-normal gait. Similarly, she stifled her Northern accent to take a voice fitting of an Orenian peer. She wasn’t weak; she wasn’t feeble or odd. There was no room to be. No room to be at all. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 6 9 Seven years preceding the world unraveling and her passing, the solemn Countess grew perturbed; those times she wondered what her mother would think of her now. After all, she’d gotten past the age whence her mother had died. And what a strange thing it was, for in her youth she’d sought to divert the blame to her. Theodosia had sworn she would develop to be better, stronger, different. Yet, here she was, with her estranged father’s face, and the worst of each parent. Distant as ever, when had she become so cynical, so cold? It was the curse of her lineage, to transform into husks of bright-eyed adolescents, she figured. She wasn’t sure, though. Psychology had never been her particular forte. Time slipped away too quickly, at this pace, at this point. Just yesterday, she could swear that she was a nomadic teen escaping that drafty estate halfway to nowhere to end up somewhere she knew not. Somewhere unfamiliar, somehow feeling more welcomed than she ever did at home. Though she’d never ever admit it, Theodosia resembled her father in that respect. It was her way of connection, and- “Countess.” A voice called out, abruptly removing her from her absent-minded reverie. A red haired girl sat across, maturing to that of a young woman — maybe seventeen, eighteen now. “Oh, Cass.” She spoke up, clearing her throat. They sat opposite within the exterior greenhouse, light pouring within upon the flowers freely rising in midday’s wake. “What were you saying?” Cassia asked, offering a slight smile. Theodosia reflected it, a bittersweet edge remaining which she couldn’t conceal. “...Botany, the likes,” — “My sister would know it better than me. It’s a nice pastime though, at least when there’s less time to paint. Sadie is at that age.” She mused in part jest, eyeing the blooming morning glories across. Her ward snickered. “Oh, I know. She’s what, two now?” “Almost three.” “My, my…” She trailed off, faintly amused. Silence festered thereafter. Theodosia ruminated. She interrupted the quietude with a casual notion. “You’re lucky.” Cassia frowned. “How so?” “You have a lot of free time. More so than most. Not just your age, just… generally.” “I’d say that’s too much time.” She jested with a half-smile. “And that is a wonderful problem, dear.” “I know… What are those, right there?” The ward diverted the subject, gesturing to the blooming flowers facing them. “Hm,” Theodosia squinted. “Morning glories. Not the most popular flower, but they grow well in the West and I like them quite a lot.” “Why are they… rejected?” “I didn’t say rejected.” She retorted, rising with a quiet huff on the way. “Only that they’re unpopular.” “Sorry, I just assumed–” “It's a valid assumption.” “Would you tell me about them, then?” “They’re not particularly special.” She remarked, withdrawing a pair of scissors from a bag, briskly snipping a flower which had begun to wilt. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 4 2 Beads of sweat lined the Lady’s visage, derived from the heat exuded from a bonfire ablaze which she sat beside. How long had it been? Five hours? Six? She’d lost track hours ago, only that she must wait. Patience and endurance were virtues, after all; waiting brought about better times. "Waiting brought about better times…" Better times… Nothing ever seemed to happen, perhaps she was just asking for heatstroke in the quieter hours of the night. It wasn’t fair. She gazed to her left, toward her best friend. At least he made things a little lovelier, although they spoke little amidst the trial. Ioannes Temesch, Owynist Lector to be. He too stared into the flames, wiping his brows, and she couldn’t help but wonder if she was missing the point somehow. Perhaps he knew, he was really smart. Before she could speak up, the seventh hour had passed, announced by an exuberant Hyspian calling out for “mijo, mija!” Her pensive musings were flushed away with the best drink of water and hardtack she’d ever had. It was ironic, an Adunian on the Path of Owyn against her very own ancestor; she prayed she wasn’t like her forefather Harren even if most treated her in such a way till proven wrong. That Temesch boy didn’t mind, and they were the best of friends. It was only when Du Loc turned so tumultuous and her responsibility turned out to be too much that Theo visited less and less. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ “They don’t bloom for long.” She explained, grasping the flowerbud betwixt her digits and swiveling toward Cassia. “Only for a day, mornings even.” She chuckled. The girl nodded with a smile, quizzical looking. “I suppose that’s why some people don’t like them. They’re short lived, see- this one’s starting to wilt.” She said, gesturing to the flower in hand. “That’s a shame…” “It is. But they’re very pretty living, don’t you think?” She chimed, tucking the flower into Cassia’s jacket akin to a makeshift corsage. “Some deeper meaning in that…” “Probably. Don’t worry about that stuff too much, though. Enjoy the flowers.” She joked, faintly chuckling as she reclined to gingerly sit down beside her. “I won’t. You tell me to be careful though.” Theodosia paused, her smile diminishing momentarily. “That’s a little different, dear.” ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ For survival, we do what we must. A friend had told her, or something like that. Steadfast, she had abided by this rule; strangely enough it often seemed that most disregarded the idea entirely. People disappeared, venturing across Almaris and acting unruly, the world ever enveloped in chaos. Wars sprung up like errant moths drawn to the light, even her very own antagonized uncle had briefly treated her as an enemy, and vice versa. They made no sense; the very world made no sense. She didn’t want that everlasting worry for her children, as hands-off as she was. It was the sole guidance she gave the lot of them: cooping the kids up within the confines of Halstaig. Nevertheless, they found their way as rebellious children do. Everett snuck out from the premises more times than she could count on her hands, and Alexandrina was too outdoorsy to be bound. Was she a bad mother? Was she insane? She’d tried her luck at a family as a wife, as a mother, as a sister, a Countess; some of it hadn’t been her choice at all. Or, was there no point whatsoever; how different would her life vary had she been the second child born? She wondered, notwithstanding the melancholy and doing what she must. Even if that meant neglecting her values or being the “villain,” even if it meant growing into the icy effigy she’d inadvertently become. The alternative was much worse, at least Theodosia covertly hoped. It couldn’t be all for nothing, her mistakes, her clashes, her struggle and strife eternally awaiting a happy ending. Though, those storybook conclusions were all made up for her kids, leaving her unsure. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ Leopold de Ruyter was a man, her husband specifically. It would be plain incorrect to hail the couple as “madly in love,” or romantic platitudes akin to it, but they shared a mutual respect. He wasn’t around often, and just this once… Theodosia was alright with that. Had she wed for the sake of love, perhaps she would very much mind it, but their union could better be described as utter convenience. He was a scholar, she was Countess. She spared no sentimentalism over it. She couldn’t. She was too old for rose tinted romanticism to view the world from. There came a time when the question of children and marriage became a tad too much to bear. She knew how her younger self would judge her now, but couldn’t bring herself to grow too bothered over her state. She was lucky, more so than many— a lady with everything a proper lady ought to desire. And yet, when she stared over the balcony at night like a cliffside overlooking the abyss, a sudden wave of dissatisfaction was unshakeable. Of failure, and every other bad thing in between. Where would she be were it not for her luck? What had she truly achieved? What of everything she’d not yet done, and wouldn’t do? Would anyone remember her name or wonder about her well-being after she died? Was she any more than a title mentioned in a brief tabloid? Had she failed? Was she a failure? It was her fault. It had to be. Her decisions, her idle idealism awaiting foolhardy hopes. A foolish woman with foolish children, only known by her title and home. Theodosia crumpled to the ground, overcome by smothered grief as she wept over her many errors and her family estranged ‘till her eyes were surely dry. It got to be lonely, bearing the weight of it all without aid. There was no comfort in the depths of the night, and no meager smile to wake with either. None of it wasn't fair. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ “Countess,” A voice which she recollected called once more, ringing in her ears like tinnitus. Cassia Daphnia: her ward, such a sweet girl, cheerful too. More than Theodosia was,, with unwavering diligence and kindness. She was her firstborn, hidden from the wider world since she could recall; that could be why she was so sweet. She favored her, admittedly. “What happened to my mother?” She asked the very last question that the Countess had hoped to hear. Theodosia faltered, clutching her teacup within her interlaced palm. She swallowed a lump which had formed in her throat, stricken with a sense of unease she couldn’t quite conceal. “I don’t know.” She replied, coming off harsher than intended. “Matilda went off with my father.” “She- what?” “I thought you would’ve figured it out by now.” “She… hasn’t written.” She sighed. “Patience is-” What was she saying? “She’s not your mother, Cass.” She muttered thereby. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 3 Theodosia loved her children, she just didn’t want to see them. They were reminders of her shortcomings, and the state of things. Of course, that wasn’t their fault; they were just kids after all. She prayed they’d have a little more time to be just that: just kids. She never did. At every turn, her interests were cut short. Who else would bother to gather the pieces? It was the O’Rourke’s against the wider world, at times. Then, as the family began to splinter whilst she clung to the remains, it was just her. She knew that when her mother left her to her own devices, even after she'd sobbed and nearly perished. There was no point for resentment anymore, not when she'd been taught that what she wanted had to be done alone. Leopold was gone; Michael was gone; Woodes was gone; Iduna was gone; Alexander was gone. Even her anchor, Uncle Auden, was dying and she knew it. Then again, she was dying too. Her vices in youth had caught up. Escapism's consequences loomed over her very face, having once extended solace from countless regrets and brooding. Even if she was clean from cigarette smoke and drugs, the damage was done. Each day, it grew harder and harder to maintain her stalwart demeanor. After all, she desperately sought to never miss a thing, even when deep down, undoubtedly, she’d die before her children got to be adults, and die before Cassia would forgive her. She dreamt that Everett would never feel this lonesome or troubled. Alexandrina would never be plagued with worries. Sadie would triumph past her naivete and shyness, at least one day — some day. She dreamt they’d be different from her. They’d be tight knit, and they’d have each other: that they would be free, and capable, that they would be liberated from the weight of things, that they’d never wait so long for things which never came. It was all the Countess could do, dream. For others, even after she’d been left in the ruin of all things long ago. If only she wasn’t so moody nowadays, maybe she could give better guidance than, “Don’t worry.” If the world could stay still for awhile, she'd be okay. If she couldn’t do that, she could be proactive, or maybe try. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 3 1 ”Little one.” A gruff voice called above the bustle of Old Providence. The green eyed girl turned; she wasn’t quite an heiress then. Her grandmother was still alive, and that humble Providence home hadn’t been taken by flames of arson just yet. Trauma hadn’t settled in. “Ave!” She exclaimed, a guileless grin across her face. She’d just won tic-tac-toe against a new friend. Things were pretty good. The source of the holler was none other than Woodes O’Rourke. He was a tall man, and his appearance matched his attitude. Despite his age, his visage was aged by an unruly beard and countless bar fights. He bore a cane, then. He knelt down to meet her eye level. People offered them odd looks from the sidewalk. “Take this, alright?” He said, extending it to her with a certain poise and formality. “Why?” She asked, like the child she was. Woodes snickered. “It's an heirloom. Your great grandfathers. Great man, you might live to his legacy one day.” “Mhm…” “Keep it with your soul, yeah? Might just need it someday.” “Okay!” She assured with a prompt bob of her head; the cane was twice her height and more of a staff but she managed. Woodes gave a rare smile and stood up, towering over her. He turned off, waving as he went. Perhaps if she were older, she’d have noticed his empty pockets and missing weaponry. She could have offered a proper goodbye, had she known that was the last she’d see her uncle. She went on her way with her braids flopping against the wind. That was before it mattered; that was before she cared or even noticed at all. Instead, she carried that cane; Theodosia carried that burden like everybody else. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 5 Theodosia heard of her newfound position on the Council of State when she sought to import pineapples to sell at the reopened Paddy’s Pint. She might have been a highborn housewife and failed artist, but she’d be damned if she didn’t have a pineapple. It was a novel thing, but she’d lived life straight. If this was an adventure, so be it. Her inclination came from her dim subconscious, but that was irrelevant. She’d been a mediocre Lady Vicar, and a mediocre Countess. She presumed she’d be a mediocre stateswoman. Justice this, justice that. Most of it was gobbledygook to her; she wanted a pineapple. She wanted to be happy, but found herself very tired. The cough was worse too. Things were better, but she felt worse. Bleak. She covered it up, for others sake. Being a burden was the worst fate, and her prerogative had to be some kind of justice in an unjust world. It was on a normal night which she manifested this, after bidding Sadie a sweet goodnight in the maid’s stead for once. “Alexandrina,” she beckoned her daughter’s attention, inviting herself to a seat opposite from the young teenager’s bed. Alex resembled her great grandmother more than either of her absent parents. “What is it?” She asked, pushing herself up from the mattress to sit upright. “There’s… a talk I ought to have with you, that neither my mother or father really did with me.” Theo began, offering a bittersweet smile to alleviate the newfound awkwardness. “Oh- uh, okay.” “Don’t worry.” She laughed, then. “I hated these dramatics when I was young too.” Alex frowned, puzzled. “You are… gonna face a lot when you’re older. Already. There’s a lot of hardship in this world, and a lot of beauty.” Theodosia mused with melancholic eyes, swallowing the lump which had formed in her throat. “I won’t be here for all of that, and there won’t be someone to catch you all the time either. You’re going to have to look over your family one day, but know that they love you too. And it’s okay to fall sometimes. It's okay to be hurt, as long as you pick yourself up. No matter what, I’m on your team. You’re already getting it… looking after Sadie.” She laughed, looking away, enveloped in a brief reverie. She’d made the same mistakes her mother had, and her mother’s mother. It might have been too little, too late, but it was all Theodosia had left to give: a last hurrah. Had she more time to waste, she could amend her wrongs with Cassia and raise Alex right; she could see Sadie grow up. Alas, perhaps some things were destined to be missed; true closure eluded her. “Seize the day, alright? Time is precious for human beings. We don’t get all that much of it.” She chuckled, fiddling with her hands in her lap. “I love you, and you’re growing up to be better than I ever could. Cassia is there, so is Everett. Don’t forget about you.” Theodosia concluded her spiel with a sigh, shifting to be a little more upright. It was rare: her vulnerability, that is. Alexandrina frowned, appearing familiar to her namesake. Theodosia wondered whether her mother felt this way, fostering her late brother to health when his illness was imminently fatal. She was just waiting, when both parties already knew how it ended. To her surprise, Alex drew forward to her mother’s lap. They embraced, and she spoke. “I love you too, mam. I’ll be sure to do that… look after me, everyone, and- and seize the day.” She reassured. Glossy eyed, she gave the best response she knew. “Good, you’re strong. I know you can take on this world. And, I-I’m sorry if I haven’t always done well by my own advice.” “You’re strong, mam. I guess that’s where I get it from.” The Countess smiled, clambering to her feet from the sofa. The evidence of her brooding was bygone, extending half hearted comfort where she could. “O’Rourke’s aren’t quitters, love.” She pondered, standing still like a thoughtful effigy in the door frame. “Goodnight.” She turned, shutting the door and pacing down the hall. Unseen to a soul, she silently wept. With much left to do, and much unfulfilled, there was nothing to be done. Powerlessness was her greatest fear, and it taunted her that night and the following days. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ 1 8 7 6 Promises were broken; relationships were rekindled; friends were made and lost. Things always went wrong. Faced with the fleeting grandiosity of a mediocre life lived, Theodosia wondered what she’d missed. When she was a child, she swore she would never grow to be an irrelevant wife. Here she lay, gazing toward the blank ceiling anyway. She wasn’t a great artist, nor a particularly notable politician. That didn’t really matter though. Whatever she sought, she stayed unhappy. Even after Auden had narrowly survived a grim situation, and she carried on amidst it all, she felt a gaping void in her chest she could not shake. It was her unspoken grief, in pursuit of so-called strength. Where was Eloise? She was so very guileless, in spite of her loss. That horrible man she’d almost married; what happened to him? Questions all unanswered, now (more so than ever) was the instant to take a gambit. It may have been too late to amend her heartache and lamenting, but something subconscious urged her. Theodosia gave brief goodbyes to Calahan, her children and the tenants, then there was the quiet Sadie. Together, they wrote a letter. “I’m going to go out. I need to meet with a friend and tend to some things, okay?” She said, bittersweet. “Okay.” Sadie nodded. “C-Come back to… tuck me in.” “I will.” She promised; she could hold on long enough for that. “Be good, will you?” “I will." Then, Theodosia had gone. She ventured from Halstaig to the cold reaches of the Kingdom. Everything had shifted, but the plains had not. They were bewitching, gorgeous. She discovered respite in the unknown, as if she was a girl once more. But, she had a purpose. Her oldest friend wished to confide. She could hold up a promise there, at least. She reflected if she was as sure as she thought on what he longed to say. She would never truly know, because she had never acknowledged it — too late, now. She loved him, just not in the way he suggested. How she missed the days of her early adolescence alongside the Lectors nevertheless. Her steed carried her forward notwithstanding her decaying health. They passed the capital and Cathalon but she was not found with Ioannes or a pineapple. She didn’t find Eloise either, nor that De Ruyter she’d decidedly married. She prayed they would forgive her, as well as her father, children and kin. That lone steed found its way back without a living equestrian to follow. The paranoid Countess was dead. ━━━━━━༻❁༺━━━━━━ B E Y O N D The bureaucracy mattered not, nor did the countless titles or so-called power hitherto, nor did the sympathy towards Owyn and the seven-year patience she held, nor did her desire to be so different from her predecessors. She was the same, albeit naive at times: not a prophet, nor a deviation from the general norm. Surely, her wariness kept her from either. Calahan takes care of the kids, or so he had promised as much. Perhaps they’ll visit Elias, for he is their kin from a generation foregone. Eloise returns one day, and the levy will likely be dispersed without Nikolaus. Auden sorts the books and Sadie assists. Cassia grows melancholy. Everett is left with a rather intricate old cane. The family is a little closer, and things are a little better — pretty good, for now. Theodosia is not there. Some will say she made it, others condemn her running away. She’d consider it honorable, to escape a slower end, pitiable. Perhaps had they known, the prior farewells would differ. She arrived at the other side with open arms; she endured. Happy endings are for kids, and ennui plagues adults. Pictures are produced of a brighter world to reflect one back, but she never had time to really paint much. Somewhere, now, she is happy and free. At least, she is on standby wistfully no longer. That is her justice. And at home, a quiet ember dances from inside Erin Hall’s rebuilt hearth. LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF THEODOSIA ILLAENA O’ROURKE I, Theodosia O’Rourke, Countess Halstaig, and resident of Halstaig declare this as my Last Will. All wills heretofore are null, whether influenced by myself or associate partisans (jointly or severally.) I hereby declare Calahan O’Rourke as the executor of my will, and valid regent in my absence. To Sadie Cristonia O’Rourke, my heiress, I leave my garments and emerald tiara. To Alexandrina O’Rourke, I leave the rest of my jewels and green sash. To Everett O’Rourke, I leave my steed and Kaedrini Rose Cane. May you bear both well. To Auden O’Rourke, I leave the establishment of Paddy’s Pint and responsibility alongside it, bound to Helena Avenue 8 within Vienne. I hope it will continue to bring closeness to the family as a whole, and bring about prosperity. To Cassia Daphnia Erinsehn, my eldest, I leave any works of art (drawings, paintings, et cetera) I have produced and my unused dagger Custodia. Cremate my corpse if it is attained. Put me in that blue dress with the yellow floral skirt. Signed, TRH Countess Halstaig Theodosia Illaena Anastasia Anne Clover Vasa Cassia Lucia Emma O’Rourke

