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There comes a time when one must meet their; judge, jury, and executioner. A woman with many names and faces, originally known as Astrid Palmer, was born in Al-Faiz long before the Inferi war. She lived a rather simple life but she was rather troubled, causing tavern fights at the age of seven, it only progressed from there, outside forces aiding with guiding her through the darker ways of life; an aunt of hers a practicing Shade, another lived among them as well, finally her father loving and caring from the start but it quickly changed on one fateful night thus which caused the young Palmer to leave and search out for her distant family, to hide from her father until she was certain it was time to return to him. But during that time, many plans came to light for the death of the man, it was kept secret from him until that night came about. The family of Palmer’s and Morgaine’s all in one house, the house in the mountains of Kaedrin, her father went to his old room while the chaos downstairs unfolded. Alone, Astrid and her father were in that room, the old man had drifted off to sleep. Soon thereafter the blood bath had begun, the child who once looked up to her father, was the one to be his end. Time only progressed from there, a life in Helena working underneath Ostromir Carrion and living with her Aunt Meredith in Haense. In her free time, she studied many different languages, cultures, and whatever else she could find, spent her time traveling to other cities to meet people and to cause trouble. But the trouble never seemed to stop, she was able to always weasel herself out of any situation and avoid banishments. One time in particular, in Talons Grotto, a past sovereign Gail Cordius, the man had fallen for Astrid’s trickery and deceit, which led to a banishment but she was easily able to beat the elder man in a fight to have the ban lifted. That was just one of many instances. Enough of the past, time to make the jump to the present. A friendship had been formed with another woman, one who possessed great power in this world; she was rather fond of Astrid and took her under her wing and crafted something that many did not see coming. A woman of ice and snow finding a new path in life, one that many only hear stories of. It was not easy, at first it was quite painful, blood turning to slush, teeth turning to fangs, having to hide away as the process took its course. But after such, Astrid turned into Theodora, the same woman but a new name and look, long brown curls with a blueish-gray gaze, a devious and cold nature about her, not a care in the world with only a few rules to abide by. Her newfound life, it started off small but then it started to grow, one mother to three daughters, close they became, helping to guide one another through the world with the life that they lived. Theodora was not like the rest around her, she was the odd one out, still yet closed off to the ones she trusted, she was rather fond of getting lost for days at a time in a library or lost on the roads of travel in search of who knows what; it could’ve been knowledge, new hunting grounds, or perhaps a life she had wished to change. On her many travels, she ran into some rather interesting people, ones who wish to see all darkspawn slan, she saved one with a warning to tread cautiously, another she worked within the Haense clinic, finally met someone who was in a drunken state but was in need of a deep conversation. Now at the conversation, many things were spoken between the two, a realization was opened up, a change , of course, was taken almost. But Theodora waited and kept to herself, offering a listening ear until she was alone as so she began to write, she wrote for days on end, recalling all accounts of her past life, old things of yore. Years seem to pass by, a snack break is taken from time to time but all she did was write, the writings never seem to stop until one day it did. And on that day, a perilous and treacherous journey was made. She stood in front of those imposing gates, waiting to be let in. All she had asked was for one last final conversation and so she was granted, a few more hours of such, a sinner repenting her sins, a final cup of tea. And so, her time upon this world had finally come, a fate long accepted. Astrid, the last of the Palmer bloodline, was no more.

[!] Soon after news of Ser Erwin Bishop’s Death, all of his worldly possessions were gathered and taken account of. The former matriarch-mother of House Bishop, Adelina, glanced under the bed to discover a box that had been laid there just after the move to Excitor was complete. Within, was a large number of signed and sealed letters, ready to be dispatched as soon as the box was found. It was obvious when that time was supposed to be. Ariovistan: @__DeusVult__ Helena: @Based1Salmon Cassio: @TescoBrandEboy Charelle: @spiciiRAMUNE Samuel: @Kutya Elias: @satinkira August & Franziska Bishop: @Keegan7om @Frank_Dog Vitalia: @AlissElyssia Andante: @WhereTheBeans Dracomir Rorikov & Shadow: @pheonixremi Koeng Sigismund III: @Xarkly The House of Ludovar: @Raijen Stars Ulrich Lothar von Alstriem: @LithiumSedai

“This day forward” A resemblance of the gallows in New Providence The clashing of Petra echoed across the miles of the South. Sigmar pulled his blade, slashing it across many Orenians at the bloody Battle of South Bridge. Oren’s navy arrived with pounding cannons. Even against the pressure, the Lord followed his Field Marshal, Ailred var Ruthern. @mkLouis The siege against the land continued. Buildings crumbled, sinks plummeted to the ocean floor, and death was climbing onto every single soldier fighting. Sigmar admired his Field Marshal. He envied his strength, his family, his leadership. Since he was a child, Ser Ailred var Ruthern inspired him to do greater things. Yet, in a moment, in a blink, in a second, Ailred plummeted to the ground in front of him. An arrow shot by an Orenian had killed the only man Sigmar Mondblume aspired to be. The Baron’s body froze, his charge had abruptly halted on the Orenian soil. Ailred’s body piled against the countless amount of soldiers. Sigmar’s mind went dark and his thoughts had cleared. Why? What are we doing? What is this for? Power? Land? Honour? Why are we fighting? Is this what all these stolen lives are for…? “He grows cold.” Sigmar’s tears wiped against his bedroom floor. Glass had stuck to pictures, walls, and pricked against the wooden floor. Ink spat to each side of the chaotic, complex, confusing, tortuous walls of his abode. His body had curled into a shell of protection. Atop of his desk lay an opened letter with black ink fashionably scripted onto the fine parchment. "My brother, Nikolai Kortrevich received a short and cryptic letter from Isabel from Richtenburg while I was in Jerovitz for visiting purposes. When we got there, we found her. Not in the way that you would like. Pale and in her wedding dress, she was slumped on the floor with a single stab in her neck with some sort of peace on her face. I wish I could say the same about me. My sister is dead and everything is worse now. - Theodosya." Guilty thoughts seeped into his wounded mind. Was it his fault? Was his sister blood-lost on his floors because of his actions as a patriarch, as a brother? Was he even a good person? Did he deserve anything? A knife sat next to him, begging him on. A moment of hesitation grew onto his shivering hand but he refused to go on. The silver of the knife arose to his throat. Tears fell from his eye, dropping against the torn bedsheets. He had to, did he not? How could anyone live in a world so cruel and vile where everything is taken from you? The knife dropped against the wooden floor and Sigmar’s throat remained clean, without blood. He couldn’t. He had to go on, for his family… right? “His skin is pale” Scornful eyes from the courtroom circled to one center point, where Sigmar and Ser Erwin Bishop sat on both knees. Ropes knotted against their wrists and chains that rooted onto each pair of legs. Philip III, Emperor of the Orenian Empire, grimaced at the sight of the two Haeseni. “Did the raid go well, gentlemen?” Philip smiled at the Orenian soldiers who gathered behind the squire and knight. His gaze shifted back to Sigmar, then Erwin. “Your names? Be honest, for that may be the only honor you get this day.” Sigmar answered with the truth, “Sigmar Mondblume.” After, Erwin. “Ser Erwin of The Order of the Crow.” The Emperor held a pleasing smile at the mention of ‘Ser’. “My decision is made” Philip said after a second of thought. “Death by hanging. The two haense soldiers will hang. My mind is resolved as such.” Sigmar’s mind went blank. Just similar to the Battle of South Bridge. The surrounding sound became muted. His sight became unaware of those in the court who pleaded, even begged, for a different punishment. All he thought of was his father, Yvo Mondblume. Was this what it was like? Was this how his coma dreams went? Darkness and a cold feeling ooze around your body. Was that how it felt? “MY DECISION IS FINAL!” A light opened Sigmar’s vision. The Emperor looked to the court with an irked expression. “Anyone who opposes can gladly hang with them.” He threatened. “To the gallows!” At that, Sigmar’s restrained body was forced aloft to his feet. The rally marched past the city gates and reached the gallows. Erwin was first. He was shoved to the top and there a noose was tightened around his neck. Words from a churchman described the Knight’s final rights. And after a short speech from the Bishop patriarch, his body dropped and feet dangled. Just after, a hand pushed against Sigmar Mondblume’s back. His feet dragged onto the gallows and there he saw the Orenian crowd. The churchman repeated the same rights whilst the rope was quickly tightened against the Baron’s neck. “Any last words, Lord Sigmar Mondblume?” A tear dropped from Sigmar’s left eye, for his other was bandaged after a vicious fight with the Dobrov Monster. “War iz zuch a terrible zhing. It infectz everyone near it, even mea. Emperor Philip, ea knov vhat it iz like to have command. To have duty and rezpect. Ea never hated Orenianz or vellow Canoniztz like zhou zay ea do. Zhou do niet vizh vor pain and deazh, for nie leader zhould. Zhou vizh zhe bezt for zhou’r Empire.” He heaved a deap and heavy sigh. “War iz zuch a terrible zhing.” His lips closed and the Emperor gave a solemn nod. In a slow moment, the lever pulled. Sigmar’s footing fell but yet didn’t touch the soil. He dangled by a tightened nuse. He choked by the thick rope that held him above the crowd. “. . . M-mamej. . . Isabel. . .” The poor man wheezed, “. . . Ea’m coming home. . .” His eyes shut, choking ended, arms slung to his side, and his feet stopped moving. Sigmar Josef Mondblume dangled beside his comrade, Ser Erwin Bishop with cold, pale, and dead eyes. “Sigmar Mondblume is forever dead” @Lomiei {Corresponding POV from Ser Erwin Bishop} A letter was sent by crow to Theodosya Mondblume. @marslol A letter was sent by crow to Sigismund III @Xarkly

“Let it be known” There is a war to be had. A long struggle between fundamentally opposed lands. On the one hand, a collation of imperials who take wigs to dawn upon their heads; on the other, a flourishing nation that revels in the taking of wigs as a trophy. Both claim ownership of humanity’s bastion of class and faith. Both claim to act as God’s righteous hand. Neither, however, will cease in their attempt to undermine the other. Titles… Land… Sovereignty… What consequence holds these petty feuds in comparison to the lost lives of guiding fathers, loving husbands, and passionate brothers? Some would say boldly, it holds naught. While still others contend that war is not fought for any such theories. No. It is the honor of a nation’s people that seeks not to rend the resting men from their beds into the field of blood and death; rather the sense of righteousness in a warrior that breeds a disdain of respite, and propels him forth to the front-line of his home’s prosperity. “That upon this day” Erwin raised his eyes, finding himself in the indescribable scenery and beauty that was the 7-skies, engulfed fully in the peace that accompanied it. There he saw one familiar face among many, and approached the man who held his arms openly. "Hello, father" Erwin said as if there was not much else to say. As he delivered himself into his father’s arms, the aged knight took revelry in his progenitor’s words "you did well, my son." ( @Javert ) "There is so much more to be done." he said whilst a tear began to well within his eye, close enough so that Henry could see it. "And yet you have done more than enough." Informed the former patriarch with a chuckle and giving Erwin a pat on the back. The fourth patriarch of House Bishop opened his mouth to speak, but for the first time, could not find anything to say in that moment. Both he and his father turned to gaze down upon the realm of Almaris and its many denizens. In that time of silence, it had finally come to peace with Ser Erwin of House Bishop. ‘It is their turn now.’ Henry and Erwin said in unison as their gaze drifted from Ariovistan to Helena, then to all of the Bishop Household. “Ser Erwin Bishop” He was a friend to many. In his youth, he spent his days gregariously conversing with his fellow Haeseni in the tavern, always paying just the right amount for his drinks. The time he spent upon his feet was used to travel and make friends. And make friends he did. From the risen and fallen Rozania to the southern oasis of the Kharasi, and even some of the families in the empire which saw his end. ‘Now that-’ the man spoke, beaming with an unfamiliar joy at the thought of the court’s events "...was touching". As crowds of thousands gathered in the Orenian court, the Anathema Emperor and his privy stared from their stolen and still-bloody throne to scowl upon A knight and his Baronial Squire. "The two Haeseni will hang. My mind is resolved as such." ( @Nectorist )- Echoed the words of a man who attempts to silence the calls for reason. To Erwin’s profound surprise, men he had only days earlier been at battle against, pleaded with their imperial overlord to allow an honorable dispatch of the martyrs by the sword. Some even, appealed to His Imperial Majesty for allowance of leave and a safe home’s return for the two. And yet others further, pleaded for themselves to assume the knight's place at the gallows. But erwin knew as soon as his sword drew upon the Orenian raiding party, as soon as he gave his sister Vitalia a final nod with the lowering of his helmet’s visor, that the 7-skies had prepared a seat for him, and the dinner-bell had been rung. And so he sat at his first eternal supper. As he bowed his head in prayer, the usual formalities were all but eschewed. In their place, the names of those who stood to defend the knight's honor as well as that of his squire, and a plea for God's blessing to be upon them in turn. "Elijah.( @HeyitsNano ) Daiyanara.( @EmiliainWonderland ) Naric.( @ibraheemc2000 ) Faiz.( @adamc2000 )" -+- "...Thank you." “And his most loyal Squire Sigmar of House Mondblume,” @AmazingAzura “Have endured.”