[!] A halfling corpse would be found north of the swamps far off in Attenlund, its head weirdly round and nose strangely long. [!] A note rests under the Filibert Applefoot's bed: Final Will I have lived a long live, yet with my age it is clear that I will expire soon. Thus, I write this will to detail what will come of my belongings: ~To Mimosa Applefoot, I give my burrow and all the family's herbs. ~To my beloved grandson, I give my pipe, all of my pipeweed, and all of my booze. ~To the Thain, I give all of the resources I stored in the village vault. ~To the Sheriff, I give my bounder's badge and my walking shovel. ~I give my journals, notes, papers, and quills to any halfling willing to write newspapers for the village. I wish to be buried next to Iris Peregrin, and on my grave shall be planted a single tulip. -Filibert Applefoot

A Fallen Sparrow and Whisper of the Wind. [!] Lady Analiesa and the cat she finally got, in an exaggerated portrait a few weeks before the death of the Lady. [!] A grand clock ticked in the distance of the room as the golden handle swayed from side to side, a small bird sat on the edge of windowsill seeming to be entirely normal with brown and blue feathers. Analiesa Ludovar had fallen into a spiral, her doors locked, the shelves dusted over, her clothes old, worn, she looked to be skin and bones. The lady had her hair tied in a tight bun as she stared at the painting just next to her bed. It depicted a younger version of Analiesa and her first husband Michael O’rourke. "Michael.." she whispered with a frown, wrinkles tending her lips and cheeks as her head tilted "Myrana, she's safe.. vyr.. vyr right, she's as beautiful as vy were.." a pained laugh left her in a dried tone seeming she was talking to the air. Fumbling with her boney fingers she pulled out a thin cigarette, a habit she’d picked up from her friend.. Seeming the closest thing she had to a friend Nikoletta, whether the princess knew it or not. Over the past ten years of Analiesa's life, she'd gone dormant. Hiding inside, seeming to grieve for something no one understood. Her four children and niece, we're growing up with mothers and fathers unbeknownst to her. Myrana, her eldest and only child with Michael.. She’d be in her midst of life. Cecilya and Johanna.. The two daughters she’d had with Josef, Johanna had a spark that bickerd often. Cecilya, was a blonde. Her favorite at that most days. Ilya, her youngest and last child and only son. A blonde and a boy.. He was the golden child of her life. Adalia the third, her niece adopted after her eldest sister passed away and left her an infant when Myrana was only a few months old. Why would she want to know of her failure? Her blonde hair had gone gray and her smile faded, as time passed with the click of the grand clock. Her late husband Josef.. a mere memory in her mind.. Regret shrouded her senses. In her youth she seemed only neglect her family the Ruthern’s now it had continued. “They will never know.. V’hat ea gave to ensure v’heir safety.” she hissed out, bitterness sinking her tone. She’d neglected her daughters.. her son. They all seemed to grow angst to her absence and to that, she simply ensured the locks on her door were fastened tighter Pulling herself up as she looked out the window again..this time to the bird "Mamej Rosey." her whisper echoed in the air as she turned to stare into the coldend gaze of an old ghost, having taken the form of a bird. The ghost’s figure shifted as the plasm only a ghost could grow formed into a young lady, with slicked back hair and a warm glow to her blue and transparent skin. "Analiesa, you should stop doing that.. or teach me how you learned it." the ghost let out with a warm chuckle "Yam going.. to die." she explained with a faint smirk, one the ghost and herself had not seen in awhile"Teach mea little girl's about mea.. ea.. didnt.. tell them.. about v'he green men, v'he conspiracy's, v'he murders.." she trailed off "Ea didnt tell v'hem about meaself at all.. Ea didnt raise v'hem even.. oh mamej ahm ea a horrid person?" she asked with a huff of dissatisfaction. Alethea, hovering beside her, lets out a sigh. “You have experienced far too much. Far too many things I wished you’d never experienced. I know how much your kids mean to you, and why you locked yourself up for the rest of your life after reaching your breaking point.” She says, holding her hand above Liesa’s own, almost hovering above due to her incorporeality. “Just as I appeared when you needed the help, someone will be there for your children. I can assure you, daughter.” “Well.. I didn't want half of v’hem.. But.. but Myrana was safe! Ea grew to love.. The rest as they got older. Its silly.. Ea gave Johanna to Sibylla and she’s already developed a liking to her.” she explained as if defending herself to a ghost was much help. Analiesa frowned deeply “Ea.. loved.. Love Michael.. Josef made a dobry cover for mea settling down.. I had a baby, nie more killing and trying to take down nations.. Nie more castles and wizards with pointy dagger ears.” Analiesa Ludovar flopped onto her bed with a huff. “Mamej, if ea died today, nie one would find out. Nie one would notice for years ea bet.” “You changed the hearts of many. Both to the living and to the dead. Many people will be affected by your death, and many will remember you. Even then, was the point to die famous?” Thea chuckles, staring out the window at the night sky. “You are my last daughter on this plane. It gives me peace to know that I can finally pass on without worrying about the safety of any of my children.” "So vy feel.. its time aswell da?" The lady asked with a soft tone a hint of fear in her voice "Maybe.. now vy can meet my mamej Adalia, and.. Mea sestra Adalia v’he second.. And perhaps ea can finally see him again." A few tears of the tired old lady trailed down her wrinkled cheek "Yes my dear, you and I have avoided death more times than I can count. It's quite exhausting really." The ghost chuckled before leaving the two in a dead silence "Saspiba mamej Rosey.. I think.. its time we rest." She whispered in a peaceful tone as she took to her bed ensuring her hair was perfectly combed and her nightgown without a wrinkle, for when you have a date with death you do try and look your best. Her soft voice filled the air for a final moment "Ea will see you again someday." —------- [!] —------ Not more than a day later it had been discovered by the hand maids in Otistadt that Lady Analiesa Vasile Ludovar had passed away, clutching both the two rings of her late husband's Whispers spread around that the lady had gone crazy and was talking to herself all night long. Perhaps that was the truth.. or.. maybe there was something more that would be lost in history. However it didn't matter anymore For, the beautiful blonde, and the whisper in the air. We're both no more. Ooc