From ashes and to ashes; conception until demise; everything must come to an end. St. Terrell may have not been around for too long, but his impact showed up differently. Known as Terry by friends, or father Shipp, the zealot made it his goal to rejuvenate the dim in spirit and better those who didn't deserve redemption. On the day of his demise, the man started it as he did any other, with a prayer: "Oh GOD, please instill me with the power to accept those who I cannot change; I request you burden me with their suffering and show them the light, the joy of life, rather than condemning them to live a life of sin and torment." This is how the man started every day. He went above, and beyond in his community, abstaining from food so as to 'face others' qualms.' by enduring the punishment of his creation. Continuing with his day, Terrell stopped by his slice-of-life spot: the Garden of Serenity. Quickly shuffling across the riverbed, the idol hobbled over towards a stone slab juxtaposed to a tree - it lay perfectly with the sunlight beaming down towards it; resting in the middle of the rays was the bread that the man seemingly had been cooking. Taking the bread, the zealot soon rifled it into his satchel as he ventured off towards that day's mass, planning to distribute the loaves there. After mass had concluded, the shoeless priest made his way towards the back of the Armenian church he frequented - starting to distribute his meal to the needy. It was only there that the true test of virtue happened, as a peasant put a blade to him, requesting all coinage or anything of value. Not being a materialistic man, St. Terrell opted out of conflict as he gave the man all that he asked for, as the thief needed it more than him. But alas, not caring about capital only goes so far when you are being robbed as his would-be murderer became enraged with the lack of wealth is shown as he plunged his knife into the man. Terry crumpled towards the ground, a smile dawned on his face as he muttered: "I forgive you."

7th of Tobias’ Bounty, 1857 So it came, another weary night for the old Duke of Cathalon. He had spent the eve pacing his halls, ever drained from the ordeals of recent years. Once he had all the piss and vinegar of youth, but father time had seen to that. His hand grazed over a dusty windowsill, recoiling as he took notice of the wrinkles that adorned the appendage. “All that you see before you is yours, dear. From the River Reden to the Petra, all that falls beneath the statue of the horse is yours.” He heard his mother say, recalling the touch of her hand on his brow and the golden tresses that would wreath him in an embrace. It was a simpler, boring time. It almost moved the Duke to a smile, were it not for the dagger that punctured his mind for daring to recall. Her death was but the first that he could not put right, the thought unsettling him as he gave a final look out over the hills dissolving into dusk. Beside him now paced a phantom of his younger days, moving through the vaunted Cheval Hall. He sparred with the pottery as a boy, practicing his spins, twirls, and pirouettes as he had been taught. Below he saw himself drinking with friends, belligerent in his candor as he socked a bard in the mouth. He also saw his sister come and go, the presence of his elder sibling he greatly missed as she departed at last with an easel and wrapped portraits. Arriving at the door of his bedroom, he took a glance back to it all now. Where once had been visions of himself, he saw his children scurrying about the halls. In one corner his sons Helton Rhodes and Owyn Leopold quarreled, fighting over whose turn it was to shoot the arbalest. Another he saw his daughters Henrietta Therese and Francesca Ada fuss with their dresses and braiding each other’s hair. At the windowsill he saw Guinevere Amadea throw down a rope of bedsheets to escape for the night while Saturnina Cyrille fidgeted with her hands, contemplating tattling on her younger sister. Then there was Daphne Priscilla, no more than four at the time, cradling the newborn Laurentina Marigold wrapped in swaddling clothes. The Duke lingered there for a time, finding some small contentment before the beat of his heart struck like a hammer, pressing him on. Within his room was darkness as he was greeted by a pale specter of a woman whose back was turned to him, Raven-haired, he knew it to be his wife Leopoldine Vivien and so the Duke moved to embrace his beloved. He imagined the warmth of her touch, shutting his eyes as tears sprung forth and dripped through the vision of his wife. Still, however, she did not turn to him. “You know this is not real…” she murmured to him, “I know.” He murmured back, collecting himself after a few breaths. When the Duke opened his eyes the specter now faced him recalling every gruesome detail of the dead woman. She was devoid of eyes, peering at him with empty sockets that bleed over her porcelain skin, her neck ripped and torn open as if by some savage beast. Thus did the Duke’s torment begin and every image of his dead loved ones appeared within the room. The twisted form of his mother Blanche, broken by the fall she had taken. The contorted neck of his daughter Daphne who had likewise fallen from a height, unable to breath in her last moments. Then there was his eldest daughter Henrietta who had perished most recently. He had only seen after she had been prepared for the funeral pyre, but nevertheless the eerie stillness of her form was enough to unnerve him. So many were gone now, what a truly terrible thing it was for a father to outlive a child. Beyond the dead, however, the Duke saw a light come through in the windows of his bedroom. The landscape that had so recently fallen into the night was now engulfed in flame. In the shadows cast over the land, he saw the fates that were still to come, small horrors in and of themselves. The Duke shut the curtains and turned to the dead. “I’ve had enough for the night.” He spoke aloud and they did vanish, leaving him alone in the dark. Shutting his eyes, the Duke made ready for bed, retracing his way around the room from memory. Outside he heard the whinny of a horse and the clip-clop of its hooves, no doubt one from his own stables, paying it no mind he crawled into bed. Thomas Andrew then laid down and died. R.I.P. 1793-1857

HER MERCY Two figures enveloped in the morning’s light sat upon the walls of Ghaestenwald, contemplating and conversing. It was a quiet morning, albeit the intermittent musings of a Princess and an Oracle filled the gaps of silence, spare for the occasional bird chirping. “This is where Franz died.” The Oracle said with a nod of his head, leaning forward to survey the landscape in front of them. “But, of course, I am still alive.” “. . Vy are niet Franz, then?” inquired Petra after a brief silence. “No. I am the Oracle,” stated he. Curiously, Petra pressed on. “How did Franz die, then?” “He withered away, like a flower.” mused the Oracle stoically. Alas, he continued his spiel. “Franz had a story. The Oracle does not.” “The Oracle has no story; the Oracle is a part of all stories, all but his own.” For some reason, these particular sentiments struck Petra. Glancing down at the trees below her, she drew a sharp breath. Perhaps, she felt that her story had ended, just as Franz's had. Had she withered, too? She had once been dubbed ‘the Haeseni rose in bloom,’ after all. She was bound to wither, surely. Of course, her mind began to teem with distressing thoughts such as these, another deliberative silence consequently befalling her. Once more, the Oracle broke that silence of hers. “Franz was the one who granted you your title, you know.” Petra managed the smallest of smiles at that notion despite her bleak disposition. She adored her Uncle Franz. “Was he? I always felt special, having the title ‘Duchess of Karosgrad.’ I felt I had a purpose.” “Yes. He was the one.” The Oracle simply intoned, nodding his head a few times. The Princess soon fell silent again, however, pondering in that prolonged silence of hers. Where had her purpose gone, the purpose she always craved to have? She had often confined herself to her chambers at Richtenburg, now that her son had come of age to lead their house. No longer was she at the forefront of the bustling courts, nor was she the topic of any idle chatterings and gossip amongst the courtiers. Her prime had come and gone long ago. In her mind, she only existed to feel misery, to feel regret. That was her sole purpose now, it seemed. Momentarily did the Oracle interrupt her contemplation with a particularly striking statement of his own. “Franz had a story. Does Petra Emma have a story?” “. . Petra Emma has a story, da. A rather sad story, really. One that will most likely niet have a happy ending,” Petra spoke softly, looking to the horizon before her. The sun rose upon it comfortably, yet a frigid breeze accompanied the morning sun, beckoning the Princess to tell her story. “Petra grew up in a bustling court full of life and expectations that she, herself, felt she could never meet. She made many friends that she would come to cherish, even though she tragically lost a few along the way.” Petra reminisced on her youth, recalling how Rosalind Amador discouraged her axe-wielding and pants-wearing escapades. She remembered befriending Abraham, the friendly Southeron boy who shielded her from the torment of Adalia de Astrea. She recalled meeting Eleanora Baruch, her best friend who always provided her a handkerchief when she cried. She recalled meeting Adrianna Barclay, too, who had sheepishly curtsied to her and stumbled over her greeting, as well as the Barclay brothers, Klaus and Reinhardt. She remembered how shy her brother Sigismund was, and how proud she felt to be his sister as well. She remembered the antics of her twin siblings, and how reckless they were in their youth. There was more she wanted to remember, but it seemed that many memories were lost to time, forgotten in her hazy, aging mind. There were many things Petra couldn’t forget, though. She couldn’t forget the angry footfalls of her father’s boots and his booming voice that scolded her when she caused a ruckus elsewhere. She could never forget the suffocating etiquette standards she was expected to uphold within the courts. Petra could never forget her grandmother, Queen Isabel, nor her mentor, Igor Kort, who were taken from the world far too soon - plaguing her with trauma that she would never quite heal from. She could never forget the way her stepmother Annika wiped Igor’s blood off of her debut dress that night, either. “Nevertheless, the Princess still frolicked in her youth. She learned medicine, in fact. She liked helping people. She even met a peasant boy whom she had come to love dearly, though eventually cast aside so that she could attend to her royal duties.” Petra opted to remember happier times, recalling the time she first met Emma Kortrevich. The shy, yet bright Kortrevich girl was someone that Petra would come to admire and cherish dearly. The two bonded over their shared love of medicine and tending to the wounded. Helping others gave her purpose, the purpose she so desperately craved. The Princess pushed on, of course, wanting to remember more of her youth, her prime. Memories of a simple peasant boy by the name of Oleksandr came flooding back to Petra at that moment. Once more, she remembered. It was a brief few encounters, yet they held great weight in her mind. She remembered their picnic, their talks in gardens, and their feelings for one another. Petra recalled that they were doomed from the start. They could never be together. Her standing in society was far more important to her, after all. She was a princess, and princesses were expected to tend to their royal duties. That was her purpose, and her purpose drove that peasant boy away. Her purpose, in this instance, had consumed her entirely. Petra did come to regret this. “She met a Baron and married him. Her father was happy with the arrangement, and thus, she was happy, too. She grew to love the Baron dearly, just as she had the peasant boy.” Petra drew another quiet breath, ruminating over the memories that all seemed to blur together. These were happier memories, at least. She fondly recalled the day she met her husband, Yvo. He shyly offered her a few cookies and a piece of jewelry, which she thought was silly at the time. The two grew closer over the few years they knew each other, sharing laughs and drinks alike in the Hunter’s Inn. Petra yearned for simpler times such as these. A soft smile found its way to Petra’s face as she remembered how nervously Yvo asked her father for her hand in marriage, the wedding dress she donned on her wedding day - her grandmother’s, and how excited she was to wear it. She reveled in these happy memories, but only for a few moments longer. “She had many children, all of whom she held dear. Her happiness was short-lived, though - far too short-lived. Her husband fell into a comatose state, leaving her with a noble house to lead and eight children to parent alone. She led for ten years before she handed the reins over to her son once he had come of age. The strain of leading, though, caused irreversible damage within her household. Her children loathed and resented her for abandoning them and prioritizing the wellbeing of the house over their own happiness.” “Petra regretted that greatly. She should have let her children be happy.” Petra could recall that she was thrilled to be a mother. She had become quite accustomed to tending to the children around Karosgrad, especially her own siblings, as she was the eldest one about. Petra could also recall that her motherhood was not an easy one. She remembered how deeply she had mourned when her husband had fallen into that coma, leaving her the burdens of parenting children alone and leading a house in his stead. She recalled the fear she felt. She remembered how alone she felt, the same loneliness she feels right now. Petra remembered that she pushed through, nevertheless. She worked tirelessly to arrange appropriate marriages for her children, all while attending the Duma to ensure that their spot was secured. The fruits of her labor rotted horrendously, however. Like mother, like daughter, Isabel had taken a liking to a common boy, causing the betrothal that Petra had arranged to fall to pieces within only months. Petra, of course, did not want to remember anymore - yet she had to finish her story. She vividly recalled the disappointment she felt in her daughter, which would lead to the downfall of her relationship with her children. Each child, slowly but surely, drove themselves away from their frantic and paranoid mother. Her children surely resented her, she thought. She believed she neglected them, all to ensure that their noble status remained. Petra now had to live with yet another regret: the regret of driving the children she loved so dearly away. “Petra's daughter, Isabel, died. Her other children are as lonely as she is and yet - she can't find it in herself to support them. She feels as if she failed, as if she’s driven everyone away. She wonders if she served her purpose - as a mother, as a medic, as a friend. She wonders if she did enough.” “. . Did she do enough? Did Petra Emma do enough? She has regrets - far too many to withstand.” Petra fell into yet another contemplative silence, wallowing in her regret. Tears stained the Princess’s face, yet she did not seek to wipe them away. Hoarsely, she spoke yet again, desperately seeking to break such a deafening silence, to rid herself of the regret ringing in her ears. “She loved her husband. She wishes he was here to bear the burden of these regrets and heartbreaks alongside her.” Petra now seemed unable to speak any longer, letting the frigid breeze fill the lingering silence for her. Her teary-eyed gaze did not stray from the horizon, even after she had finished her story. The Oracle allowed that silence to linger for many more moments after. He too contemplated, taking note of one of her earlier sentiments regarding the regret she lived with. It saddened him, truly. He opted to break the silence, then. “There are many souls that still linger in this world. I've met my fair share of them, most of them have long died, yet they linger, tortured by regrets…” the Oracle began. “I put them into two categories: the ones who did not live long enough, those who were unable to see their goals achieved and regret not being able to do so… And those who lived too long, they've long ago accomplished everything, and lived their joy. Now, that joy is long gone, and their life falls into misery.” Upon hearing the Oracle utter such, Petra’s frame stiffened considerably. She pondered, wondering if she was doomed to a stagnant misery for the rest of her years. Another treacherous silence fell over her briefly. That silence was interrupted by a simple inquiry made by the Oracle. “Do you remember Rosalind?” “I do. Tragic, really. She passed away quite young,” Petra murmured idly, her gaze fastened onto the horizon still. A grim expression crossed the Oracle's visage as he pushed himself to stand again. He seemed more absent than he had before, as if his focus was elsewhere. Gradually, then, did his stoic demeanor begin to falter. “Rosalind was beginning to live too long. She was past her prime, past her joy….” “If I… If I had let her live any longer, she would've stayed too miserable.” The implications made by the Oracle hit her, then. The Princess, however, was at a loss for words. She could not run away, either. She was tired, after all. Their trip to Ghaestenwald was arduous, and her aging joints were weary. Despite the instinctual fear that overtook her, she could not will herself to move an inch. Perhaps she had already resigned herself to a fate similar to Rosalind's. “It was mercy, Petra.” The Oracle insisted. “I can grant you mercy, too… You won't have to linger, you can pass on, truly.” In that moment, Petra began to deliberate - not for her own sake, but for the sake of those in her life. Still, she could not urge herself to move away from the Oracle. “. . My children - my children. Don't they need me?” she weakly inquired, grasping onto something - anything, to validate her existence, her regret-ridden existence, on this plane. “Your children will move on. The world will move on.” He stated, and it held with it perhaps a bout of reassurance. The Oracle only inched closer to where Petra sat upon the wall, frozen in place. “It doesn't matter what you want, Petra. This is what has to happen.” “My brothers, Andrik and Sigismund - will they be alright?” Petra's eyes had once again begun to glisten with tears as the reality of her fate dawned upon her, yet she resigned herself to it. Her purpose was served on this plane - she had no purpose left to fulfill, not in her mind, yet she sought reassurance in her final moments. “Ana, my father, my step-mother . . .” Petra frantically listed off all of those she held dear to her, repeating quick, rapid prayers in her head. “They will be okay, with time.” The Oracle nodded his head once, assuring her once again. Fleetingly, time seemed to halt as Petra exhaled simple words that would be her last. “. . Surely - surely they'll be alright.” Then came a shove from behind, as the Oracle intended to push her off of the railing she sat upon. Just as swiftly as he had pushed her, the Princess plummeted to the grassy plains of Ghaestenwald below. The Princess Royal was dead. The Oracle gazed upon where Petra had fallen. The grim expression upon his face quickly faded, and soon, as she drifted skyward, so did his eyes. And he sighed with great relief, for now he was truly convinced that this had been right. RNASK IV PEACE PRINZENAS PETRA EMMA PRINCESS ROYAL OF HANSETI-RUSKA DUCHESS OF KAROSGRAD 365 E.S. - 409 E.S. | 1812 - 1856