【 𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓒𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 】 Kindness. That is what she swore by time and time again. If one was kind they would only receive kind things. Even as a little girl, she believed if she was nice and treated others with her best intentions, then she would be forever happy. Such was merely a childlike view on what was really a unkind world that was riddled with lies, cheats and pain. She soon learned this but much too late. Even still, in her last moments the beauty thought if she smiled through it, Godan.. no, the world would be better. Even with such thoughts as she was held in a dark place, she let her mind wander. What life would have been like if she had seen it for what it really was. And how her life panned out because of her naïve views. She started thinking of when it all started, her youth. Youth, it was a pleasant time for the dear Vasilia. She was loved by a big family. She had four siblings that she cherished in her heart, Vladrik, Emelya, Viktoriya, and Nikolai. The closest to her was her eldest brother Vladrik. When they were younger they were often seen throwing their beloved beets at people, and were inseparable. So close indeed that he was her comfort, her home. Even when her father would scold her for things, Vladrik was there to get into trouble with her all over again. It was the fun times she would long to return to. This bond shrunk however, when news of the dear Jan Otto Kortrevich's mauling was heard. Their beloved father was dead, he was there before and then not. Even this didn't wake up Vasilia's childlike thoughts. She continued to be kind, even as she struggled to eat. The food never tasted the same, and nothing felt as bright. Everything was dull and soon she found herself growing closer with one of her eldest sisters, Emelya. Vasi's mother was distant and didn't care much for her daughters struggle, but Emelya helped her sister get through the depression, she helped her distract herself with goofy ideas and pamphlets. One noteworthy was the cute pamphlet made by the two about Kindness, they named themselves the Daughters of Haense and spread them around. It could be seen as a Childs ignorance to the painful world, but it was a bright light in dark times for the young girls. And so Vasilia continued to grow. Near her young adult years, Vasilia grew much closer with her youngest brother, Nikolai. He hadn't been one she focused o most of their youth, but she rekindled the bond. They grew close, closer than she had been with Vladrik. Nikolai was her new comfort, her borsa. She came to him when she needed him and shared time with him when she needed the warmth of family. Nikolai grew much faster than she had mentally. Even in her early twenties she still believed kindness was the only way, and killing was wrong. Second chances existed. Nikolai had learned that this was not true and many times scolded his sestra on such, but to no avail. She loved and continued to spread such, even when it ended with her getting hurt. One of such noteworthy accounts was her small time with the late Johann Ludovar. Vasilia truly loved him. She had been arranged to marry his brother, but found herself falling for the eldest sons charms. She organized such and began to court him, and even shared the love not only to him, but to his two lovely daughters, Adele and Amicia. She loved them all deeply, and in her heart began to picture them as a large family. She was too naïve still, and made many mistakes. She broke Johann's' trust many times by mistake and risked the girls life on a trip she thought was completely safe. Her childlike actions made her unqualified to be the lead of the Ludovar family, and Johann had to put an end to their relationship. Even in the end, she still loved him dearly and always considered him her true love. It wasn't until the beautiful Kortrevich reached her thirties that she had truly gauged how cruel the world could be. She hadn't found another love, and struggled to make friends with the other noble ladies. She felt she was disappointing her family more and more, and finally she broke and made a mistake. She fell in love with a commoner, a simple farm boy. He would be her biggest mistake. She was blinded in what she thought was the acceptance of love, he said she was perfect and that she didn't need to change. She needed that, no one ever said such and under the pressure to change her ways she instead chose to escape, and escape she did. She fled to live on his farm, on the outskirts of the large Oren empire. They were happy, for a time. She found herself pregnant and the world finally made sense, she wanted to raise her children in safety and comfort. To be as they wished. Just as she wished, two beautiful sons entered the world. Kaleb Joseph Kort and Jan Nikolai Kort. They were her everything, life was happy and full of reason! All that happiness crashed down, when her beloved cheated on her and threw a fit when she was upset of such. She sent for her brother for help and was taken home. And a brief argument befell the Kortreviches and her beloved. Her children were taken and her love had hit her and blamed her for it all. Many things went down, and in the end the rightful parent won, Vasilia had her two sons again and she would raise them without the influence of their cheating father. She thought distance was enough, but her soul took a beating one day when she witnessed his trial, and his hanging. She still loved him deeply, and witnessing his demise because of her broke her deeply inside. She cried often, staying in her room in Jerovitz. She raised her boys by herself, hoping they'd earn the full Kortrevich name, preying they wouldn't only be bastards for the rest of their lives. She was happy and loved them, but deep down she was tattered, her ideals of kindness were always wrong. Kindness was something one would be lucky to have. The world wasn't meant to be kind, people were meant to struggle. Even still, she kept a happy demeanor for her darling boys, and paraded them around, helped them make friends. Jan flourished in Haense and made many friends, Kaleb was more secluded. She never really thought much of it, until one day he vanished. All her happiness and hope drained. The ladies days of enjoying her life crippled down to frantic searching everyday. She searched and searched until her beauty was worn down. She was weak and thin, not taking care of herself and being a shell of a human. She needed her boy to be okay, and she didn't know if he was alive or dead. And so did her searching bring her to her end. She asked the wrong people and was taken somewhere so dark. She was terrified, but in her heart she just pictured resting in the seven skies and watching her family, watching her sons. She could be freed of her weak body and be able to see them grow old. So in her last moments she did not fear death, she instead smiled in the face of it, forgiving whoever was doing this to her, and accepting them with a loving heart. She wasn't going to be hateful, not when happiness was a breath away. And with such a smile, her life was ended in the dark rather than the bright lights of the world above. News would be spread, a lock of her brunette hair was sent to Jerovitz, inside a note, one that read: "Lady Vasilia passed a grim demise. Her pointless life had been freed from it's chains. Her death has served for something far greater than herself, in paradise again she joins you. "

The night crept upon the small halfling quickly, her addled mind only making the time pass quicker. But there she sat, beneath a tall willow tree, only a day's trek away from the destroyed and deserted Rozania. The smile on her lips shaky and her eyes unfocused but her hand was in the form to write. 'To those who may not have known, my years have doubled… As I sit in a place that feels familiar but in my mind I have no idea where I am, I grow weary that my days are coming to an end.' The small halfling stopped to draw a shaky breath and blink some wayward tears away as she continued, knowing that this note is important for the people she loves. 'Since Rozania my mind and spirit haven't been the same. The days fly by now, I don't know my way home anymore, I am starting to lose memories but don't remember which. Even forgetting the ones I live with on occasion, Donna and Marb.' She stops again to blurily look at the paper before crossing out the names. A concentrated frown on her face as she tries to think but sighs and continues once more. 'I remember more though, mostly bad but some good. With this note shall be a series of letters to the important folks I've had the honor to meet and know… I'm terribly sorry that things must come to this. I never thought my time would end this way either. I feel old and I never wanted to feel that way ever. Bless be, safe travels, and don't forget to wander off your path everyonce and awhile.. you never know what adventure you might find along the way' The halfling smiled at her closing line. Then signed her name 'Delphi Wanderfoot' the one thing she felt confident in anymore. She then took another shaky breathe and gave the letters to her snowy owl with a short order. "Deliver these to the proper folk, and make sure to be there for my rose bud" The owl flew off quickly as the previous owner drew a couple more breathes before grinning down at the ground below, right before death managed to capture the tortured soul that was Delphi Wanderfoot. To Bella, To Mellow, To Per, To Rosebud, To Otter, To Will, To Filibert, (OOC)

BEEN HERE LONG TIME, YE? Music :3 Painting of Jindrich, around 55 years old. Gray clouds grouped around the March of Grodno. In one of the rooms of this newly built castle laid Jindrich Jazloviecki. He was not in the best shape, and he knew about that. The Jazloviecki knew his days were numbered and he was going to meet his end soon. Because of that, a few days ago, he paid a last visit to the nation he loved and belonged to for nearly his entire day, visiting the abandoned city of Freimark, the duchy of Drusco and of course, the hill where the Margraviate of Lvinsk once stood. Filled with sadness, nostalgia and much, much more emotions, he returned back to what was now his home, March of Grodno, built deep in the hills of Kingdom of Oren. There, he suddenly felt it. His body weakened, his skin turned pale white and his face was covered in sweat. "Tak t-tady to je.." He muffled on his way to his room. He felt his strength go away with every step. Jindrich was shocked, even though he counted with this moment. All the blood he coughed out and the headaches reminded him that he will be gone at a close point in the future. He limped to his bed. Jindrich immediately fell onto it. The Tschech's entire body was covered in sweat. His entire skin was pale like marble. Laying on his bed, he felt every last second. Every last drop of blood in his body. He decided to think about all the ones, that cheered his life until his last moments. Sebastian Velho... Genkai Iekami... Berra Mierzwinski... Masashi Iekami... Andrzej Kowalski... Catalina Bennett... And mainly, his own family, the ones he shared his blood with... "Stanislaw, Maciej, Otton- carry your father's le.. legacy, and mine too, if I l-leave some behind." He thought to himself. "And never forget about August and Fiodor, my dear cousins. I w-will be waiting for you, wherever in Hell or in the Seven S-skies, because only GOD knows where my soul will end." He was done. His truly last moment was left for the person he valued the most, the reason all this, that right now is around him was possible. The Defender of Lechians, Borys Jazloviecki. "I w-will see ya a-again, dear c-cousin.." He muffled. Jindrich then closed his eye. And those... Were the last words of Jindrich Jazloviecki. Siła w Bogu, a my z Bogiem...

He hadn't seen it coming, no one had. The young veteran had seen many die, but now it was his time. But oh, it was a time to be alive. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Treble de Murat, or as he would come to be known, Treble the Patriot, had been having a normal day when the attack started. He saw visions of men falling in the streets around him, Balian becoming the warzone of Providence from when he was an Imperial Guardsman for the Empire. Sights he had put behind him now revitalized in his mind once more as the young man flashed back to when he was but a boy, fighting for his country. He saw blood running through the streets, bodies everywhere, faces of those who he had slain on distant fields up close, grasping at him for the carnage he caused. He saw dwarves, blood spattered across their faces as his comrades fell lifeless around him. He saw the innocent Sedanite woman that his comrades had butchered outside of Haverlock, himself sobbing as they burnt down the church in the city. He saw the faces of children in the besieged city, cut down by the monsters around him as he transformed. All he found was sorrow and regret from his actions as he held onto the locket Lorraine he treasured so dearly. The man was pushed into another vision of the past, his joining of the family he loved so dearly and had given him a place to call home. Banjo, Arsenios, Tony, Klaus, Mikhail, and Morado all flashed by him so slowly, but to him it was too quick as he saw the coveted bandana he seeked for so long. His son, his bastard, taking refuge in the only place he could think of. His poor son, now an orphaned bastard like he was. How the Ferrymen would shape him to be so great, better than his father. Snapping back to reality, the olog’s hand crushed down on him all too quickly. Where the psychotic breakdown controlled his life, the olog had swiftly ended it, leaving The Patriot dead on the pavement of the Oren he loved. His final breath sighed as loud of a cannon as the bells tolled and a star beaming across the night sky in the desert heat. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Letters for the loved ones of the fallen. For Banjo Mareno ( @Masouri ) For Klaus ( @Estew ) To Primrose ( @MapleSunflower)

The Eternal Rest of The Last Argent Knight [Sir Sebastian Velho in his Lord Commander armour in the savannahs of the South] (sydniart on DeviantArt) Sebastian stood. The empty man stood. It was all he could do. In his grasp laid a missive, detailing on the dissolvement of the Principality of Savoy, a single teardrop had permanently marked the page from a few hours earlier. Recent events had crippled the man, leaving him an empty shell of what was once a proud Freimarkish man, a Son of St Tylos, a Commander of the Argent Legion, an Argent Knight, the first and last Grand Komes of Lvinsk and most importantly, a Savoyard. It was almost as if the world had crumbled around him, moved on from his lands, but left him behind. He stood. The empty man stood. It was all he could do. He turned his golden-clad visage up towards the empty county of Freimark. Nothing could be heard but the wind and the movement of Sebastian's armour, clanking as he trudged upon the cobbles to the main square. This is where it started. His life truly began here, he had seen a great many things in this town, this County - the comings and goings of many people, most of whom he would dare to call his friends, the rise and fall of a great, great County. He ran his finger along the dishevelled walls, clearly with a lack of care given to them in recent years. As the metal collided with the rock, he recalled upon the time he was sat upon this wall, as he saw an innocent man be dragged into the castle to be executed for deserting the nation. He'd walk further into the square, noticing an old, dried pool of crimson splattered on the corner of a building - the time his ribs were crushed by a bison on a hunt, but the medical expertise of the town helped him recover. He reached his destination in the town. Each step he took up the stairway would creak, the wooden planks not used to this kind of treatment for a long time. He'd arrived. His store. He'd hold his throat as he let his gaze drift to the sign above the door. "Velho's Elixir's and Tinctures." A few of the letters had worn out, but of course he remembered what was in the blank spaces. He'd push the door and with a creak it opened smoothly, there had been no lock protecting it for a long time. Dust was dancing about the room, sunlight peering through the windows, leaving a distracting beam hitting the centre of the room. He would spend some time there, sat on the cold, cold floor. He stood. The empty man stood. It was all he could do. He'd reach the top of the cobbled slope, a chill overcoming his body, to the base of his spine. The ruins of San Luciano, the once great capital of the region. As he stepped into the city, he could feel the thanhium begging to be let into his golden case. He furiously denied it, encroaching upon the empty throne room. He'd kick the door to the palace, breaking the ice which had made it's living upon the hinges. Each step would echo throughout the hall, combating with the mist appearing from his face from the temperature for dominance in the space. He'd kneel to the throne, placing his sword in front of him on the old, forgotten carpet as he closed his eyes. He had fought many battles in this city, and tried his best to protect it. But thanhium bombs from external forces - that was something even he could not have prevented. He stood. The empty man stood. It was all he could do. He'd approach his final destination, a place he had been not but a few hours earlier. Lvinsk. The walls towered over him as he stood in the now flattened centre of the settlement. He'd get down on one knee and inspect a rock which had been left from the deconstruction before the inhabitants moved to Orenian lands. He'd chuckle, inspecting the rock before mustering a small amount of strength to toss it into the nearby pond. This had been his last home in Savoy. He would spend an unknown amount of time circling the town's interior, running his hand along the walls as he did so. He'd stop at the keep, which had been the home to House Jazloviecki until recent times. He'd enter the courtyard, which had been left open, before sitting down on the lower wall to inspect the area. His blue eyes would be affixed upon a specific area of stones, where a small trickle of red laid between them. With his deeds done, Sebastian would nod to himself, preparing himself. He had no purpose anymore, his nation - everything he'd known was gone. He'd take a long, deep breath into his lungs before rebounding it back out, nodding once more to reassure himself. He'd drop the missive in his place, the leaflet being left in the dirt as he left through the city's back gate. He didn't know where he was going - he didn't frankly care. He took a gaze up to the sky, seeing it painted a beautiful orange. He'd scramble up to the top of the hill, planting his sword into the ground once he had reached it. He'd look at his weapon, before removing his helmet and turning it around so he could gaze at the visor. He would thank the helmet, pressing his forehead to it's. His words would croak, as if a blockage was in his throat, and a beautiful stream flowed down his pale cheek, leaving his face cold in contrast with the southern winds. He'd approach the nearby tree and take a seat, a smile forming on his face, As the sun set over Savoy.

A Gasp of Fresh Air What is life? Is it a gasp of fresh air flowing through the lungs of a living person? Is it the birth of a child and the death of an elder? Does life truly end? Does it ever even start? Andrik woke from his seemingly eternal slumber. It had been days since any person had even seen the now estranged Prince. Even the servants who regularly tended to his every need were locked out of his private chambers. It’s not like anyone wanted to tend to such a room anyways, the place was barren. As once stated in a poem, Andrik had manifested his quarters into a truly dark and depressing prison cage, yet he played the role of warden and prisoner at the very same time… Perhaps it’s not so simple? No, it can not be, for life is not just for the descendent. It resides in every cottage, hole, stump, and castle. It is valuable to the most devout sinners and those seeking repentance. “The wedding, Highness, it is time” heard the Prince as he awoke from his rest. For a moment, Andrik paused. Should he show? Is he ready for such a feat? Is the world ready to see him again? Would they even care? These questions, and many more, ran through his mind as his maids laid out a simple selection of clothes. “Well, Ana surely would never forgive me if I missed this one” replied the Prince, only it was already an hour after he awoke. It was funny to him how fast time flew by in his head. Perhaps life has no meaning at all? After all, history has proven we obsess over social structure, Is it too foreign to say that we have no right to question it? Are we so arrogant? So hubristic? Or even egotistic? After all, it was not too long ago that Andrik nearly lived a fairytale life. A separate path that was so foreign to the life of a traditional Prince, even he had trouble imagining it sometimes. But he did dream… Those dreams were severed along with his lover’s head. Oh well, God had punished him much more harshly, right? It was tragic, but the Prince had a void growing in his heart beforehand. Besides, feelings have no place in the Royal Household. It was simply improper. Annika had taught his son better etiquette than that. Is life ever beautiful or horrible? The wolfpack hunting a herd of rabbits is gruesome to the privileged eyes of man, Yet no man sheds a tear for tearing down the home of a squirrel. Perhaps there is no right answer, no conclusion, or plan? The ceremony was like all others for the Prince, a simple reminder of what could have been for him, and what could be for the newly wedded. Marriage, in his eyes, was an overrated social construct of humankind. Why should a man and a woman be pressured to wed for social status and not for the love of one another? Why are divorces so final and yet a betrothal can be remade at any time with little consequence? Oh well, no matter. The past was just that and he had no future to look forward to. “Just a few more minutes until I can lock myself in again.” The truth may never be found. However one thing is for certain, Life is valued by all things that hold on to it And is a mere existence of those who let go of it. “Margrait looked beautiful in her dress. I wonder who tailored it?” thought the Prince to himself. The dinner was okay. Andrik had been picking at a small slice of carrot cake, freshly made by the Queen herself. Andrik was never really a fan of sweets, even as a child. He’d always cherished the more unique foods like various fruits and cheeses. It reminded him of how he so yearned to be unique, and yet ironically ended up like every other Barbanov royal; He was a broken and dysfunctional mess, and yet let none of it hinder his duties. Life is a blessing to most but a curse to the lonely. It is both utterly meaningless and yet means more than anything. It can be cherished and cursed in both birth and death. It is the end of the road for some, and the start of the pavement for many others. Savoyard Port was always a close favorite of the Prince despite the harsh memories it gave him. Surprising to his gossiping servants, it was true that he’d been sober for nearly a decade now. Most of his adulthood had been spent drinking, Andrik didn’t even remember holding his first, and only, son in his arms. A distant memory of what could have been… It’s both beautiful and cruel at the same time. Suddenly, as he dreamt of a better life, a servant bumped into the drunken Prince, causing his face to collapse face-first into the cake. I no longer wish to know what life means. In the end, is it all meaningless? Even if the generation ahead of you screams your name until it echoes through history, Would the noise sound forever? Walnuts. Andrik always enjoyed walnuts as a child considering his varied pallet. He’d always loved unique tastes, yet his adventure had come to a sudden unsuspected halt. The laughs slowly faded as the Prince's eyes shut, forever in that dream. I refuse to accept that. Life is not about what you do as you live, But rather what you leave behind for your successors. Life is not a purpose, but rather a legacy. ~ P.A.N. B.B., Akovia “Anya? Bran? Is that you?”