THE CURSED ROSE Baron Otis Maximilian, circa 1837 The smell of roses flew around the air, attracting many insects and some humans - the now fully retired Baron being one of them, leisurely progressing towards the comely bushes. His mind was at calm for once, carelessly enjoying the moment of consolation. He leaned towards the plants, essaying to pick their flowers. “AAH!” An echoing scream spread across the gardens, the man falling to the ground as result of stumbling over a root. The body of the aging man hastening towards the cursed mangle of blossoms, which seemed to fully enclose him. Firstly, the thorns struck his wrist - reminding him of the time when he was bit by a Corcitură and subsequently turning into one. Secondly, his lips were pierced, florid blood slipping into his mouth, remembrance of when he sinfully fed on human prey. Thirdly, a vine with hiss as gentle as the Corcitură that originally glutted on his blood, began twisting around his neck. Tardily exhausting his body of life. Otis blindly pushed and ripped away at the bush, fighting for his existence, but ineffectively as the force of the plant became increasingly strong. The attempts only tore his skin and clothes furthermore, leaving him nearly naked. As the last breaths escaped his mouth, he continuously struggled in silence, reliving the worst and most pleasant moments of his life briskly. From the deaths of his beloved, the births of his children and grandchildren, and so on. Eventually the bush liberated the Baron, but his body laid onto the dirt - lifeless and naked, pale as the daisies nearby.

THE WEIGHT OF RULING 4 0 7 E.S. “Throughout my entire life, I’ve sacrificed more than what vy can imagine. I’ve been humiliated, looked down upon, ridiculed, doubted, and demoted despite my best efforts. I’ve made enemies out of friends, shattered relationships, broke the trust of many. All for the welfare of our house… It sucks, life sucks. But that’s the life of our kind, my son. If I were to be handed the opportunity to do it all over, I'd do the same thing. My failures are lessons to me, and to vy. Remember, Johann, A rich man lives an easy life, but a Ludovar lives a hard one” - Robert to his teenage son, Johann Dear Ami… “I’m sorry for what happened the other day. I know I’ve just complicated our friendship to a great extent … I do dearly love Adele, but a part of me still wonders how life would be if the circumstances were different. I fear that a part of me always will… I know you do not want to hear it, but I love you. I love you with all of my heart, but I belong to another now. My heart yearns for another world where we can call each other husband and wife. I know it’s wrong, and I know it’s too late to turn back now, but the best thing for the both of us is to move on with our lives. I wish things could have turned out differently, but this is the path Godan has set for us.” … Your Best Friend, Robbie …It was a cold winter evening in Otistadt, as it always was. The old Baron had quite the dream… He couldn’t see what was going on, but the mumbling of a figure with a deep voice could be heard. These ramblings seemed to be passionate yet weak, aggressive yet controlled, and saddening, but inspirational. Robert couldn’t quite make out what was said, as the sound was drowned out by the fierce winter storms. After a quiet moment, he flickered his eyes open. Robert awoke from his slumber at the crack of dawn, as he usually does. His beloved wife, Adele, was resting by his side. For forty years, Robert had been married to Adele. She was his soulmate, and he was hers. The old man, now fifty-one, out of shape, and weakening, pressed a kiss on his wife’s forehead before getting ready for the day. “What day is it again?” Dear Ami… “Adele’s sister died today… I know this is out of the blue, but I needed to get that off of my chest. Never, in my entire life, had I ever lost someone that I considered to be family. I was never close with Dame Marie, but her death will be something I will remember for the rest of my days… It’s a hard reminder to always cherish those who are close to you. You never know when you’ll speak to them last. I wish we could have more moments that both of us can cherish. Write to me as soon as you can.” Your Best Friend, Robbie Robert hastily made his way down the spiraling stairs. The man’s armor and boots made constant clicking sounds, often revealing himself to the poor and overworked staff. He asked his eldest and most loyal butler, Sir Francois, the same question he asked himself. “Francois! What day is it?” The old and frail Auvergnian Butler nodded his head to his liege lord and briefly said “The first of Joma and Umund, Your Lordship” the butler responded in his thick accent. From the time he was just a child, Robert had always been pampered by his house staff - as was expected, of course, for the heir to a county. After being reminded of the day, Robert’s face promptly lit up! “Ah of course! That’s what it was, it’s Tax Day! Spasiba, Sir Francois.” The faithful Ludovar servant seemed… surprised by this. Robert rarely ever said thank you, and what was even rarer was addressing his servant as ‘Sir’. It was going to be a kind day today, he decided. “Merci… My Lord” Dear Ami… “It’s been two years since I last wrote to you. How have you been? Life here in Otistadt has been bland as always. The children are healthy though, which is always good. Johann is my pride and joy, as any heir is to his father. He’s only four and his mind is racing with ambition! Marie and Josef are quiet, and I hope it stays that way. Johann alone is a lot, and with a fourth on its way, Adele and I sure have a lot to handle! I’m still sorry for the way I treated you, by the way. I know it happened years ago, but the guilt still lingers… I just want us to be friends again, is that so hard? Please write back to me.” Your Best Friend, Robbie Robert made his way down the many levels of his keep. He passed the room of his son and heir, Johann, and a faint smile appeared on his features. While being as quiet as his armor would allow him to be, the proud father and grandfather went over to his sleeping grandchildren and placed a peck on their foreheads. Despite being rough on all of his children, the Baron discovered a sense of tenderness in recent times. Perhaps it was the lack of work he’d done during the last few years. It could also be that he learned from his failures as a father, like a lesson he once told Johann all those years ago. Or it could just be that the fat old man grew a soft spot for his adorable grandchildren, and he doted on them frequently. Whatever the case, he’d certainly changed. Dear Ami… “That was quite the argument we had last Saint’s Day. I’m sorry it had to end up like that, I truly am. Christopher was surprisingly calm. He’s a good man… I’m glad that your heart is now in his hands. Despite my slight envy, I trust him. That truce we made at the creek is also something I appreciate. It’s funny… I remember the first day we made a cookie truce. We’d been arguing over something so petty; I think it was grass? It’s been so long I’ve almost forgotten the good old days. You know… when everyone was still around? Life seems so stiff, so trapped. It’s almost suffocating to live in my keep now. Ever since papej left us, I’ve been so busy. Too busy for the wife, too busy for the kids, too busy for myself… anyways, enough rambling about me. How are you? Do tell me how your first child is, I hope our children become as dobry friends as we were.” Your Best Friend, Robbie As Robert made his exit from the bedroom, faint groans could be heard from behind him. It was his pride and joy, Johann, slowly awakening from his slumber. A peer and his heir must always have a good connection, and these two certainly did. However, recent events have made tensions between the two high, and the stress was getting to both of them. Johann became increasingly busy with his new position as High Justiciar, while Robert was slowly getting older, bigger, and less active in general. Despite their recent drifts, the Baron was always proud of his heir. He found solace in the fact that even after his death or abdication, they would all be in safe hands. Robert didn’t wait for his son to awakenits and quickly left for the city. “Right… Tax Day.” Dear Ami… “I’m glad we could meet and converse without bickering and arguing. I know it’s going to take a while, but I do hope that our friendship will be the way it once was… Your child, Anya, is an adorable bundle of joy. I am sure that in her future she’ll grow to be as bright, ambitious, and as beautiful as you are. Sorry if that’s bold, but it’s true - you can’t deny it! Regardless, I hope Johann and Anya grow close to one another. Who knows, perhaps their luck is better than ours? I just wish for a happy and simple life for both of them, as they are the future for both of us.” Your Best Friend, Robbie Robert continued down the long spiral stairway, eventually leading him to the first floor. As he walked the halls of his keep and his staff greeted him with a bow, Robert noticed his father’s portrait was crooked. “Godan, were the children playing again?” he asked the staff, though he seemed more amused at the prospect of his grandchildren having fun than pissed off that his predecessor's image was crooked. Robert never had the greatest relationship with his father, and he had not spoken to the former Viscount of Sezwesk since his abdication. Robert was left with a House in shambles, where most of his siblings were either too sick or too careless to put effort into the family, and where his children were still learning how to walk properly. However, in his moment of weakness, he was not alone. Aleksey advised him while also running his businesses, Erwin was his aid who employed his servants, while Adele continued to mother their children while Robert was absent. Robert learned the importance of family and friendship during that period in his life, and his House has grown strong because of it. “I’m sure vy would be proud, papej…” remarked the Baron as he fixed the portrait himself. He eyed his father’s figure with pride, despite their rough relationship. Throughout the years he’d figured out the perfect moniker for his father. Something accurate, fair, and not too biased. “Enduring. Kazimar the Enduring.” Dear Ami… “It’s been so long. What is it, six years now? I traveled to Elysium in hopes that I would find you, but I couldn’t seem to spot you no matter how long I searched. I miss the conversations that we had together. The times where I could always find you in Elysium, and you could always find me in Haense. Perhaps I just miss you, I don’t know. We’ve grown so distant… but I suppose that’s normal. Hell, Ruslan, Tatiana, and Adalia rarely interact these days outside of professional functions. I guess this is just a part of us growing up. I wish I could go back and tell my younger self to enjoy the moments that he’ll have while it lasts… I’ll always cherish what I have.” Your Best Friend, Robbie Robert exited his home, and the cold winds instantly hit his face. It was… a chilling feeling, which was odd for the Baron who’d lived his entire life in the same frozen wasteland he called home. Outside of his keep, his noble stallion, Storm, was waiting for him. Robert was fond of horses from a very young age. Since he was a young child in the Cadets, he’d been taught the art of horse warfare. The Cavalry Sergeant walked up to the stables and was handed the reigns of Storm. The few moments Robert ever felt relieved were when he was playing with his grandchildren and when he rode his horses. The sharp winds nearly cutting his face was an exhilarating feeling for the old man past his prime. Robert felt free as he traveled the roads of Otistadt on Storm as if his 230lbs mass was cut in half. “Onwards to Karosgrad, Storm. Canter, boy, Canter!” Dear Ami… “Have you heard the news? Haense is aiding Sutica to fight against a rebellion! I’ve always wanted to fight in a war where monsters and giants were not involved. Finally, a human war! I know it may sound barbaric of me to want to fight for glory in a war that ends up in the loss of human life, but how can I help it? My entire career so far has led up to a moment like this. Our first mission shall be to the Barony of Rhein, where we expect little to no resistance. If all goes well, the fortress shall act as our base of operations. Pray for my soul and for the souls of the soldiers who might die in this war. You’ll always be in my thoughts, as well as my family.” Your Best Friend, Robbie The city was quiet upon entering the gates. Apart from the occasional drunkard in the tavern, everyone seemed to be sleeping still. Robert didn’t question this, as it was still very early. In fact, it was so early that the sun had not yet shown it’s presence. As he slowly made his way throughout the streets, Robert recollected the fondest memories in his life. Towards the Barracks, he heard himself in the far distance yelling and training his soldiers. He was a much younger, physically healthy, and active man. Some would say that was Robert in his prime. As he stepped closer to the square, he thought of the first interactions he had with the majority of friends he would make in his lifetime, that being Tatiana, Harren, Annaliesa, Adalia, and last but certainly not least, his best friend of all, Amicia. These memories the old Baron cherished were ones that he held dearly, but were never ones he thought often about. Strange… Nevertheless, he made his way up the palace steps and into the tax office… Amicia… “You were born on a beautiful day in 1803, just before I was born. You died peacefully in your home of a Free Elysium, next to the people you loved and who loved you back, in 1842, two months before your 40th birthday. Your smile was as beautiful as it was when I last saw it, and reports say you seemed to be at peace. I’ll never get over your death. I’ll never be able to say farewell to you or tell you that I love you. I’ll never see your beautiful smile, hear your laughs, or stare into those eyes that have trapped me for all these years. I’ll never get that clarity, but it's okay. I know that you are truly at peace now. Your life was full of love and happiness. We shared laughs, tears, warm moments, and even a kiss. I know that in your final years, we did not speak at all, but I hope that you knew that I loved you, and I hope that I earned your love back eventually in the end. I’ll always love you.” …Robert The commotion was confusing and yet clear at the same time. A small scuffle was ongoing in the tax office. A man lay dead at the very steps Robert was walking down, and two women were the primarily culprits. Despite his advanced age and in a poor physical state, Robert was still a decorated Sergeant of five wars with four decades of experience and was sworn by oath to defend the innocent. The chase was intense, and destiny had led the Baron to find the pair in his own home of Kazstadt. It was still only the crack of dawn, and most of his household was either in slumber, or too busy in the loud kitchens to hear of any commotion. Robert found himself alone, with only his loyal steed Storm and the weapons accompanying him. This would not be the first time the veteran faced adversity. Afterall, to take on two ordinary women shouldn’t be too hard, right? “HALT!” the Baron shouted out in his disciplined tone. “In the name of Sigismund III I demand to know what’s going on!” The Sergeant’s questions went nowhere, as the two seemingly ordinary people attacked him soon after. Robert’s assumption on their ordinary state was incorrect, as one of them seemed to know magic and launched a spike made of rock towards him, whilst the other threw a dagger. The helmetless Baron seemed to inherit the luck his younger brother Aleksey had, and both attempts on his head missed. It seemed the tides were on his side, until… Dear Ami… “It’s been five years since your death… I’m sorry to say, but your daughter has passed on to the afterlife. Godan only knows if she was granted salvation… But all I know is that I don’t feel regret for what I did or the words I spoke. All I wanted was stability and joy within our house, and she wanted other things in life. I suppose our expectation for them to be close almost came true… But like us, it was not meant to be. I did not harbor hatred for Anya. I admired her protection over my grandchildren. I hope that in the afterlife, you can forgive me for my failures. It seems that the older I get, the more apparent these things are to me. The best thing I can do for my family’s future is to pass on whatever wisdom I have left. I do truly miss you.” Your Best Friend, Robbie The magic-user revealed her true form. Her skin turned as icy as the terrain surrounding them, her glare as cold as the Rimeveld itself. She resembled a human, but her face was more wicked than anything. The battle ensued, and Robert was still favored by luck. Maybe… just maybe, he can pull this off. Maybe he’ll be able to greet his wife when she rises. Maybe he’ll be able to hold his grandchildren’s hands again. Maybe… he can see his children happy together once more. It’s a beautiful and calming thought. “Vyr tricks don’t impress me, witch” Robert spat out at the enemy ahead of him. No longer was he fighting for glory, justice, or even for protection. The Baron, Sergeant, husband, father, and grandfather just wanted one thing… To see his family one more time. To Amicia, “It’s been six years since your death. Things have turned around for me in life, truly. While I’m still hard on my children, I know to control my temper and only use my judgment fairly. No longer will I pour mountains of expectations on my children. No longer will I punish them without proper cause. My grandchildren shall also be spoiled until the end of my time in this world. I value the happiness of a child early in their lives, as I was not blessed with the happiest of childhoods. Though I do value the pleasant memories of my life, especially with ones with you. I expect that I am coming to a close in a chapter of my life, whether the cold embrace of death is upon me or if my son will finally be ready to take on the reigns, who knows? Only Godan knows the path that I’ll be set on… and I hope that I’ll be united with you in the afterlife soon. This shall be the final letter I write to you. For thirty-four years, I’ve written a letter to you, and yet, I’ve sent none of them. I don’t know why I make a habit out of it, even after your death. Perhaps I find it… therapeutic? No matter. After my death, these letters shall be found by my family and what they do with them shall be on their authority. Whether they’ll forgive me, hate me, or forget me, is up to them. I realize now that my controlling behavior, although it did good temporarily, ultimately pushed myself from those who I loved. Oh well… Only time will tell. As you would say, Au revoir, Ami, and thank you for being with me, even after your passing.” Your Best Friend always, Robert What seemed like a few minutes felt like hours. The battle was two against one and yet was still a stalemate. The fight seemed to be desperate for the Baron, as he’d thrown everything from his spear to boiled potatoes. Truly a madman, Robert somehow gained near level ground, wounding the mortal companion of the frozen witch, though not before a knife grazed his cheek. Funny… this was the first and only injury he’d sustain on the head, even though he went to war without a helmet on. All hope did not seem lost… That is until a third had joined the party of companions. Now, it was only inevitable. Never did the Baron prepare for death, but he accepted it. Robert yelled the oath that was given to him as the fight ensued. He no longer thought of his survival, but only of his family. “Give me time to think, Godan… I’ll meet vy soon. I just need to think of them…” he said to himself. “One last time…” [!] In the distant rising sun, Robert would hear faint laughs in the distance. He saw an image in the blowing storm of a small boy and girl playing together. It felt so familiar, so comforting. The scene changes and the boy was now an old man. By his side stood his wife, his children, and his grandchildren. It was a happy scene, a peaceful one. The oldest man seemed to look ahead to the doomed Baron and nodded his head. It was now clear, he was looking at his own life flash before his eyes through the blowing winds. “It’s time…” In what was a show of brave defiance, Robert shouted his oath for all the land around him to hear. It was so fast, yet so passionate and clear. His loyal steed, Storm, was already cold on the ground next to him. It was clear who the next target was: himself. As the frost witches advanced, his side seemed to be impaled by a spike of ice. Finally, the time had come… Dear Ami, “I hope my handwriting has improved over the years! I’m writing this a little short notice, but I’m coming to visit Elysium for old times sake! I know that your nation is at war, and tensions are high, which is exactly why I wanted to visit. How has my best friend been all these years? I’m starting to fear that you’ve forgotten me! Well, you might not even recognize me when I get there. I’ve lost weight, grown taller than my papej, and not to mention I have facial hair! I am truly excited for when we’ll speak. I have so much to tell you! Make sure to bring freshly baked cookies for us at the gates!” Your Best Friend, Robbie It was quick and painful, but the Baron held out his sword in pride, not as a desperate attempt to cling on to the little life he had left, but as a defiant gesture to die in fear. This was his last stand, his last action, his last scene… Krusae zwy Kongzem Rest in Peace Robert Aleksandr Ludovar 13th of Grand Harvest, 1803 FA - 1st of Deep Cold, 1854 FA | 13th of Gronna i Droba, 356 ES - 1st of Jomma i Umund, 407 ES