A DANCE WITH DEATH “Manfred would keep the gate open and have a guard,” spoke a person. That struck her ire. Again and again, Laurentina was reminded of how terrible she was at this. She was never born to do this. She was never meant to do this and she did not want to do this. “Well, I am NOT Manfred,” snapped the Lady Arichsdorf, bitter as she often was in the months after her husband’s death. She was not a leader. She was not a leader. She was not a leader. “You are running out of advisors,” spoke the man coldly. Perhaps it did not have the effect he wanted it to have. “Yelling at them might not be exactly what you want to do.” As he turned away and his footsteps faded, a tear fell from her eyes. Laurentina’s gaze turned over to the Cathedral of the faith she had abandoned for love. Was she a fool? Perhaps so, indeed. Not even thirty and ghosts keep haunting her. Her mother, her father, her sisters and brother. Tears began to fall uncontrollably. Noone noticed as the Lady approached the Cathedral. Happier days flashed before her mind. How she missed Catherine, her best friend. How Helton and Henrietta mothered her and how her older sister, Daphne, shone a light upon her. How she shone when she became ruby of the Astercalia. The pride her father felt for her that day still brought a smile to her face. The fluttering she felt within her stomach when her husband kissed her for the first time. And then, a year later, when they stood before Philip III and Anastasia I, who wed them. She experienced love when she held her firstborn, Athelred Heltyn, within her arms. Five more followed, each and every one of them sparked joy in Laurentina whenever she thought of them. Pride washed over her when she thought of the people of Arichsdorf, who used to be so close. Noone noticed as she broke through some doors and moved up the stairs to the clocktower. Was it a sin? Was this the answer? She had never felt so desperate. It clung to her, for hours, days, weeks, months - years even. Inhale. Exhale. “It will be alright.” Laurentina spotted a smile as she walked on ahead. Ghosts of her past visited her, all of which had their dance with death. Family, friends, all those she loved so dearly. They were just out of reach. “Just a step. One step. Stop being a coward, face it - for once.” Inhale. She extended her hand out. “Wait, wait for me! Don’t leave - I am coming!” And as she took that fateful step, the desperation faded and became euphoria. It WILL be alright. I’ll be home with them. Come, dance with me! Laurentina von Arichsdorf (neé Helvets) 1842-1870

[!] Grief. Grief is what the Khurhukar family felt, when they learned that Nossir was dead. The events leading up to it: Nossir, living in Elysium, joined the war effort. He couldn't really do anything, so he just helped out where he could. His family supported him, but then, the fall of Ebonwood. That, as the clan got a piece of land there, drove him mad. Then, the blood rain came, which, while didn't touch him, made him even more mad. He couldn't take it. One day, he woke up, got dressed in his clan armor, then went out. He was feeling...weak.... He couldn't run, and even walking was hard... The curse of foresight: He knew he didn't have long. He has had a lot of visions leading up to it. He began writing. [!] A book could be found under the pillow of his death bed My dear family. If you are reading this, then I'm most likely dead. I want you to know, that I love you. I tried my best to make your lives better. Kax, my dearest friend, you taught me a lot. About our culture, our ancient history and our culture. Thank you for that. Tuluk, my partner in trouble, you really did make my life really fun. I hope you will remember me as the clan leader who killed a giant bear, and not that one Tigrasi who was doing stuff. Kabuki, my dearest son, I'm sorry that I left you alone. This world is a mean one, and now you are alone in it. I hope the clan will take good care of you, and that you will carry the name Tul'Kabuki Khurhukar with pride. Please do not mourn me, or dwell on my passing, instead, live your life to the fullest. I ask you one last thing. Please remember me, and tell stories about my life. I love you all the same, I really do, but this is what Metztli wanted. Remember me. I have spoke with some people, and they told me that, after death, if even one person remembers you, you live on as an observer, observing the lives of your loved ones. [!] Some words would be unreadable, as he cried when he wrote it. The passing of a leader: Nossir felt that he wasn't okay, and sent a bird to Kax'ahli. Kax received the letter, and hurried over to the clan house. He saw that Nossir could barely walk, and he helped him home. They sat down. Kax asked Nossir what the problem was, and he told him. Then, Kax helped Nossir upstairs to his bed. He prepared his stuff for the ritual. This is when news got to Ursus Grandaxe, who was a dear friend of Nossir, and he rushed to the home. Nossir was sleeping. When he woke up, he signaled to Kax to begin the ritual. And so, Kax started praying and gave a lot of things to Nossir, as to help him along his way to the afterlife. Nossir started saying random words, and he fell asleep for one last time. Kax finished the ritual. In tears, he walked out onto the balcony, and yelled something along the lives of this: Elysium! The great leader, Tul'Nossir Khurhukar of the clan Khurhukar is dead! He was a good friend and a great leader. Kax then went to blow the death whistle. Ursus walked out to where Kax stood, and he yelled: NARVAK OZ NOSSIR! NARVAK OZ TAE KHA!! After the two went to leave, the bed started shaking violently. It stopped after a few minutes. Then, Nossirs dead body started levitating. His eyes and mouth were open, and spewing out a blue light. His fur was glowing with the same blue light too. It stopped right after, the whole ordeal lasting at most 5 minutes. Nossir's body was now laying on the bed again. A whistling was heard inside the room. Then whispering. It couldn't be made out what it said, but it could've been heard. Nossir didn't go without a fight. He fought his fate, and he tried to outplay death. Well, he almost did. He almost survived. He was dead. Well, he wasn't really dead. A last, fragile and quite word came from his lifeless body. Goodbye... Nossir, at last, was dead... or is he? After a few days, the house was closed. No family member entered. Nothing. But after 4 days, Patlana entered. He entered sad, and left shocked. Nossir was gone, his body nowhere to be found.

Without A Word Milo Kutznetsov decided to begin leaving the farm house again, ‘putting himself out there’ could be a way of describing it.. He stepped foot into the Karosgrad gate, as many times before.. Not knowing this would be his final walk into the grand city.. He spots one Brandon Boswen being removed from the city by two BSK members and one Iulius Vernhart, tutor and jovenaar to those in Haense, Milo’s greatest, and closest friend. The Kutznetsov shrugs it off, not even giving it another thought. He continues through the street of Karosgrad, making his way to the square. Though freeze’s half way through his march.. The Ferrymen charge through the city, charging for the square, with their blades and weapons raised high.. Milo steps to the side as he tries to grasp, or even comprehend what’s happening.. The group of ferrymen swarm a few unfortunate individuals in the square, slaying them instantly. Then Milo knew what he must do, he advanced toward the square.. Reaching for his own blade, Iulius Vernhart not far behind him. He makes his way to the square, meters away from the ferrymen, or so he believed. Iulius Vernhart stood at his side, his own blade raised. He shares a whisper to The Kutznetsov, “This am the end, mea friend.” Milo swallows before gently nodding his head in response, as if speaking words without saying a single thing.. Not even a moment after Iulius had whispered such to him, He draws his final breath.. An axe came down on The Kutznetsov’s head, splitting it into two. A Ferryman having been at his left flank the entire time.. Milo’s sword fell from his hand, impacting the ground with a clang… Soon after his entire body goes limp, he then plummets to the ground with a “THUMP!” Iulius' words where so ever true, It was the end, Milo lays there dead.. Milo left his home that day, without saying a word to his family. He said not a word, not to either of his sisters, Dijana, his niece, nephew, nor his father.. Not a single person. Now, He’s gone…

A GRAND PASSING. Dungrimm awaits those who die with honor. It was a normal day for Kronk ‘The Grand’ Stormheart before the dreaded expedition that had gone horribly wrong. A small meeting with the King of Norland, discussing possible joint military trainings. A meeting with his friend Johann Barclay, the Lord Marshal of Haense. It had been a nice day, but it was about to take a turn for the worse. Kronk ‘The Grand’ Stormheart set out with his dwarven brethren towards the void. As usual, Kronk was right at the front guarding his squad and the mages that stood behind him. They entered and the effects of the Void were immediately clear, mana overflowing and the ground beneath their feet constantly changing. The air conveyed a feeling of dread, and it became harder to breathe. Yet even with these circumstances the combined force of dwarves and mages pushed on. “DONNAEH WORREH LADS, DUNGRIMM GUIDES US TES DAY!” Kronk shouted out to his companions, a grin forming on his face. As they neared the cliffs, a thunderous roar could be heard and a beastly figure appeared in the sky. “ET BEH AH DRAGON!” One of the dwarves shouted. “WEH SHALL KILL ET TEN!” Kronk retorted with his trademark confidence and vigour, yet this beast was unlike anything he’d ever seen before. A massive three-headed beast that could incinerate a man with one breath. Kronk’s focus was set on nothing else but to slay the beast, a task impossible for the equipment they had. And then it struck. Kronk was lucky to have been missed by the first hit. The reality struck in as his friend, Balor’s arm was incinerated straight off. “SHIELD WALL ENFRONT OF TAEH MAGES!” The Marshal shouted out as they did so. But it was too late, little did Kronk know the dragon had its sights fully set on him. BANG! The lightning struck right to his side, sending the Marshal flying further down the cliff into the hard rock wall. “OOOMFFF!” Kronk groaned out as his back snapped, paralyzing the dwarf to only being able to crawl. “WE’REH NAEH LEAVIN’ YEH BEHOIND!” Two of his fellow dwarves, Gwydion and Barundin Ireheart shouted out as they went to assist the Marshal, carrying him away from the battle. Before they got far the massive three-headed dragon landed right in front of them, charging up its lightning breath once more. Kronk hastily tried to shield his fellow dwarves with his enchanted shield, but fate would not have it that day. The wall grew behind them as the three dwarves, Kronk, Gwydion and Barundin grinned wide once more. “DUNGRIMM HAS CHOSEN MEH TOH TRAVEL TOH HIM TES DAY! MAY OI DRINK ALE AN’ FOIGHT MOI BATTLES TEREH!” Kronk exclaimed as the lightning reached him. “NARVAK. OZ. URGUAAAAAAAAAAANNN!” The Grand Marshal announced with a last defiant breath as he was turned into ash. As Kronk died he thought of all his family and friends, Ranna, his loving fiancee and his kids. Hieran, a friend he had never been able to spend time with due to the constant war with Oren. The Legion he left behind, and his officers that waged every battle with him. Uruan Stormheart, his ever supporting father and greatest influence. Mica Goldhand, his loving aunt. Sionnach, his everlasting friend to whom he had promised they would die together. Ulfric Frostbeard, the old King of Urguan that had trusted him with the position of Marshal. Edward Thuri-Elendil, his Templar friend. And many more. [!] A small book could be found in a drawer of the Grand Marshal’s desk. “If you read this it's too late for me, for I have found my place with Dungrimm. I, Kronk ‘The Grand’ Stormheart have died. To my clan, I love you all to the fullest extent, and I apologize for going. To my dad, i am so incredibly sorry for the pain and sorrow you must be in. But I want you to know, I am the happiest son that ever lived because you showed me all the things i know. I am not much of a writer, but don't let my death get to you. And to my Legion. Don’t worry as I am sure there will be a great Grand Marshal after me, so is the way of Urguan. Treat them with utmost respect and vigour that you lads are capable of. I don't need a funeral. I just need Norli to cement me as an Urguani hero, that scheming bastard." Narvak oz Urguan, Kronk ‘The Grand’ Stormheart.

A scouting mission, she had been told. To gather samples, analyze them. It was anything but. As the Lord Dame of Brinewell, Ruina R'ikarth-Iron'Heartz-Anarore-Sweist, followed after close friends and strangers into the voidal hollow, she did not know that she would never return. No opportunity to fight and no chance to flee, she and one of her oldest lliran succumbed to the horrors that awaited those few who ventured into the cursed place. She had led a rather exciting life in her later years after so much struggle in her youth. Upon her arrival in Almaris she found herself in the middle of a war between men and dwed. She initially settled in the old Nor'asath, then moving to Elysium for only a month, and finally to Lubba's Keep for a few years. She met someone. Had children. Never married. Decided the war was not for her. Fleeing to the north, she found a home in Fenn, a place to belong, even if it was among the whitest elves she'd ever seen. She lived through the joining of Fenn and Nor'asath, became the undercity's grand steward, and was ultimately banished from both places by a woman she'd once considered her friend, but who she had grown to hate. But hate was the furthest thing from her mind as she met her end. No, she had no thoughts at all of those who had wronged her - she could have cared less about them. The end was nothingness. She took her friend's hands as the void took them both, mutated them into the very creatures who had brought about their demise. She cried, her thoughts only of her daughter. She had no time to think of all those she had met in life. A child was tucked away in her room, several letters beneath it. [!] It had the year '72' written on it. "If you are reading this, you've either broken into my home (in which case I will be personally removing your shins), or, I am dead. Or just... Gone. Whoever finds this, send the rest of these letters to whoever I've named in this doom note. With that out of the way, let me begin. To those who could call themselves my llir, I thank you for being a part of my life. To Primrose, thanks for the wig. To Mika, thanks for the kids and so many experiences and adventures when I first arrived in Almaris. To Jon Snowell, thanks for the sword. To Elathion, I leave you a bowl of crackadonk chili. Come to Brinewell and it will be delivered to you. To those I've killed, a personal screw you, and I wish I could do it again. To the weefolk, I leave to you my cheese collection, which has been aging for quite a while. As well as some booze. To Valindra, you are one of the best friends I've ever had the pleasure of meeting in my life. I trust you will be able to finish the work we started. To Jorg Iron'Heartz, I miss you so much old friend... To Durin, swing by for a free drink sometime. To Zirath, you may visit Brinewell whenever you'd like for free food and drink. To Ruilia... I miss you. I... Love you. I wish we would have married. To Scrisa, my daughter, there is an inheritance of sorts waiting for you should you be able to find it. I trust that with your smarts you will be able to do so rather quickly. You will take over my position on Brinewell when you reach the age of 50, if you'd like. Oh, and take care of your new sister. She'll need someone to take care of her in my absence, and I don't even have the name of the father who gave her to me. Until then, Esmee, I leave you with the island to do with as you see fit." OOC: It's been fun, Ruina was an absolute menace to society and I had a blast playing her. Her death was a bit... awful, I suppose, but we knew the risks going into the PK site. Just didn't know it was essentially a death sentence. If I've missed anyone and you feel you deserve something from my item collection, HMU on Discord. (I blame xMuted for this PK)

A storm came over Lvinsk. The rain was pouring constantly, the lightnings were striking in the distance. However, in the Jazloviec Keep there was one light burning in the window. In the largest bedroom on the bed lay Borys, the Margrave of these lands. His breathing was heavy, in his hand lying inertly on the bedclothes, he held a handkerchief in which he had coughed for two years. Next to the big bed, a boy, the second eldest son, Maciej, was sitting at a desk. He had a pen in his hand, and sheets of paper lay before him, as if he were ready to write. Then the old soldier spoke to him in these words “Write, my son, the time has come...” after which he coughed and Maciej started taking notes of his words. Letter to Sophia Jazloviecki-Barclay: Letter to August Jazloviecki: Letter to Tylos II: Letter to Jindrich Jazloviecki: Letter to Sebastian Velho: Letter to Prince Lucien Ashford di Savoie: Letter to Princess Renata and Duke Remus: Letter to Ernst Barclay: Letter to Adalrich Barclay: Having finished, Borys looked straight ahead. Apart from him, there were other figures in the room, though not as articulate as his son. Ulrich rested his hand on the edge of the bed, beside him stood Jurgen in the black and white armour he had on the day of the infamous coup. Leaning against the wall stood Bruce and right next to him Genkai. Then Jurgen spoke to him in these words "Come on now, how much longer do we have to wait?" and then he smiled. A tear trickled down the cheek of old Borys, who replied "Just a moment longer friends". Then Maciej asked "Tato, who are you talking to?" clearly not seeing the ghosts. Borys did not answer the question, but requested something from his son "Blow out the candle and go. Sleep well son" The Margrave kissed the forehead of the young descendant, after which Maciej extinguished the candle and left the room. That is how, after many years of struggle, Borys Jazloviecki, Margrave, Lord Commander, father, friend, enemy, passed away on the same night. He died peacefully, in his own bed, from which he set out on his last journey… Borys Jazloviecki, Margrave of Lvinsk, Lord Commander of Savoy, Argent Knight, Patriarch of House Jazloviecki

The Death of a Princess [!] The official portrait of Carolina Milena De-Joannes at the age of twenty It had been a rather warm day, the flowers were blooming and the sky seemed to cast without a cloud. Time looked to be perfect, War had been settled and peace was flourishing each nation. The youngest goat princess of Sedan, Carolina, had been running her normal day. Out of the palace to frolic in the sunshine as the heat of spring allowed the youngest princess to dance with her goat and travel the world. Carolina found herself today along the roads, as she traveled down the hills and across the dusty streets with a small tote. Little did the realm know, this would be the last they’d see of Carolina again. Weeks would pass.. and there had been no word.. and no sight of Carolina, not since she left Haense from Lifesta, not from sedan since she had left a month ago The question lingered on everyone’s lips, Where could Carolina have gone.. Without a word.. Without being seen? It wasn't until about three months after her strange disappearance, Percy - her servant boy and true friend - ran across a small blonde body that looked to be frozen entirely, with long scars that dragged across her face and gouged out eyes. ”C-Carolina?” his voice echoed out in the empty road as a small note had been found in the palm of her hand ” Dear Sedan, I've decided to return to Haense. I want to rekindle my life there.. I left and it was a bad time, however I'm determined to make things work again. If they socially out-cast me for my strange accent and the fact that my first love and I didn't work.. So be it! I will try.. Try my hardest, I will win them over again, I just know it.. I will always love the fields, the tree’s and the warmth Sedan offers me. I will always be grateful and remember my kind words. I will never forget seeing Sofya. She practically raised me. I still have a nephew to meet, don’t I? Oh, and Frederick’s kids, I’ve never so badly wanted a child of my own. Mister Sir Casius, I swear I'll find someone worthy in your eyes.. Though I do think I'll miss your nagging once I do. Petresya if you interfere with another lifesta for your children, tell them Carolina was the first to share that fate! Percy.. I'd never be able to survive without you in this world. Please don't try to come to Karosgrad, give yourself a life.. Marry that lady.. Find your own goat because Feather Face is going with me! Frederick, thank you for the support in my life. I wouldn't ever ask for a better eldest brother. Well Isaak never talks to me so the bar is pretty low.. [!] A small :p is drawn after that sentence..[!] I guess.. It's childish to run from your problems, so I'll simply face them directly, send me a letter.. Send me a thought. I love you all dearly. -Love, Princess Carolina Milena De-Joannes.” Looking between the crumbled note and the horribly disfigured corpse there was no mistaking that the youngest goat princess Was Dead Ooc:

Long Time Coming Artames Apis de Sarkozy [Artames Apis de Sarkozy laid in his deathbed] Artames was taken from the world at the age of thirty-six after he succumbed to consumption. He had been a fair, honest man and was always willing to assist those around him - even to the detriment of himself. Despite being a good person, he had his flaws; Artames was a man without a strong will and was meek, he typically was usually easily swayed by those he thought had authority over him. He passed whilst he laid on his bed, tired and in pain. He had lost the energy of his youth after years of suffering from his ailment and was a husk of his former self when he died. By his side were his dutiful wife, Victoria Orel, and son, Alexander Edwin. Artames left notes to his dearest friend and relative: Joseph Beckett Laurent Frederick

Omar Grimmer'Lak's Death The old goblin, Omar Grimmer'Lak, passes away at the ripe old age of 400 years old. "PREYZE LAKLUL!" Character Biography Family Tree ((Next character if I start playing again))

Mum'zog... Didn't really have much in life. He ate quite a few people and traumatized a noble at one point. At the end of his life, he weighed 950lbs from how much he'd eaten. How did he die? The Big Blue. It's tail sought to rip through the floor of the cave and cut him in half in one fell swoop as he was helping his new comrades fight the thing, the oceanic scales shredding through his armour and body, cutting him in half. He'd agreed to fight on the condition he be given an entire feast, though perhaps his hunger, like so many other ologs, was the death of him.

To think of any other end for a woman such as she would be a product of great niavety, Some could say she was doomed from the beginning, a product of two parents that took one look at her and decided that she was not fit for the life ahead of her. Even then, she did not give up, through the neglect and through the pain, she searched for what was right. Plagued with near constant guilt a simple trick of the eye lead her to her first home, Elvenesse, not a place for orcs. Though, a child such as herself would have little concept of the pain this was to bring. She was met with warmth, a sense of support and love, something she could not give up. Her first mother, perhaps a little inexperienced, but caring nonetheless, but nothing was set to last, she too would be ripped away from her, expelled from the place she called home on the basis of her race. Finding sanctuary in the mother grove, she would then meet her second adoptive mother, a goblin, a plant. At this point she was still attempting to juggle her identities, unsure of where she belonged. Often she would visit Krugmar, in hopes that she would somehow fit in, somehow be accepted, but each visit drove her further away, into the arms of the druids. Her youth was wrought with religious conflict and an unstable sense of identity. Though, as she aged she developed a concrete sense of morals, perhaps to her own detriment. The woman was determined to do right by the word, but was the world really worth such efforts? At the young age of sixteen her mother died, leaving young Urza saddled with the responsibility of the household and their numerous, near infinite stock of ferrets. At this point Urza had taken to traveling between both Elvenesse and the Mother Grove, often seeing many patients near-daily. Her reputation proceeded her "One of the good ones". She had not yet realized that her reputation teetered a very fine line. To be useful was to survive, bar that and she would soon meet a grim reality. After the death of her mother, she launched herself even further into her work and into dedicancy, gaining proficiency at a staggering level. Soon she would become a surgeon in her own right, lecturing local elves on their own stupidity, and acting as a rare dose of sanity. Eventually she would long for a family, she would soon be accepted in to house Hawksong, a long line of musical elves, proficient in equestrian arts. Naturally, this was quite a staggering thing, to have an orc in an elven house, but so it was. This cemented her place in elven society, and though she was never truly treated equally, she was content, she had succeeded, found her place. This happiness would be cut short when she made the decision to have her first child, the harsh reality became clear, he would not be embraced as she was, he was not willing to be perfect, he was crushed under the weight of a society that expected twice the excellence just to be treated as less than, rather than discarded, or mounted on a pike. This rift in her perception of her kin, and the reality of their mistreatment would plant seeds of doubt in the young orcess' mind. Urza would go on to have two more children, dedicating her every waking thought to keeping them safe and sane whilst juggling the inherently oppressive nature of her home. She would fail. Not only would her firstborn be ripped away from her, so too would her young daughter, kidnapped by the same uruk that slew her son, and kept from her, told that her mother had abandoned her. Losing her children broke Urza, she would become a recluse, wandering the forests for some sense of meaning, barely speaking a word. Attempts were made to reintegrate but the seeds of hatred and vitriol had prospered in her time away. Given such a time to ponder her treatment, she would no longer see those she helped as kin, instead viewing her life through a crimson tinge. The woman, determined to remain steadfast in her morals removed herself from her past, leaving for another nation, giving up her dedicancy, throwing herself once more into her work. Though this would not bring her satisfaction. Urza would soon learn of her missing daughter, upon hearing the grueling truth of her life and the lies she had been told, she would be thrown into a fit of rage, destroying her own home in the process, "Da Ragukz took mi in, dey told mi lat... lat abandoned mi" "Mi nevah woul' abandon lat." "Nevah" "Ag zhoul' nevah 'ave let youh goh bahk, ahm zo zorreh, ah wanted tah give youh ah choice, choice ah nevah 'ad" something within the woman would be revitalized, once again fueled by a dedication to her loved ones, and a hunger to right the world's wrongs once more. This however would not fix the hurt, it would not fix the fact that she had nowhere to go, no family she could call her own, no shoulder to cry on. Of course she had the Hawksongs, but they would never understand the weight of a lifetime of lies, of a worldview turned upside down. It is not known what happened to Urza, perhaps she has found a home among the forests, perhaps she simply succumbed to the elements. One thing however is sure, she, as many have before did not go out in a blaze of glory, she did not die protecting those she loved. No, instead, she went quietly into that goodnight, never to be seen again, never to be heard again, and most tragically of all, with no one to tell her story. Perhaps she would die forgotten, but perhaps she would not wish to be remembered. Perhaps in death, her wish for a better world could live on in her descendants, or perhaps she would die in vain, never to leave a mark.