DEATH OF AN ANCIENT FELLOW A PK OF PETYR BISHOP [1773-1854] Petyr Bishop would take his last breath within the confides of his bed, surrounded by friends and family. The founder of the Barony of Avoria and former Sedanian knight passes, having accomplished much of his accomplishments in the former years of his life. Petyr after the Sedanian Rebellion began to settle down, withering for the last years of his life. Petyr only returned with the Josephite Bishops during the twilight of his life, upon return he was obviously disappointed of it's current state, being vocal. Yet, somehow, the senile old man still cared for his entire family, wanting the best for them in his own vision. His last word before passing was, "Water", having called for his son Ivarus to get him a glass of water. Petyr's last thoughts of were Sedan and Haense, having been both within his life. He thought fondly of the rebellion and the rebels that he fought with. He smiled after hearing of the results of the Siege of Southbridge, glad to hear that the Imperials were defeated before his passing. His smile despite being crooked and somewhat toothless was obviously filled with joy. He left behind a hastily written note for his family before passing, To the Josephites

WITHOUT RAIN [i] A painting of Eleanora Helaine of Valwyck, Viscountess-Consort of Aurveldt and Baroness-Consort of Mondstadt at twenty-five years old. A delicate hand turned a silver wedding ring about her finger, the silver she insisted it be. Silver seemed to be the color that described her most. Silver jewels, silver skies, silver tears. The sun barely peaked behind the clouds as Eleanora gazed across the way to her chambers, where her husband scribbled diligently at his desk. She brought a handkerchief to her mouth, coughing as she winced and turned away from the balcony. The cloth came back bloodied, as it so often did, and she tossed the linen into the fire. It was so different from the cloth she’d embroidered for her father. Plain. Unadorned. That handkerchief rested in a pocket in the neckline of all her gowns, close to her heart, wrapped around a necklace of silver pearls. No one could know, not when her children were so hopeful she’d be able to spend more time with them. With a deep breath, she lifted a round pill to her lips and slipped it between them, swallowing hard as she chased the pastel with water from the flask she always carried. Frowning at the bitter taste, she turned back toward the balcony, watching her husband with a fond smile. Dearest Isaak, so focused, so determined. Gaunt hands drew a shawl further around her as she turned, gazing out across the water. Valwyck lay within the fog, hosting her brother and his wife and her dearest niece. Her father’s coffin buried deep within, the coffin of his widow buried miles away in Vidaus. Life had not gone where she wanted it to, and Eleanora lifted her skirts, waving off her maid before traipsing down the hills and cliffs toward the water’s edge. It froze over in the winter, and she smiled. How she’d loved to skate across the ice without a care in the world when she was young, barely up to her father’s waist. The waves lapped at the rocky shore, and the Viscountess drifted to sit upon a fallen tree, gazing out into the mist. The walk had left her winded, and a hand lifted to rub at her chest, as if that could ease the burning in her lungs that arose when she pushed herself too hard. With a quiet sigh, Eleanora closed her eyes and remembered. She was a child once more, carefree and happy as she clings to her father’s sleeve. It’s father and daughter against the world, until a mother enters their lives and spreads softness and joy into their keep. A mother who brings three younger siblings and endless laughter. She brings with her a family, grandparents the child never had, more cousins then she could count. Beaming smiles and meals shared at the same table, her father’s gruff manner and her mother’s reserved nature. A mother who secludes herself from the world, though Eleanora could never bring herself to resent the mother who’d been so kind when she’d married her father. She could never resent Marjorie, not when her eldest daughter was named for her, not when her mere presence had brought so much hope. Two friends, attached at the hip as they begin their lives. Crawling turns to walking, and walking turns to running. Gifts exchanged between them, cherished even after years go by. Anxiety, excitement, love, sadness, pain. The embodiment of a sisterly bond. A bond forged in fire and terror, a bond unbroken even by the test of time. The soft brush of moonlight against pale skin, shining grey eyes filled with tears staring into her own as they whisper sweet nothings together in a garden teeming with life. Broken hearts and silent tears mark the end of childhood as fingers intertwine and confessions whispered that shall never be repeated, secrets pass between that shall never see the light of day. The death and rebirth of hearts accompanied by the sweet scent of flowers, even as they carve I love you into each other's souls. Gasps overtook young lungs as Eleanora stood at the front of the basilica, her cousins spreading flowers down the aisle as she took her father’s arm and allowed him to lead her to her future. Her mother hadn’t attended, too busy with her books and her poetry, and Eleanora forced herself to carry on anyways. There the future stands, at the altar, with vibrant red hair and smiling eyes, a hand outstretched to hers, so different from the tearful goodbye all those years ago. Their lips meet in a chaste kiss as applause erupts around them. Their new life has hardly begun before two new lives are added to their family in a private room in the clinic at Karosgrad. Twin children, a son and daughter, who fill their parents’ lives with light and immeasurable happiness. A second daughter is next, followed by a second son. Children laughing as they fill their new home, surrounded by family and godfamily as they flourish and grow. Heartfelt congratulations and sleepless nights as infants cry late into the evening. Four beautiful children she’d cherished before even seeing their faces. Tearfilled eyes as coffins are lowered into the ground. First, a father who shielded her valiantly from all the pain the world had to offer, only for his efforts to be shattered viciously the moment she’d heard the diagnosis. A mother followed, taking her own life and finally abandoning her children for good. It was nothing new, being abandoned by a mother, but it did not hurt any less because it was the second time. Heartache as a cousin who had always done his best to make her laugh and smile took his family and left Karosgrad for good. Health declines as grief grows, and Eleanora offered a crackling laugh to the blue sky. A pang rushed through her that left her gasping for breath, tears slipping down hollow cheeks as she watched the spouts of the whales drift upward from the water. A trembling hand lifted to unfold the handkerchief she kept nearest her heart, clutching the fabric as she felt over silver pearls. The faces of her loved ones passed over her eyes. Her father, her siblings, her husband, her children, her cousins, her friends. She struggled to her feet before collapsing to the ground, a hacking cough leaving her as blood spattered against the gravel. With a gasping breath, she rolled onto her side to face the shore once more. To face Valwyck once more. “Please Godan… let me see it one last time…” The fog never lifted, even as Eleanora Amador took her last breaths. To the denizens of the Aurveldt Viscounty and beyond, It is with great sadness that we, the House of Amador, announce the death of Viscountess-Consort Eleanora Helaine Amador, formerly Baruch. Below lies the final will and testament of Viscountess Amador, which lists various bequeathments to the following persons, and these persons should present themselves at Aurveldt in a timely manner to receive the items left to them by the late Viscountess. TABLE OF CONTENTS I. Statement from the Departed II. Bequeathments and Personal Statements I. STATEMENT FROM THE DEPARTED To my beloved family, If you are reading this, then I have passed to the Seven Skies. I have relished every second I have spent with each of you, and I shall watch over you forevermore until you join me here should Godan will it. I have lived a privileged life compared to most, and I am grateful for that fact. I am grateful that I was able to see so much in my lifetime, that I was able to live my life well. Do not cry, for someday, we shall be reunited. I pray to Godan that you all lead healthy and wonderful lives. That you may never know hardship and suffering, only kindness and compassion. Always know I shall be watching over you, even when it seems as if you have been abandoned. Live your lives well, my dearest loved ones. SIGNED, The Honorable, Eleanora Helaine Amador, Viscountess-Consort of Aurveldt and Baroness-Consort of Mondstadt II. BEQUEATHMENTS AND PERSONAL STATEMENTS To ISAAK AMADOR, should he still be living at the time of my death, I leave all my worldly goods except those mentioned in this final will and testament and those that cannot be bequeathed because of the death of the inheritor or failure to claim their inheritance. I leave to him our children, to care for and to love in junction with their chosen godparents. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Isaak Amador. To ALEKSANDR LUKAS AMADOR, should he still be living at the time of this reading, I leave my arctic fox figurine and my sapphire ring. I leave him the painting of his father and I that hangs in the private wing of the keep at Aurveldt, the one of our wedding day. I leave to him all my worldly goods should the inheritor above have died before him. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Aleksandr Lukas Amador. To SOFIYA MARJOREYA AMADOR, should she still be living at the time of this reading, I leave my string of silver pearls. I leave to her my glass turtle figurine and half of my jewelry collection. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Sofiya Marjoreya Amador. To ANNA KAROLINA AMADOR, should she still be living at the time of this reading, I leave half my jewelry collection and my dresses, to do with as she will. I leave her half my paints, unfinished works, and art supplies. I also leave to her my business, The Azurean Rose Boutique, for her to pass down onto her daughters. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Anna Karolina Amador. To FILIP HIEROMAR AMADOR, should he still be living at the time of this reading, I leave half my paints, unfinished works, and art supplies. I leave to him my beloved pets, a parrot, my hounds, and my cats. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Filip Hieromar Amador. To EIRIK MATYAS BARUCH, should he still be living at the time of this reading, I leave the necklace our dear father, Ruslan Eirik Baruch, gave to me on the day of my wedding. I pray the paintings I had given our father during his lifetime remain in House Baruch’s possession as proof that our father was much loved by all his children. I also beseech him to tell our dearest sisters that I love them, for I know one will not want my words and the other will not understand. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Eirik Matyas Baruch. To PRINZENAS PETRA EMMA, should she still be living at the time of this reading, I leave the enclosed letter, for nothing I can give her will repay her for all she has done for me. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Her Serene Highness, Prinzenas Petra Emma. To KOENAS EMMA KARENINA, should she still be living at the time of this reading, I leave the enclosed letter. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to Her Majesty, Koenas Emma Karenina. To KOENG SIGISMUND III, should he still be living at the time of this reading, I leave the drawing I created of him when we were both only children that resides in my jewelry box, as well as my prayers for his health and glory. [i] A letter would be enclosed addressed to His Majesty, Koeng Sigismund III. [OOC: I had a really great time playing Eleanora, but now it's time to move on and dedicate time to the upcoming characters as well as the existing ones who demand more of my time. Special thanks to everyone who helped form her into an awesome character to play, like @Sarmadon @Pureimp10 @sarahbarah @livrose @Xarkly @Gusano @Mady @kaylaa @Herod @MotherLay@tadabug2000 and more! (I can't remember all her kids' forum names, whoops, but you know who you are.) I enjoyed every single second of playing Ellie, thanks to everyone she interacted with to being all around amazing people!]

Ser William has always had a fire burning in his heart- a passion that kept him alive. But now those roaring flames were dying, withering away into a few final embers. He could've kept going if he wanted to, he thought, lift the sword again and return to Rozania, or continue wandering the lands with his beloved. Maybe. But they felt it was time to go off to a better place. Together. Sailing down the sea of souls, there was nothing more he longed for. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in forever he could be him. He felt free- liberated. The crackling of fire, the gentle waves of the ocean, the aftertaste of poison on his tongue, the warmth of a lover's embrace. His eyelids felt heavy, and he felt his embers die out as his life waned. He spent his last moments reflecting... He lived a good life, that old man. He was young once, young and piss poor. But he didn't care- he was happy. He had a hope and a dream in his eyes. A little castle out in the countryside, a loving wife to hold his hand, a handful of babes running around and playing on his nerves. For a while, he had more than that. He had it all. He experienced loves that made his heart fluttered, he raised children that did him proud, he forged friendships he didn't deserve, with people who were twice the man he was. All he had he earned with his own two hands, through a long and hard journey, but he never stood alone. It were people like his lifelong friends Eliza and Aylin, the allies the likes of Lomiei and Rebeka, and loyal men-at-arms like Ser Brawly that always had his back. Of course, he couldn't forget about his wife, no matter what it was, she stood by him, supporting him in every way possible. But life wasn't always smooth. Some marriages were cut short by death or faded feelings. Some children proved to be disappointing. Some allies and friends and even family stabbed his back. But he embraced it in the end, for you can't have the good without the bad. He knew that more than anyone, after all, he wasn't always a good man. He lied, slain, cheated, caused pain, and for what? In the end it mattered not. He couldn't change the past, although he wished he could've been a better man. He wondered what went wrong down the line. He was 'good' once, when he was younger. At least that's what he thought. Maybe the people back in his days were kinder, just like the prices were fair and politicians were noble, the air cleaner, and whatever else an old man could claim. He thought about his final letters, the ones he left with one of his trusted stewards before this departure. He wondered what these people would say, and whether they would forgive him. He smiled to himself- he could die with hope in his heart. The same hope that filled him in his youth. But...he was tired now...it was time to sleep... And that was the end of William Buckfort. Letters: To my children, Janusz, Aldigar, Romilda, Oisin, Gawain, Galahad, Estella, Nadia, Gwyn, etc To Aldigar, To Estella, To Gwyn, To Oisin, To Axilya, To Her Grace, Lady Eliza Raven I, To Belladonna, To Ser Brawly, To Lady Aylin, To Puff-Puff, To Kobint, To Qiew, To Dame Matilda, To Mika, To Erwin Bishop,