Mink stood within the kitchen kneading the dough and getting it ready to set out to rise. Under her breath she sang a lullaby, one that her father would’ve sung to her when she was younger. It was before dawn, a time that was often for Mink to wake up. Even as a noble woman, she desired more to clean and see the happy smiles and full stomachs of her family than any gold or coin. Turning away from the kitchen she walked into the off-room parlor. Taking a seat next to the portrait of the Vuiller family she sighed at the sight of it. It pulled her heartstrings, seeing everyone so happy, and most likely the only painting of her father. She placed her hand over her chest, gripping the shirt of her dress as her heart tightened more. Something wasn’t right, her body hurt and suddenly she was on the floor. In her fleeting moments she thought back on her life. A young girl by the name of Mink Vuiller ran around the streets of Oren, looking around for her family. She soon stopped outside one of the many tall buildings and listened to the loud voice of her father coming from within. Soon Mink was greeted with more of her family, her siblings and distant cousins. The girl hid next to her proud father, Cardinal Johan Vuiller, watching with squinted eyes at all the people around her. The party dispersed and she left with her cousin, helping carry her sleeping brother into the cathedral. A few years later Mink was within Southbridge, hiding with her sister and other women as it was attacked. The almost teen would glare frequently at the duchess that resided in the same room as them. She grew to despise the woman even more when she pulled the hair out of Ravn Vuiller's scalp. When they all fled back to Providence Mink wanted to leave the group, but did not as her father was there at the gates when she arrived. Minutes later they were within the palace, and stuck within one of the many rooms. Mink was grumbling at her sister next to her as the Duchess went into another room with her father. Frequently her eyes wandered over to the armored man that the Duchess had picked up for ‘protection’. “I don’t see why I need to stay here- why we have to stay here.” Mink crossed her arms as she looked over at the Dutchess’ daughter that stood on the other end of the room. Mink was running through the streets of Oren, laughing at her escape from the room and essentially the palace. She could hear her father’s booming voice behind her, and it only made her move faster. Soon the gates to the city were in sight as she took the citizen doors and made her way down the long stairs. As her flats touched the solid earth she looked at the road signs, taking a sharp right and running over a bridge. Eventually Mink stopped running as she had landed in New Esbec, and the smell of cooking meat wafted to her from the local tavern. During many nights Mink would leave the safety of her home and take the trek to New Esbec to learn how to fight. During those nights the dark elf that was training her, Hans, would let her ask about her old wounds and of his past. The two became close friends, and soon Hans had gifted her a Dwarven Greataxe. “It is special, so take good care of it.” He smiled at her as she learned how to properly use the weapon. Years had passed, and Mink grew into a young lady. Over those years Mink had been cooped up mostly within her room reading and doing lazy sketches. When she did leave her home, she met nice men her age, and for a while she did adore one but he turned and left with no trace. Many times this would happen to her, a man seemingly made to be her other would walk in and then out of her life. It confused and frustrated her, and it led her to leave on an expedition for many a year. Mink’s life continued like this till she settled and decided to start writing a book. Giving up on her own hope of love, she wrote and wrote drafts to day's ends. With the help of her sister they would both dable into sewing, and creating outfits, but it never stuck to Mink like her writing did. But as a war grew and soon broke out, Mink would not have the peace she needed. So for the first few years of the war, Mink stayed away from her family and went to other nations. Under the name Nerza, Mink would write her stories in peace. She was growing old and gray in a few spots in her hair, and it helped put a new perspective into her mind. Within her downtime, Mink would spoil local youths and give them mina or toys or sweets and it brought her great joy to see that smile upon their faces. Near the end of the war, Mink returned to her family and at their new estate. She smiled at the large lake within the center of the land as her brother Rev Vuiller approached her. The two triplets hugged and talked about the time that they had missed from one another. Rev even showed her a room where she could call her own. Old and graying, Mink confined herself to the cleanliness of the fortress-like keep. Keeping what semblance of a routine she would wake early to make breakfast for the family, occasionally taking the help of the younger generations. While everyone else was out and about Mink would sweep, dust, polish and shine everything she could. Her days were simple to her, cook, clean and rest. Mink’s life had been awry, and all over the place. And in her fleeting moments of life, she wished for nothing more than for the relief from it all. And that is what she gotten that when she breathed her last breath.

A written letter would be left out, made for all to see and hear, a precaution in case the adunian known as Vesryn Otellio Delmar died suddenly. "Hello there everyone, I know this is an improper way to start a letter. But I've never been much of a proper indvidual, I'm a lying conniving bastard, that somehow won the grandest prize in life. To think that a peasent like I, managed to become nobility, riches, and gain a loving family. To think that I would rise the way I did, and attain what I did, I mean like I said. I'm a right and true bastard. But I digress, I would like to make a small message, for those I knew and those I interacted with semi often. I thank those that genuinely gave me a chance, that trusted my decisions, and put faith in me. I thank you those that guided me, and those I could call fellow brothers and sisters in arms. Most certainly, I thank those that accepted me as an equal, regardless of my Adunian heritage which I am proud of. To some of you, I will leave behind a personal letter, however for others I shall either thank you or curse you out here. Borok you where a right Orc and fun hunting buddy, I hope you achieve all that you are looking for in the way of Grizh. To Ahng, you where a cool Brotha to hang out with. To Yarrow, You gave out really good Cactus Green. Ellathor, you where a bit of an idiot, but you had a kind heart. Do right by the Rangers and the rest of Elysium. To Aiyeis, you where an amazing soul, and I wish you nothing but the best in life. To Coral, I wish you and Edward the best. To the Vanari's, I personal would like to flip you all off, but you have the arm of my favorite flipping off hand. To Alona and Togrim Vanari, you are the exception to the prior flipping off. It was an honor to work with you both. To Strange Incantations, you where one of my favorite book shops. To Adem, good luck on your ventures. Avery I hope you continue on with your reading studies, your doing good. Prince Amaesil, I still hold that grudge on you not paying me for the arm. Aech, stay short and fearsome. Rina D'avre I will meet you in the pits of Moz. Rylanor, you where a good proud dwede, and I thank you always for the hand you gave me. Cypress, you where an idiot who talked shit about my wife, **** you. Kane, you where cool, good beard. To all the vampire covens in Almaris, **** you, I can kill you with seasoning. To the Inferi of Almaris, **** you, you fed my soul. *******. To all Voidal Mages, besides the select handful I like. **** you, for bringing about the hollow, you fuckwits. To the mystics of the realm, I don't know you that well, hope that Specter I sent is okay. To the Necromancers of Almaris, some of you where *******. To the druids of Almaris, you had some good people in your groups I respect it. To Lotis however, **** you for trying to kill my wife that one time. But thank you for the cool sword. To the pumpkin duchess, I will meet you Stroz, you round pumpkin *****. To the entirety of Oren and it's people, **** you for killing my people and it's culture, you genocidal scumbags. To the Paladins, **** you you pompous little *******. To Yong Ping, you had a rat problem, I now hate rats because of you. To Sions extended family, why didn't you like me? To the O'Roukes, some of you where good people. To Auden, I'm sorry I could have been better. To Elysium as a whole, your city was good, the people where somewhat shit though. To Hexers, you where shit monster hunters. To the Lectors, thank you for the arm. Lastly to round it all of, to the entirety of Cartref Mor. Though I was here from the start in physical form, I will sadly be unable to progress and see how you grow and flourish in the physical. But, my spirit shall remain, guiding as an Ancestor from above. To always help point to the right direction in life, and to always scheme you out of a situation. " Signed - Vesryn Otellio Delmar, The Viper, Head of Diplomacy in Cartref Mor, Far Scryer of the Adunains. Sent out in private, would be letters for Six Indviduals. Labled [@Setsuko_] Edward Thuri-Elendil, [@Sciencepants2] Sionnach Delmar Redfist, Velen, [@Braydben] Bryan, [@BloodyZarios] Feo, [@DrHope] Lord John OOC Notes