The life of a Wild Mondblume The Last Cigar A child stood with her father in front of the gates to New Reza, meeting the men that she would later deem her closest family. That same day would be the day she met her first love, Klaus Makensen, who would pour itching powder down the back of her dress. She would spend her days either with Friedrich Barclay, another boy she had befriended, or Klaus. The days may have been short but the fun they shared was long and valuable. At some point she and Friedrich had made a blood pact, promising that if they ever found something that they would announce the findings together. This later never came to persist throughout the years. Soon the time she had spent with Friedrich faded away as he began preparing for becoming the next patriarch. This fed into the obsession that was Klaus Mackensen, the two becoming inseparable. They would always be seen together, running off to the Wick Woods or the forests that surrounded Oren’s land. What they did inside the woods was never spoken of, at a young age they both would indulge themselves into the art of dissecting wild pigs and chickens. This led to the psychotic traits the both of them would begin to show, leading to almost wild animalistic behavior towards one another. Trading words of “If you leave me, I will hunt you down and kill the one who thought you were theirs.” and vice versa. At one point she had even left a pig’s liver on the balcony of her own uncle Fyodor Erdhart. When the two were not threatening each other with loving words, or hunting purely for the kill, they were in haense planning their next prank victim. The only one the girl only ever cared to prank was her older sister, Loraina Mondblume. Time and time again the sister would be pranked with a nagt tree, ant’s blight in soup, and a plethora of other things. But one day it would backfire on the Girl tremendously, almost getting her kidnapped. She had been with Klaus, using his help to throw a paint bomb and a glitter bomb onto her elder sister as they both broke out into laughter. The two continued laughing as the girl’s other sister arrived, Dhara Mondblume, holding a fishing rod and looking at the two confused. While the girl had caught her sister up on the recent events of things, two people came up to them; one a human male and the other an orc female. The two people had tried kidnapping all three children, the male knocking Klaus and the girl out onto the floor. The next few minutes were a blurry flur, as what seemed to be the entire HRA rallying to apprehend the two adults. A few medics came in and took the girl and Klaus out to the hospital, tending to their heads. The coming days were a blur to the girl, her uncle Astoro Jovanovsk checked up on her several times a day when he was not on duty. But all the girl could do really was sit in her bed, under the stairs and stare at a book blankly. But soon her light came back, Klaus came to visit to make sure she was alright, and took her out to sit under a birch tree. There he came forth with a ring, some letters enscripted onto the metal. “A promise ring, because I promise to be by your side.” The girl smiled at it, and wore it on her at all times. But this didn’t last as the panic of the Infirni war raged on within the lower states of the continent, and soon the evacuation of all the peoples of every nation. But before that, her father had said goodbye to her, giving her his own helmet amongst other things. Amelot The Brave may not have been a present father in her life, but she loved him as much as a daughter would either way. The girl had cried hard and long when she had heard of her father dying, from being pushed into a lava ravine. The next few months spent on a ship, heading to a new world was painful. Her family was split up considerably, her mother and older sister missing the Haense boat as her last sister sat crying into her shoulder. The now woman grew distant emotionally from all she had once interacted with. All ships soon stopped on a small island, letting all onboard stretch their legs for the time being. The woman smiled as she saw Klaus again, running at him and tackling him to the floor. She had gushed over him, complaining about how lonely she had been on the Haense ship without him. When they had landed in Almaris, and the years of construction began and ended, the remaining Mondblumes lived together within a manor. Hildebrand, her cousin, leading the house for the time being. Many of the years were a blur again as she had lost Klaus to whatever he was doing. She had convinced herself at one point he had died, but the next day he showed his face in the palace gardens speaking of sweet nothings before disappearing from her life once more. She had grown angry at him, removing the ring she held so close to her heart and setting it away with the rest of the gifts he had given her over their childhood. But the one gift she wouldn’t put away was a dagger that looked like a sacrificial knife, something that would be a part of some occult or another. The item would always be stashed away in her boot if she was wearing pants, or hidden under her dress if she were to wear one. To silence her anger she would go on long hunts, slicing and killing boars that roamed far behind the walls of Karosgrad. Like she would when she was younger, she took out the animal’s livers and lungs. The woman stabbed at the organs verily until it was a pile of mush and blood. Upon returning back to the walls and warmth of Karosgrad she had met an Amador. He was younger than her, but she saw just a little bit of herself in him. The two started to court, but the Amador wanted to leave Haense and his noble title for Norland, the neighboring northern nation. She had followed him but only for a short period of time before her cousin and two uncles came to speak to her about it. Even though she did have some family in Norland, all of her life was in Haense and that she had to stop loving him. But this did not stop her from seeing him, following him around in cloth and mask, calling out to him over hilltops to taunt him. She often called him a ‘bunny who had left the safe den for that of the wild storm’. Soon she had gotten bored of taunting him and went back to her life in Haense. While inside the tavern and talking to her adoptive mother, Anna, over a cup of tea at the counter, she turned to meet the eyes of someone familiar. It was a Barclay, but one she had only met ever so often. Cedric Barclay, as she came to know, blessing her mind space of pure and happy thoughts. The man was to be taking over his father’s store, forging a small kazoo for her as a present. The woman smiled at that, not having a kazoo on her since her childhood, and playing a short sweet song. Soon enough the two started to fall in love, eventually having a double date with one of her sisters and another Barclay. The woman loved Cedric’s smile, a Sun’s Smile so she called it, which brought light into her dark mind. Years had passed as the two fell more deeply in love, so far in love that she had forgotten all dark thoughts and locked them away for the happiness she had with Cedric. At last the two got married and she moved into Reinmar to live with him. Soon she had birthed twins, who she had named Reinhardt and Klaus. She loved her sons a lot, to the point she took up knitting to make little hats for their tiny heads. A few years later she had another child, Ludvig, who had been sick since his birth. No one knew how or why, but soon enough the child had grown and left on an adventure. Then once again she had another, a girl named Adrianna who was secretly her favorite. The woman always took her daughter’s side, even when she had snuck into a friend’s house and took most of his liquor, making Cedric chase Adrianna and her friend down for it. The years grew slow as her children grew up, the woman either staying within the keep to knit away blankets or going out on hunts for boars. And she had thought the next hunt would be the same as ever, oh how she was wrong. After giving a loving glance at her husband she left the keep, the last remnants of society for the next 19 years. And in the twenty years of her absence, she had fought hair, tooth and nail to not die to the things that lay within the mountains. She survived for so long she thought how she would return back to Haense, and if there was anything she could return to. In the end she found her way back, and had been blessed with her eldest son’s face, Reinhardt. Though he thought of her simply as a specter of the past, not believing that the woman in front of him was his mother. But after much explaining of her own past, and the inner workings of the Reinmar keep he broke down crying in his mother’s arms. The woman, now greying, had met her grandchildren from Reinhardt, being gentle and kind to the children around her. “So you named one Cedric after your father? Speaking of, where is he?” She asked as they all sat around the fire, the air became stiff suddenly. Reinhardt told her that he died, passed away in battle. The woman stood up and backed away, glaring at her child for the first time. She denied the truth, saying it must have been a lie, a ploy where Cedric would be around the corner. Reinhardt tried to calm her down, but she bolted out of the room running up to the roof terraces where she spent her lonely nights. Her son tackled her to that of one of the roofs, holding her down as she kicked and flailed about. The man now carried his mother from the roof into a room, holding her down as he locked her hands behind her back in irons. The woman shot a sarcastic comment at her son, about how he could lock an old woman in irons. The woman soon calmed down and he led her to an empty room, save for furniture, letting her out there. Reinhardt muttered about her sanity and left her to rest, but his child stayed behind and talked with her. The now grandmother talked about the pranks she had done on her own siblings to the child, and promised to teach them how each worked. The young girl nodded and soon left for bed, saying a quick goodnight to her Oma. The woman sighed as she herself went to rest, planning to clean herself in the morning. And the next morning she cleaned herself, and went into the capital’s walls. She reveled in the unchanged looks of all the buildings, how each loomed over her the same way they did years before. As she stepped to the bank to check what money she did have left in her account, stopping as she caught sight of a very familiar girl. She leaned against one of the terracotta pillars as she just smiled happily at her child, soon cooing out to her. The woman who was Adrianna, turned around and ran towards her mother, enveloping her into a tight hug of love and tears. The woman hushed her and wiped away her tears, claiming all will be fine. She then looked at the man standing a few paces off to her right, who smoked a cigar. All she gave him was a proud nod, herself being a big smoker. The next few months were solem, the woman looking over her empty bed every time she walked back into her new room. “If only you were here Cedric, I know you would be so proud of all our children.” As she laid down, she thought of where she would land after she died. Would it be in the seven skies, or somewhere worse? The years passed by quickly, barely registering the time as she had spent most of it on a hillside or looking into the lake near Karosgrad. After a long walk she had come across a gathering of Barclay and friends, walking closer to the huddle to listen in. What she heard was upsetting to say the least, so she called for everyone to come to the keep for dinner. They all moved to Reinmar, and into the feast hall. The woman had left to go begin making a stew for everyone, letting them talk amongst themselves. While she was cooking a cough past her lips, nothing uncommon for the old woman. So she kept cooking until she brought it all to the table, filling everyone’s bowls with pork stew. They talked more about how to proceed with the issues at hand. Another cough racked her lungs, making her stuff her face into her arm. When she pulled back she glared at the red stain on her white shirt. Adrianna, one of her children that were there at the table looked up at her in concern, voicing that concern but the elderly woman just waved her off. She pulled out a cigar, and lit it before taking a deep inhale of it. Her other son, Reinhardt, had spoke up about her smoking habits. The woman shrugged his words off, looking at the child who had come in. The child was upset, that much was clear, though he spoke unclearly. Adrianna had helped the child out, and calmed him down. As she did this another set of coughs came over the elderly woman. Reinhardt and her son-in-law Charles helped her to sit at one of the banquet tables. Adrianna had soon returned to her side, pulling out some herbs and asking her brother to boil them into a tea. The woman still had her cigar in her hand, taking another deep breath of the intoxicating smoke. She blew the cloud into the air and let it settle down back to the floorboards. She was about to quip some sarcastic joke when another fit of coughs attacked her, this one worse than the last and having her doubled over onto the floor. Blood and a few chunks were on the floor, her eyes fogging up with water making her unable to see. A soft voice called from the other end of the room, a child, asking what was wrong. At that moment she spoke one sentence, “Get the child out of here- she does not need to see this.” A few minutes had passed before the woman was able to breathe somewhat easily again, using a napkin to wipe away what blood had stuck to her chin. As Adrianna and Charles seemed to fret over the woman, she got up and followed the sound of her son’s voice. At the top of the stairs she saw Reinhardt with a little girl, who held a very familiar teddy bear. Knocking on the wall she introduced herself to the child, going to ruffle the small girl’s hair. Reinhardt had gone to help his mother, worried over her slowly worsening form. She thanked him, standing on the edge of the fireplace with her almost used up cigar. The woman spoke some comforting words before taking what was left of the cigar and draining it to ash. The world seemed to stop for Aeira Barclay, a wild mondblume who fought hair tooth and nail to get back to where she was now. But all she could feel was a burning in her throat as she fell to the floor, a pile of blood, bile and some tears mixing on the carpet below her. Things happened all too quickly yet all so slowly, her daughter at her side begging her to stay awake and the voice of a little girl asking what was wrong. Through Aeira’s tears and blood, she spoke one thing, “Tell Klaus I always loved him, and that he deserved a better mother.” The blood choked her, her own body turned against her as her life slipped out of eyes. Aeira had died to herself, and seemingly with her last cigar.

It had been years of peaceful rest, as Naexi slept in what seemed to be an intense coma… there was no fight as she peacefully slipped from life to death… she simply lay there, recounting the life that had brought her through hatred, slavery, motherhood, love… she saw faces of people she loved, both her wives, one of which who’s death she was unaware had occurred just hours before… her children… friends… enemies… and finally she slipped into darkness, to which realm and belief none will know. The once chaotic and slightly insane woman now lay lifeless, to be discovered by whomever may next walk into the bedroom she and her wives had shared for years… [OOC] Naexi was super fun to play on for these 10(?) months, but her time has come, and to the joy of many im sure. Feel free to dm me to ask any questions, and it’s been a pleasure confusing all of Almaris with her ridiculous personality :)

The Fall of Kind Hands & A Strong Soul Listen for Added effect The day had been like any other, and yet, the snowy hills seemed restless as the winds twisted and turned dark dreadlocks in their wake. The bear cloak, which laid upon green shoulders, was nearly snatched by such winds, yet golden eyes kept searching for their prize. The axe in hand glittered in what sunlight was seen, and the grip was only made tighter as dark shadows were brought forward. There was more than what was expected, yet the form of an orc stood tall and ready. The tall shadows in the snowstorm surrounded the orc, and snarls of wolf-like nature cut their way past the screaming of the wind in her ears. The feorc would return the snarling with her own, and as the bear claw around her neck swayed with the wind, she would take strength from such and watched as the shadows moved closer. One after the other, each form would charge, and the feorc would swing her axe. These creatures were bigger than any bear she had fought, yet they were familiar foes she had faced a time long ago. With heavy breaths, and her strength waning, the snow would be stained with blood. The crimson stains a sign of the orc's resistance as she kept swinging. There were too many however, and as she missed one more swing, old scars would be reopened, and the feorc would fall to her knees. With no help in sight, all the feorc could do was try and stand once more. With the axe as her support, golden eyes would stare upon the leather braided ring; with silver that laced with it. The wedding ring her mate had given her. With her other soon raising to grasp at the bear claw she had with the engravings of her old mate's name. The feorc would find strength once more to stand and keep on fighting. Memories of old, with thoughts of those she had cared for and cherished, ran through her head. She pushed to fight, and to live for them. The flash of a small goblin cook, the flash of an old, blue, rex; the flash of a grey orc with red eyes, the flash of a half-breed orc, a shaman, and the flash of Krugmar. The flash of Elysium, with a Duke, a wood elf with gold eyes, and a wood elf with green, and the flash of small kubs. All of this, had kept the feorc fighting, and yet.... It wasn't enough. The splatter of blood and a groan was made from the feorc, before she would fall back down to her knees. A hand would raise to her open stomach, and with blood spilt, the figures would depart. Bruised and battered is how the feorc was left, and deep wounds would send her form gently falling to the snow. The white, cold, yet soft, feeling underneath herself was soon drenched in a deep crimson red. A cough would be heard, and as her bloodied axe lay beside her, she would let these memories of old start to consume her. Memories of Old Krugmar and of Elysium. From the Orcs she called brothers and sisters, to the Elves and Humans she called friends. A muttered apology was given to the screaming winds, "Mi beh zorry...it iz...mi tik..." Yet through the snow, help did come. The sounds of hurriedly crunching snow was heard through the calming winds, and the sight of a familiar Wood Elf would be seen. As the feorc would begin to take her last breaths, Songs would turn her head to look at Nesrin, her wife, her lifemate, running towards her. Her mouth appeared to be screaming, her mouth open and face full of agony. However, the feorc couldn't hear her too clearly, as she was already in the grasp of death's hands, and being pulled slowly towards the darkness. She gave her lover a gentle, yet strangely sad smile, as she felt the rough texture of Nesrin's hand. She knew she could be at rest, happy to die in her wife's arms. The orc was finally put to rest, and Songs Jhet-Krask Sarosa, was now in the skies. A loving mother, a kind friend, and a gentle lover. Long may she live within our hearts. Songs Jhet-Krask Sarosa Born FA 1787-SA 49 (Died at Age 58)

In what was but a blink of an eye, they looked upon the sky. Ruin was all anyone could describe such a night. Prince Vival, the young heir of clan Velulaei’onn, stood valiantly upon the frontlines of the evacuation of Elvenese many of elven kind having looked to the skies toward their doom. The Young Ker found himself, brought to an abrupt end by a single slash of a hellish construct. In an attempt to fight for his life, the Prince found himself in the company of Elven lords. His life ended in the company of Sevrel Valindar, who took the honor of delivering the young Lord to his beloved home of the Stygian Hollow. Vival lived as the reclusive young son of the Velulaei’onn line of Renelia born to the first lord of the lands Aroen; Vival was a solitary boy having shared blood and practice within the clan Ravexi, having been raised upon the ideals of the Ironfist of the Ker. His time would have proven a brief one for the young reclusive scholarly warrior as the end brought only exodus. Having been separated by his kin, Vival found himself alone. As was true for many Ker at the time, survival turned into a priority, many integrating into other communities and many more turning toward ill reputable criminal acts. Vival, as he grew up, remained within the criminal underworld, having taken part in piracy at a young age following a less than a prestigious career in thievery. Within time the young Ker, having been forced to live under an alias and disguise based upon his heritage, after an untimely end to his criminal career, Vival lived among scholars in Sutica. Vival spent much time learning about more peculiar elements of the world. Through his knowledge, he earned a grander perspective. As Vival hungered for more, his studies had found an end with the sudden loss of the academy; Vival moved from place to place, continuing his studies and moving from place to place until the destruction of Arcas where old passions reignited though were cut short. Having lived and helped found the city of Freeport, Vival would find himself in a moment of conflict. He had learned some of his family had yet lived in the Holy Orenian Empire. From there, Vivals path became one of walking among a pack, a growing horde of Ker tribes seeking a dream preached by his predecessor of a new Renelia. In hindsight, the goal was perhaps a fool's dream; what he wanted may not have been the best for his people, yet perhaps not one whose ends proved without merit. Vival was not meant to lead, yet upon the stagnation of his predecessor, he was the one left to find a home for his people. During a moment of desperation, Vival led his people toward various potential homes, his sight inevitably falling upon the mountainous ravines in Urguan after his dealings with the Grand King. Through what seemed to be a strenuous effort, the lands of Stygian Hollow formed. Despite the struggles, many found within the city, the Prince grew accustomed to a family, friends, and the trials that even a smaller city may provide. The Young Prince in his final moments fulfilled with his life. ”Aelia, Pardek, and my youngest Ahzekk and the rest of my kin do not weep for eternity simply be better than I.” “To those who remain in the Hollow, our new dream shall not end with me. Carry on for all of our sakes.” “However I may be remembered, I only hope ill be remembered as a llir to all of you; we will meet again among the Ancestors.” “Velulaei, watch over each of you as I now go to join her.”