The Bell Tolls for Another, This Day [!] A letter arrives on Sigismund's (@Xarkly) desk, no seal upon it. Though when opened, the handwriting is familiar. [!] A Portrait is published of the Dame featuring a depiction of her when much younger. A young teenage girl arrived at the tall red walls of the Royal city of Karosgrad one winter’s day, having travelled from her home deep in the Haeseni snow-filled countryside; the eve of her 16th birthday with one goal in mind. She was a complete blank slate, with no family of origin. "To my King, As I write this I'm sitting on the palace steps. Just at the bottom - right hand side. We have just elected Reinhardt to become Knight Paramount upon the Drowning of the Blades. The pyre burns before me, the pyre of both Baron Sigmar and Ser Erwin. It has been one hell of a year.” Lynette Stewart braved the first enemies, she faced the mangled bodies from the edges of Attenlund marshland, they killed a lundworm; shooting off its eye as a trophy, to which she had mounted on whichever wall was around ever since. She braved the Knight’s table and became a noble squire of the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska. In her Haense Royal Army oath hunt, the group of several young initiates braved the Reinmaren wilderness to slay a pack of wolves, and they were oathed before the Lord Marshal. "I've often thought about this: Lady Death is such a cruel mistress. She takes her pickings of those most undeserving and stamps upon them beneath her high-heeled boot. I suppose I answer to Lady Death. We have danced for decades, and everytime she takes one of my own victims, my soul teeters closer to the edges of her thinly wrinkled grasp.” Within the span of a year, she assisted in reconnaissance missions in the heart of Southern Sutican territory; meeting a man named Carlos Mendez. She met siren threats and slew them in Norland, and single-handedly faced a Reinmaren Rimetroll to allow time for reinforcements to arrive. She travelled far into the Grand Dwarven Kingdom, guarding a dwarven expedition for minerals from goblins, lava caverns, and worm foes. She travelled to the new City of Yong Ping and slew a pack of large ferocious wolves terrorising the roads. "I thought you should know this. For a person built and raised to serve, like myself, Royalty are like... Gods. I know that Godan shall strike me down for writing such words on paper, but I was on my way out anyway.. It stirs the being to spot them. A circlet upon the brow, dark Barbanov hair, bright expensive royal garb... Seeing a man of Royalty calls firmly upon the soul of a man. The soul of a Knight. It's Lady Death's whispers, and she tells you that you would do anything to protect them. You would die to scrounge a smile onto their face.” Blood gushed from the squire’s neck, and while her comrades celebrated their victory not too far away, she lay dying on the ground as the light faded from her sight and she bled out. A dark forest… Fresh air filled her blood-clogged lungs, the trees rustled and the wind beat against her movements. Glowing eyes filled the deeply shaded forest edges, and Lynette felt compelled to move - to run. She was being chased. And by what? "And I see you. I have served in King Sigismund III's Order of the Crow since his coronation. I have loyally watched. We watched you play jolly games of chess with a now-dead man. I've watched you drive your siblings away, and push forward in a war no one expects you to win.” Sinister howls filled the air. It froze her bones and shook her core. Blood gushed from the squire’s neck, and at the sight of it she let out a loud pained shriek, reaching up to try and cover the open wounds. A dark forest. Howls signifying death to all who hear them. Blood rushing from the body faster than could be prevented - she was going to die. Eyes staring back at her from the depths of unreachable shadow. A dark forest filled with death at each turn. And then light. Brightness. Warmth. Life. She was alive. She was saved. And by who? "Few knights die. It is a rarity in our Order - most retire, or fall out of relevancy. Until today I had assumed Ser Alric had perished. The last time I saw him was the Rimetroll battle of Reinmar. Dame Marie succumbed saving my life. Her death was noble, and I wish I could have done more for her. Ser Cedric died before I could get to him. He lured a group of bandits away from our position, but they stabbed him as they died.” Lynette Stewart slowly nodded, “What… Would you say is the most important part of being a leader then?” She asked, looking attentively to the aging Barclay before her. Friedrich thought for a moment, folding his arms across his chest before replying simply, “Coming to terms with the fact that people will die under your command at some point.” The squire’s shoulders fell, “Ah…” She glanced down, unable to find many more words than that. Vague memories… His gentle reassuring smile. A new scar. Bandages…Blood. A siege upon Valwyck. The smell of death. "You’ll remember that, you were there when we dragged his body back. I remember it clearly, you were young and… Innocent isn’t the right word. Unburdened. You asked the question that plagues all knights: ‘He really was a true knight, no?’ And you kneeled before Ser Cedric’s body as I have done so many times before you since that day.” And then darkness. It was filled with darkness. She readied herself. “Why wolves… Why wolves in a dark forest?” Her brow creased as sweat dripped from it. Her armour clinked loudly as the many weapons she had armed herself with hung off her tall form, casting shadows along the moonlit ground. "You may not care to read this letter; I thought it impertinent to ask you for a private audience myself. But I am to have it delivered following my untimely demise. I can tell it will be soon, though I have not the wisdom to predict how. Maybe I’m just tired. At night I can spot Lady Death. She climbs up to my window sill and watches, waiting. Tapping her watch impatiently. She’s waiting for me to be ready; to get my affairs in order. She asks me what I could possibly be awaiting. And I don’t answer her.” She was faced with the dingy shadowcast cluster of trees known as the overgrown Krusev forests, where echoes of a long-forgotten battle that the squire remembered still whisper… A howl whistled through the night air, sending a deep earthly shiver down the squire’s spine. Blood. Gushing blood. They were on the floor: teeth and claws, sweat and grit, fur and ferrum clashing against eachother. And she rose. “I dub thee now, Dame Lynette ‘The Resolute’ of the Knight’s table.” "I mentioned the question that plagues all Knights in their sleep. What constitutes a true knight? Am I a true knight? Will I ever know? If being flawed means that one is not a true knight, do I even want to be one? It didn’t bother me at the time of Ser Cedric’s death, as I was a mere squire. But even still it astounds me how someone so young had instantly pinpointed and addressed the insecurity of every person in the the room - that which all knights suffer beneath.” Well, we’re married now.” He said simply, smiling warmly as he wrapped his arm around her. Carlos glanced down towards her growing belly, tender with new life the pair were nurturing. “I know,” She smiles brightly, “Aren’t you happy?” "I’m so happy.” "While touching on the topic of Knightly duty, I see your face recently. It makes me sad that a man I watched grow up and a man 20 years younger than my elderly self looks as though he has suffered as many miseries as I have. My King, I wish for nothing less than your own happiness, so please. Take a break, or spend some time in the Royal Gardens, or tell your children how much you love them. Do the things that you will regret missing out on when you’re gone.” From there all that filled her life was duty. She drove her children away, even though everything she did was to provide for them. Duty overtook feeling, feeling overtook family, and family overtook love. A grim infection spread over the heart, covering it and then squeezing tight. Her back straightened, her temper deepened and her fists clenched until nothing was left. All that remained was the name. The Moniker. The Resolute. "I already despise myself for not… I don’t know. My children are gone, my husband is bedridden. There is nothing left for me here in this plane, but I can’t go until I know that everyone will be okay. And with Reinhardt to be Knight Paramount? A new generation of squires to succeed me? I know everything will be okay.” If a doctor had examined her, they may have found the Dame to be ridden with fatigue, starvation, thirst. Her heartbeat so faint that she could be mistaken for being dead when sleeping. And they could ask, “What has kept her going?” 'Admirably purposeful, determined and unwavering.’ A woman who never gave up. Countless harrowing Quests pass by in the blink of an eye, characterized only by an unrelenting will set by the moniker that one must define themself by forever. "I don’t know why I decided to write you my ‘in morte’ letter now, but I can feel her. As the Death Pyre burns before me, she breathes down my neck. On occasion I feel her haunting gaze piercing my skin like pins and needles. In death, I want nothing more for you, My King, and my people than happiness. You are an excellent leader and your decision-making skills are impeccable. The Kingdom is in good hands - it has been for a while now. You have qualified people under you and you can take your time…” The Dame heaved a great sigh as she looked to her squires clustered around the Knight’s table. “I feel we should preface” She begins, “Everyday a knight, squire, or any soldier wakes up with the knowledge that His Majesty or a commanding officer may give them orders that will be their last. A Quest they shall not fulfill. Now, you can dwell on that and never do anything, or you can get to work and train yourself to be able to deal with whatever comes your way. Make sense?” She asked them, watching each of their faces very carefully upon hearing her words. Marie Ludovar spoke first: “Yam going to do my very best, Dame.” Lynette nodded her head, “Well good.” She said firmly, smiling towards them. “I’d be disappointed if you did anything less.” "I won’t miss you, in the Seven Skies above.” One night, Dame Lynette sat upon her balcony in the Royal City of Karosgrad drinking a glass of carrion black. It had been a quiet day, with nothing more than idle clusters of people or Queen’s Council courtiers treading through the city streets in preparation for an upcoming ball - or something of the sort - being held. A brief Duma had been held that afternoon, though she had decided not to attend. Her mind was preoccupied with other matters. “I haven’t spent… As much time with that girl,” The recently knighted Mariya ‘The Grey’,“as I should have. As payment. For her mother.. She perished saving MY life, I at least owe her that much. The same with... Reinhardt.” The droning sound of the bell tolling out over the city filled her eardrums as she sat and lamented. "So I had better not see you any time presently, or I shall curse myself for leaving so soon.” She thought back upon her life as she stood, sipping lightly on her carrion glass bottle and watching vigilantly over the rooftops of her city. As the bell tolled, a breeze passed through the elevated balcony she stood upon and she took a deep breath, closing her eyes. “My Lady…” She whispered in acknowledgement, dipping her head to some unseen figure. “I hadn’t expected you so soon.” The windchimes above her head began to hollowly knock against each other as a ghostly chill of wind wafted above the Royal City. "Lady Death will come to us all eventually. And she tugs on my heart far too often. Resist her: nothing good comes of her, no matter how attractive she may seem one hopeless night. But I’m ready to go.” "You can tell, can’t you…” The Dame whispered, fear crept into her tone as tears filled her aging bright blue eyes - eternally stained as a symbol of her past struggle. “What’s it like? Up there.” Her tear-filled gaze drifted upwards towards the cloud-filled grey sky. Tonight would not be a good night. A wolf howl resonated through the night air, causing her to flinch ever to slightly at the sound. However, this howl was to quickly be joined by the resonating weeping outcry of the growing gale. The Dame blinked away her burgeoning tears and took a deep breath. “I thought I would go down nobly in battle, but this… Is far more peaceful.” She managed to smile to herself as she downed the rest of her carrion. Already, she could feel her stomach turning over in disgust at the drink it had been fed, but she swallowed it down. Her throat felt itchy and irritated, but she held her head high and enjoyed the view of the city. "Yours Eternally Faithfully,” Her mind glanced back on her actions before she came up to the balcony. She had grabbed the bottle of carrion from the kitchen, barely thinking when she absentmindedly opened the serpent’s stalk container. It was by no means an accident, she had known exactly what she was doing. But it was far from noble either. “I never… Saw the end of the war. I never saw the look on his face when he won. Oren, Sutica, Nachzehrer, Rimetrolls.. I can never finish what I start.” She murmured to herself while her vision blurred. She let out a gasp and clutched at the searing pain in her chest as waves of agony passed over her whole body. She stumbled, leaning back and crashing her head into the wooden pillar behind her in an attempt to dispel the twinging headache now affecting her. Her pained, desperate gasps for air echoed over the snow-covered rooftops as the life waned from her lungs. “I… Hope…Not to… See you soon.” "The Resolute.” [!] When her body was discovered, they came across an emaciated, stone-like corpse in the upper balcony of the Mendez residence, appearing alert and observing the Nikirala Prikaz. It was still donning knightly armour, though the thing that most confused people was the rigidness of the thing. It was still standing stock upright, and it was difficult to move - seemingly intent on staying right where it was, as though guarding something. Or maybe it had just become stuck in the shape of its most typical pose; that of flanking the King’s right side and vigilantly watching over him. Along with a thickly padded envelope to Sigismund, several other letters were discovered and distributed to the following people: Stephanie (@Based1Salmon) Valentino (@marslol) Carlos (@Ziggitee) Reinhardt (@Capt_Chief26) DAME LYNETTE ‘THE RESOLUTE’ MENDEZ NÉE STEWART KNIGHT-MARTIAL OF HANSETI-RUSKA SEAT OF VLASTA SECONDSIGHT, THIRD KNIGHT OF THE TABLE BORN 1 S.A. DIED 66 S.A.

"Sometimes a Flower is just a Flower, and The best thing It can Do for Us is to Die." ~Tissaia De Veris Warning; Triggering Scene/Theme- Proceed with Caution. All was silent behind the mountains of Urguan. To the small forming town of Huaven, a returning 'Ghost' appeared- riding a White Stead instead of her fallen Black Stead. She hummed a tune as she would dismount and enter her old home. Fond memories of what used to be her life flashed before her- A loving Fiance, two beautiful daughters, and a home filled with pets. Undoing the bandage upon her eyes- she lets her Golem eyes look upon her empty home. A somber expression befalling her as she sighed to herself. Rain had started to fall outside her house- "What a beautiful tragedy..." She croaked- voice now aged with time. A small chuckle escaped, and she would quietly empty her satchel. The book and quill her last items to be brought into her hands, and items she would use as she made one last note- one last page. "To those that find me in my home- Let it be known I was once a woman of strong faith and courage. I am now but merely a shell of what I once was. Let my body be burned or let it be buried, yet let it not be looked upon in sadness. I was too weak to continue, and even weaker to face anyone I left behind. However, know I loved you all, and know I am sorry. Please- Forgive me. I loved you, and I will forever continue to love you. Now with me and my feathered friend- we shall see those that have passed, and perhaps find peace once more. I love you all Take care- Sincerely, Meredith Nazenna Horisp." A small, yet weak, squawk was made from Gaelach- the Raven that had lived alongside Meredith from the near beginning. The woman smiled softly to the avian, "We shall find peace once more- my friend..." The avian merely hopped towards Meredith, and would rest in her lap. The woman gently petting the bird as she kneeled in the middle of her bedroom. "We'll see Sergai...Anika....and so many more once again Gaelach...Perhaps even Grandmother and my mother..." Meredith says softly, before grabbing her MasterCraft Cane and twisting. This revealed two Rapier-Like swords. Setting one down, she brought the other up- aiming the tip of her sword to her heart as bloody tears ran down her face. "May we be with the earth...and let our souls be free..." Meredith retorts, yet before she could pierce her own heart- another presence grabs the sword in kind, and would push the sword into her chest for her... Meredith Nazenna Horisp; Born; FA 1789 (April 5th, 2021) Died; SA 64 (February 22nd, 2022)(Age 71) Any animals Meredith owned would run free- going back to the forests- Gaelach the Raven would rest upon her master's lap, for now the two would find their final rest together once and for all. (Should you want the Screowl and/or Arctic wolf- DM me on my discord- you must have known Meredith however.) Author's Note; Meredith was a character I had for a long time- she was my second character and one with the most development out of all my characters. I loved her deeply, she was growing old, and her story was quite readily over. I hope that to those that interacted with her will tell her story- for I stupidly made a book and didn't make copies lmfao. Point is, I hope she was a character many could remember. I loved her, and I think it is time to let her rest.