A Proper Goodbye to Me Doves -------------- “Vera, me dove,” whispered Mother. “Wake up, me dear.” Vera opened her eyes slowly, adjusting them to the bright light. There was her mother, though it was a version of her she had never seen - younger, with no wrinkles or grey to her hair. “Mother..?” Vera asked, finding that her throat was dry. She tried to sit up and get a better look around, but her strength was completely gone, forcing her to lay on her back staring straight towards the white nothingness above. Her mother smiled. “Ah’ve been waitin’ fer ye.” She held something to Vera’s lips. It was warm and slid down her tongue and throat with ease. After her mother had finished serving her the drink and using a cloth to dab gently around her lips, Vera found the strength to speak again. “Mother, what was that?” “Ambrosia,” Her mother answered with ease, sealing the liquid away in some side container. “Nectar of the Gods. Rememba’ how I told ye tah neve’ forget whe’e ye came from?” She truly was stunning, her skin soft, hair pinned to the sides of her hair like she always had it when she tended to the children. “The Gods…” Vera felt her body change from this strange twinging of numbness to a state of energy and fulfilment. “What is this place? Where are we?” Vera’s mother tried to give her a reassuring grin, but her eyes, those deep green eyes, gave it away. “Yer in a bette’ place now.” An unsuspected bolt of shock went through Vera’s body as she curled into herself. She felt like she was on fire...she was on fire! She patted down her arms and legs, trying to get the pain from going away. “Please, Vera, me dove,” She gave her a look only a mother could give; stern but ever-so loving and kind. She needed her to calm down. Vera flinched as the pain eventually subsided. “Good. Now that that’s done an’ ye’ve drank yer ambrosia, we have all the time in the world.” Vera painfully looked around, eyesight spotty and hand to her head, only to be scolded. “Don’t move yer head that fast, ye’ll get sick tah yer stomach. Yer lucky that I got to ye when I did, me dove, and I’m already pissed tah hear about what ye’ve done.” “What I’ve done?” Vera couldn’t remember. There were many things that Vera had done that could upset her mother, but she just couldn’t think of one particular time her mother would have been around to be upset. After all… “My, ye grown up tah be a nice lookin’ lass. Got yer mahder’s hair, I see. An’ eyes - ooh, we ‘ave good eyes, ye know.” Vera saw a shadow in the distance, a familiar one at that. Tall and slender, pointed ears… “Auntie?” Vera yelled out, her voice still a bit hoarse. Her exclamation echoed and echoed throughout this plane of existence. How could that be her Auntie if her Auntie was gone? How could this be her mother if her mother was dead? That’s when the memories began to flood back into mind: Vera was in a washroom, not her own, somewhere far away from her childhood home. She had received news of her Auntie, something drastic, and she was holding to her kitchen knife with a white knuckled grip. She was preparing lettuce and grub for the rabbits in their pens, the few that were left after her belongings were raided by strangers. A girl turned nameless in another nameless place had lost again the only things of her nameless value; her livelihood and her family. Gone were the days where her mother fitted her into ugly sweaters for a family portrait. Gone were the days Uncle would lift her up by the torso and spin her around like a mere doll. The conversations with her adopted-brothers, the mighty hunters of the family, had since been lost to time. And that truly was the enemy of this all, was it not? Was time not the blind judge, jury, and executioner of all that dared to take on the Ambrose family name? No, it was not. The real enemy was people. People who were sneaky, people who were cruel. People who snipped others’ ears and banished children from their homes. People who sat in large castles, taxing hundreds for their own pleasure because they were born into a system of wealth and luxury. These people who laughed at others and made fools of what should otherwise be considered decency- Vera caught herself. She was thinking of her brother again. Her fingers traced her chin and her throat, almost reliving her last moments taking the blade to her own skin and taking surgical cuts. The pity she felt for the farmer that would find her, the one who rented to her, was short-lived; After all, she was dead, what else could she do? After a few moments, Vera met her mother’s eyes again. “I’m in the afterlife, aren’t I?” As a response, her mother simply nodded, holding her hands over Vera’s as a way to show support. The timid silence was soon broken as Vera’s mother, Alli, started asking for all the details from the mortal realm. There was some giggling, some embellishments of stories; Vera told her mother of the time her Auntie had made a rabbit out of fire so big that it caught the bed a light. Alli kicked and laughed that signature laugh: snorty and full, cheeks practically wet with tears. She cooed Vera to tell her more. “What about meh? What do they say about meh?” Vera stumbled a bit with her response. “Well,” she said, “They credit you for how old you were, which is admittedly a feat of its own if you think about it.” Alli looked a bit disappointed. “Not even ‘Alli the Mahder’ or ‘Alli the Kind’. But ‘Alli the Old’?” Vera shrugged. Alli’s face started to slide from joy to an almost rage, eyes narrowed with a piercing gaze. “An’ those Keepe’s, still kickin’?” Vera again shrugged. Alli huffed. “Smells like magicks tah meh. If anyone should be dubbed ‘the old’, it should be that one betch-” “Mother,” Vera interrupted, giving a look only a daughter could give; a gentle reminder that this was not a very important matter anymore. Alli waved it off. “Psh. They neve’ appreciated me tries at diplomacy. I say feck em’.” It was strange that her mother had not asked about Vane, Vera’s twin brother. Instead, Alli helped Vera stand and get a better grasp of her surroundings, which were very much still bright and white. The shadow-figure in the distance was gone, just an endless domain of purity that seemed to stretch for miles was available to the eye. “Where is this? I don’t remember it from Auntie’s lessons on religion.” Alli smirked. “Hopefully she didn’t teach ya that Faith shite, the one’s they tried tah convert meh to before marryin’ yer fahder.” There was a twinge of some emotion when Alli mentioned her husband, even if it was so very brief. From Vera’s very limited knowledge on their marriage, perhaps the emotion was...grief. Or disappointment. “This is a waitin’ lobby, I’ll take ya tah the Gods’ domain. It is beautiful the’e: grass and trees and ivy, flowers and scents that I’ve neve’ dreamt of! All he’e.” Alli motioned towards a direction that held no bearing to Vera. “Ye’ll get tah meet yer brahda’s, yer niece, yer siste’. Ye’ll get to see the older lads again, too, de bear seekers.” At that remark, Alli winked to Vera, implying that she would be able to spend time with the aforementioned hunters of the family. “Mother, I should tell you…” Vera folded her hands in preparation to let her mother know of what her brother had done, what he had become. “I know.” The pause was almost a lifetime of its own, sitting dull and heavily in the air as Alli faced away from her recently-deceased daughter. “Yer fahder, I knew he wouldn’t raise ye the same. I didn’t trust his spoiled brain, ‘specially not wit’ the ideals that he maintained about who should beh in charge.” To that, Alli simply raised her eyebrows. “He was destined fer the throne, I saw it in his eyes as soon as he was born. Tenacious, like his fahder. But also stubborn and...dispassionate.” Her words began to drift away, almost as though she was reliving her time in the mortal realm. “It was the next gold coin, the next profit made from the work of another. His tongue was quick an’ he had wits beyond his years,” Alli dragged out her next words, “But he never quite figured out using his wits fer peace. Or love. And now, he’e we are.” Vera saw the tiredness in her mother’s eyes, and now she believed that she understood all those days and nights where she heard her mother sobbing, pleading to the Gods and Uncle for them to release her from this life, this prison. “Maybe ‘Alli the old’” is fittin’. Because that was the only thing they acknowledged me fo’.” Alli laughed dryly. “An old woman, widowed twice, married tah a rich man, taking care of her biological and non-biological children, simply put the Mother tah the lost orphans of No’land. The dust an’ grime that was once Lorraine blossomed into House Ambrose, who was murdered, ignored, an’ snuffed out.” “I’m sorry, Mother,” Vera choked on her own words, attempting to give her some peace, some kind of comfort that it wasn’t all that bad. “Remember the good? You remember when Vane and I were just babes, swaddled in a cradle, cared over by you and Cain and Asher?” Vera’s throat swelled. She was trying to reignite that fire inside of her mother that warmed everything around her. Alli gave a partial smile, lost in thought. She eventually looked back to her child, cupping her face with her hand. Even in death, she was still so soft and so very much alive. “The good days ‘ave passed, me dove. They’ve passed an’ I say good riddance.” She held Vera in her grasp, her voice shifting to give each of her words dramatic importance. “Those days were good, but we were so sad, so sad indeed. It was the time of hear'break, betrayal, denial, an’ solitude. He’e...he’e is whe’e we can make new days tah smile upon. We ‘ave moved on; that is not our world anymore. We both need tah leave fully, leave the peppery good days behind.” Vera clenched her jaw. To leave the mortal realm, to leave everything that she had ever know...even if she was already dead, that was a hard decision to make. But, it was the right thing to do. She knew that once her mother and her had passed through to the Gods’ realm, after she was fully in death’s embrace, all in the past would be but a memory. The days of smiling with her brother, laughing. The days where she played with her siblings and friends. “Even though I am saying goodbye,” Vera nodded assuredly, “I will be okay.” So, the two stood up and brushed themselves off, Alli in the lead towards a beautiful and bright future. After a few moments, Vera started to look back, if just for a second, just to see if she could make out the last of the mortal realm, but her mother’s cries of glee when seeing those who had already departed intrigued Vera’s attention more. ((It is with this that I say with a light heart, that I am officially done with LOTC. I have been playing this game since 2010 or something, back when I lied about being 13 just to play. I have met many amazing people, some so memorable that they will be in my heart forever. I do not intend for this short story/PK post to break lore; this is how my characters’ interpreted death. It has been months to a year since I’ve actually logged onto the server and played, but the LOTC community has always found a way to lurk into my life. It is time to move on, and even though I am saying goodbye, I know that I will be okay. Thank you and **** you for the memories. -SophiaTsu))

THE WOMAN IN BLOOM [!] A depiction of Her Ladyship, Doctor Amicia de Astrea of Elysium, strolling through the Elysian gardens. “Roses do not bloom hurriedly; for beauty, like any masterpiece, takes time to blossom.” ― Matshona Dhliwayo A graying woman laid in her chambers under the watchful gaze of her two dearest friends, nimble fingertips that had once sutured skin back together idly tracing the blue fabric of the robes she donned. A raspy cough escaped her, then, as those fingertips made contact with the jewelled bracelet that her husband had expertly forged for her all those years ago. A smile tugged at the corner of her cracked lips, her weary blue gaze falling to that very trinket. With each laboured breath she took came a memory. Pitter-patter, pitter-patter came the steps of the young girl’s feet as she clutched onto her father’s hand for dear life. Tiny thumbs wrap around fingers as the carefree girl plods through the golden fields of Elysium that teem with new life. “Mimi,” her father would beckon her. Along they went, bootprints tracking through the grassy stalks, through the riverbanks and beyond. Pitter-patters become stomps through icy snow. The girl stands at the gates of Haense now, flanked by two blonde cousins. Treehouses, pillow forts, and courtly gossip encompass the minds of the young de Astrea trio. Smiles, laughs, and secrets are exchanged, along with an occasional snarky glance made at some pompous Haeseni boy. Glances of contempt shift into ones of mild adoration as she grows from girl to lady. Two dark-haired boys come about, both vying for the young lady’s attention, though it ends in the first of many heartbreaks she’d experience. Why did something so pure, so innocent, end in so much pain? “It’s part o’ growin’ up,” her father tells her. She was not entirely fond of growing up, she decided. Alas, she continues to grow and bloom - though one particular dark-haired boy remains ever-present, no matter how much that young lady did grow. She could never quite outgrow him. Gazes of green and blue often made contact, speaking thousands of words not yet expressed. The occasional hushed utterance of regret was spoken, though. Youthful fingertips would once again find themselves interlocked a moment longer, despite the boy’s promise made to another. Misty eyes accompanied by fruitless promises within the sanctuary of the gardens of Elysium were common-place between the two. With tearful goodbyes came new bridges to cross after a precious one had just been burned. Blood stains the young lady’s hands which were splayed across a dying ranger’s chest. With all she had lost, she regained through healing. Sutures upon sutures, bandages upon bandages, the young lady works tirelessly to save the lives of those around her. It is her duty to her family - to Elysium. Stumbling through the Elysium gates then comes a flaxen-haired boy, weary-eyed and dreary. The two found solace in their shared heartbreak and failure, bonding over it. Bonding became love and love became an eventual courtship. Their love blossomed within the Elysium gardens just as the vibrant blooms did each year, and with new love came new family. Pitter-patter came the steps of the woman down the aisle to her beloved, her beaming expression unfaltering as she latched herself onto her father much like she had all those years ago. Pitter-patter came the steps of her beloved sister and brother-in-law, of her children, too. She was overcome with such a joy she had yet to feel ‘til the dawning of this new era, an era filled with such love and warmth. Much like the comforting warmth of Elysium, the tightly-knit bond of her family upholds her. Smiles, laughs, and secrets are all exchanged once again. Pitter-patter came the weakening heartbeat of an ailing woman. Yet again, her laboured breaths found themselves hitching in her throat. Amicia still clung to life, though - eager to remember one last moment, one last beautifully cherished memory, sorrowful or joyous alike. Tilting her head to the two women at her flank, she softly rasped, “You’ve all bloomed.” Her eyes misted at the mere notion of it all - how beautiful her life was, how far each and every person in it had come, though she could hold on no longer. The woman went limp, the light leaving those characteristically bright hues of hers. Still, her smile never fell. Even in death, she would revel at the beauty of the life she lived. She had bloomed. [!] Upon the news of the Lady’s death, letters to the friends and family of the departed were promptly delivered. Christopher de Astrea Anya and Acadia de Astrea Eugeo and Aylin de Astrea Iduna and Elias O’Rourke Lotte Em Adalia Ruthern Robert Ludovar [OOC NOTE] Hey everyone! Sad to see Amicia go, but I think I’ve fulfilled all of my goals for this character and was content to end her story here. (Irl duties were limiting my ability to play her as well, sadly!) Despite that, thank you all for the wonderful rp! It was one of my most memorable characters, and it was truly a blast to play her. I love you all <3

The death of Thalion Araen Drakon 12th of the deep cold, 1836 ⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎ He wrote on a page... " Pure white lands sweeping across the horizon, untouched by agents of evil. Deep-dark towers of bark covered in dark greens, sprouting out of this desolate terrain. Bright blue icicles reaching onwards towards a starry-night sky, crystals gleeming and refracting beams of starlight outwards as if a performance for only my eyes to see. Wildlife having left prints in the snow, directed the way to their burrows and nests as if inviting me along. A single lit fire illuminating the folliage around itself, hues of red & orange obsorbed by the overwhelmingly white territory. " White lands always reminded him of his home in Atlas yet that was taken from him. Dark trees reminded him of his hunting trips with father yet he was taken from him. The blue icicles reminded him of the Ivae'Fenn, his own role within it over the countless wars and conflicts, yet it was all taken from him. Wildlife leaving imprints in the snow reminded him of the once-competant leadership of his people, always creating paths for others to recognise & follow yet that competant leadership was taken from them. A single lit fire reminded him of the brothers and sisters he made along his way through the past three-hundred years of life, each one of their deaths engained within memory, they were all taken from him. With a large sigh the Fenn' said: "Of all the atrocities committed, none are soo brutal as those originating from incompetance" giving into the idea that although he gave his utmost, it was all still his own incompetance which led to these numerous outcomes. Drinking through the night and feeding into his affinity with Ikurn'Valai, the Fenn' unbuttoned his clothes by the fire revealing the numerious scars, injuries and missing parts of flesh healed over by skin, incurred through nearly three-hundred years of perpetual war. His breathing was shaky at-best, the pain in his body had been growing more and more for a year now, he was certain his time would soon come. On the eve of the next day he painstakingly placed his armour on, grasping onto his trident and using it as leverage to stand up. Once fully equiped he set out through the wilderness, taking on the many different beasts of the cold north, each time becoming a little more worse off, each time gaining more injuries, each time incuring damage upon his Drakon armour... Muttering to himself once more through the gasps for breath: "none... soo brutal... as those... originating... from incompetance" falling onto a knee in the face of a large white bear, the Drakon contemplated his choice for a single second as the bear rose itself up on two feet, yet still, gaining a decisive look upon his face he'd jab up and catch the bear in the neck with the three prongs of his trident, losing his own strength to hold the weight of such a beast, the bottom of the trident fell and dug deep into the ground, a white bear hung from atop its prongs. The Drakon would set himself upright gasping for air and severely wounded, leaning against the corpse and smacking the side of the white bear a few times, he'd say: "A shame... that..." he'd cough up some blood before continuing "would've made... a nice rug... for the bathroom" his breath continued to slow as the large Elf, dawned in ruined armour, leaned against a large body of white fur, the ruined metal parts of the armour now bent inwards and pierced him. witnessing the Pure-white lands infront of him, the dark-bark trees, the bright-blue icicles and the now burnt-out fire... the Mali'Fenn drew his last breath. ⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎ Knowing his time to be running out, he left a series of notes days prior, the first to his wife, left at her bedside: (( @Starlight)) " Dearest Estelle, We both know the difficulties that faced our kin daily, and I hope you remember each one of those difficulties not for the tough times they created, but rather each of those that I faced head-strong, and at times alone. You know of my numerous injuries, you've seen them countless times and aside from that you still believed me invincible, yet you also knew a Drakon plans to die in service to his kin. Unfortunitely, I am not invincible and I will die, perhaps not in military service, yet still a death in service to our people. I was saved in vain, I tell you now that my injuries will take me soon and I sense you have also known for a while now, perhaps by the time you find this note I will have already passed. Yet even so, do not fall into disarray, I will not allow my death to be one of shame. For this is the last time I dawn my armour, for this the last time I wield my weapon, any & all hostile beasts I encounter lurking near the Fennic' Remnant will perish at my feet and eventually, I too will perish at the feet of one of these beasts, yet I will go honourably, taking many beasts with me, and succeeding in making our lands that little bit more safe for our kin and for our daughter. I must apologize to you Estelle, I will be spending my last moments alone, as much as one wishes to die in the company of love and comfort: I will not allow you nor anyone else to witness the unsightly view of witnessing yet another prideful-Drakon in his last moments of life, I welcome death and I will welcome you when it is your time to join me in Fin’ciwn when Wyrvun judges you worthy. Signed, Thalion" ⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐ A second note was left in the room of the Matriarch of the Drakon bloodline: (( @Sygnus_ @Little_Lulah)) " Honoured leader of the Drakon bloodline, I write to you as a notice, I am Thalion Araen Drakon and I bid you warning. It is known that I did not join the reformed Ivae'Fenn under Vytrek, nor did I stay in the new settlement, and yet still I have served more time in rank and as an officer than anyone else, yet I will not recieve military honours for my death. I fulfilled my responsibilities and what was due, and just like you I once served as the leader of the bloodline and for many Elven-years I built us up as one of, if not the strongest of all the families, so I demand of you: Do not let all that has been built fall into disarray, do not forget our values, our traditions. We are loyal, we are truthful, we are honourable and we are natural-born leaders, guide onto better tomorrows. Even now, as you read this letter I am assuring that my last moments are ones of honour, I will not fail our blood and I will not bring shame to our name. No matter what you hear of me, remember all that I have done, whilst it may not have been perfect, I did my utmost and encurred great loss in the process. Should you fail to uphold our bloodline I am certain Wyrvun will judge you unworthy and to your own fortune you would avoid encurring my wrath upon arriving in Fin'ciwn. Recover my body in the forests to the west, lead our people well and perhaps host a party or two to lighten hearts. Signed, Thalion-Araen of the Drakon Bloodline retired Sentinel of the Ivae'Fenn" ⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎ A third note was placed under the door of Vytrek Tundraks personal room: (( @Monkee)) " Chosen of Wyrvun, I, Thalion-Araen of the Drakon line call upon your resolve, do not follow in your fathers footsteps, do not yet again thrust us into more pointless war on the behalf of those who would not do the same for us. Of all those we aided and protected in the past, none have cared to return the good faith, even now as our Princedom devolves into a remnant they dare not show their face to you, they dare not after soo long tempt you with shallow excuses of their poor faith. As a Drakon I can only emphasize our traditional views; If war is inevitable then let it be upon all those who have foresaken us, the other Elven-kin care little for us, let war wage against those who talk of their might but fail to field enough military might to fend off common bandits. Though we spoke rarely, you were one of character and I do not believe you nor your brothers care to walk the path of your deranged father. Im sure you will hear word of my actions and their repercussions, yet do not think me a fool. I set the standard for all Drakon who come after me, right now resolve & duty must take precedence. Do not fail them. Signed, Thalion-Araen of the Drakon Bloodline retired Sentinel of the Ivae'Fenn" ⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐ The fourth note was slid under the Sylric manor door, meant for a friend (( @GrimDeValhalla)) " Mister old & ugly, Taveric, I have done something idiotic and impulsive once again, im sure you will find out soon enough. I'll be seeing our comrades in Fin'ciwn soon, im sure you'll end up here soon too with your old age. Right now I face down my last day of battle, my old injuries ache though my resolve has never been stronger than now. I may not have been present during the past few years but im sure with your own resolve you may once again pull your bloodline out of obscurity. Im sure your time will come and you will come face-to-face with Wyvrun, if he judges you too ugly to enter I would completely understand his decision, though I am also sure that if you mentioned the great Thalion Drakon Sentinel in the Ivae'Fenn of the Princedom of Fenn, and your role as my trusty-side kick, he'll be sure to let you in. I don't believe much needs to be said, I figured it was best that you found out this way than through someone else. Make sure whoever leads Drakon went I am gone, that they recover my body and I am not left to rot. Get to me before the animals strip my bones of flesh and ideally do it with haste, with your age you may never know how soon you'll keel over and with a face like that you may just be killed for no reason at all. Do be safe, and send Velatha my regards. Signed, Thalion retired Sentinel of the Ivae'Fenn" ⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎⥐⥎ (( OOC disclaimer: )) (( If you haven't gotten a letter or been told by someone who has, then you don't know about his death. ))

Amalric was a mystery to many. Few had ever seen him. Fewer knew his name. He just seemed to appear one day, always lingering in the shadows, just out of sight, just behind his employer. And he died just as quietly as he lived. He never lived to see his 18th birthday. It is surprising to some that he lived to see his 17th. Indeed, Amalric, though a quiet sort, lived an extremely dangerous life. He spent every waking moment surrounded by beasts and monsters, demons and devils, clowns and queens. Power was always within reach, but it was not his to have. He didn't want it. Indeed, he spent all of his life advancing others to their goals. Where did this loyalty get him? In pieces. Pieces.. Morgan can remember the blast. The cannon fire, the volleys that impacted all across Yong Ping. She was just trying to help. She was just trying to be useful. Where did this need to be useful get her? In pieces. The shrapnel tore her limb from limb, cut through her organs and her flesh, diced her apart. She was never supposed to survive it. When an alchemist plucked her mangled body from the wall and carried it away, she was not conscious to see what he did. Til the day she died, Morgan was never sure if she'd have rather had him just leave her. It would've been less trouble, for everyone. She wouldn't have had to do what she did. It'd be a lie if Amalric said he wasn't the vindictive sort. He didn't think he was. So many people had wronged him, but he never gave it any thought. But no matter how many days and years passed, he could not let go of what Karl Amador did to Morgan. His employer, so many times, had told him to stay out of Haense to avoid conflict, but many days were spent sitting. And watching. Watching Karl, watching Petra and Sigismund. And Karl... He had moved on from Morgan. He had gotten himself a wife, and children. A wife. And children. It made Amalric sick. Had Karl forgotten what he'd done to Morgan? All the suffering he caused to his first kiss? Kiss.. In truth, Morgan never expected it to go this way. Karl was never on her mind romantically until that very night they kissed. It was funny, almost. When she was a beggar on the streets, her eyes followed Petra Emma. No one noticed her, the way she stood back and observed Petra and Karl talk. She wanted to approach, to ask for food, or for a friend, but she was shy, and words were trouble. But it was Karl who approached and put food in her hands, and declared himself her friend. She so desperately wanted friends. Someone to follow, someone to give her meaning. She found it that night in someone else, someone who'd lead her astray, ultimately. Someone she'd fall in love with. But Morgan fell in love with so many people. A crush on Karl. A crush on Sigismund. A crush on Petra. A crush on Hesperia. At the time, Karl was the only one who returned her romantic advances. She was so sure they were meant to be. Foolish. He didn't intend to cause such a scene. But he enjoyed every moment of it. Walking into that tavern, reminding Karl, and everyone, of who Morgan was. What he'd done to her. It felt good to be vindictive. To finally make someone scared and regretful. He wanted to punish Karl for forgetting Morgan, for getting her killed. No one knew who Amalric was. They couldn't. He didn't exist, he wasn't a person. He had no paper trail. He liked it. He liked that he seemed to be a ghost of Karl's past, coming to haunt him for all the wrong he'd done. Wasn't that exactly what he was? He was a ghost. A memory forgotten. And of course, Karl being Karl, all he could think about was the assassins. Assassins.. She never wanted it to come to this. Morgan didn't ask for this. But she enjoyed it. She was.. vindictive. Karl never noticed her. He ever even saw her among those who came to kill him. How could he have? She was dressed in armor like the rest. It was all his fault. He had caused so much trouble. From those who wished to do her arm to the ones she lived with yelling at her and demanding to know who she told. Who had she told? Who did you tell? She didn't tell anyone, none but Karl. No one else knew what was required to get her back onto her feet. He said he wouldn't tell anyone. She trusted him. She loved him, but he denied her and spread word of her condition to all who would listen. The rumor came from Haense. It had to have been him. It was not Amalric who sent the assassins. He was more subtle in his maneuvering. He was a private person, he preferred man to man talks, in secluded locations. His revenge was quieter, the way he stalked Karl and Petra and Sigismund. Attended their balls. Watched Sigismund dance. Watch Petra and the boy she courted dance. He even tried talking to her at the time, his mind not so bent on causing suffering. He just wanted her to be his friend again. He wanted to have that tea.. Tea.. Morgan and Petra were supposed to have tea. She was going to have a friend, despite how disfigured she'd been made. Karl abandoned her, Sigismund called her a wretch, but Petra spared her those small kindnesses. She never got to have the tea, because of Karl. Morgan cried about it often, though she'd tell no one. She wanted so desperately a friend, she'd lost everyone. And she would continued to lose. Her sense of self, her identity. Her name. Her appearance. To avoid those who would hunt her, who would ask questions on her appearance, they fixed her. They made her acceptable again. They made her.. Amalric didn't have any friends for some time. When he came back from that ball, so upset that he'd been invited and then ignored by Petra, so enraged at the success of Sigismund and Karl, he was told by Hesperia to never return to Haense, for it only caused him pain. But he was obsessed. He'd put so much time and emotions into the trio, he cared so much about their lives, that he returned anyways. Every month, to watch them, to follow them, to listen. Who was he if not for his attachments? Was he a person? He'd been a person. He'd been several people, in fact. So many names, so many faces. And for what? Was this not what being a person was? Caring? Trying to make friends? Being hurt and hurting in turn? Was that not humanity? He'd spent 10 years in the service of Hesperia Von Drakenhof. He loved her. He was obsessed with her. Every second at her shoulder. If he knew her location, then he was there, whether she invited him or not. Amalric was her eternal servant. He changed his name for her. He changed his appearance for her. He lived for her, and he would've killed for her. He would die for her. He did die for her. He'd given everything up but her. He lost his friendships, those he'd known. He agreed to marry her, because he thought was what she wanted. He did everything for her. Though, in the quiet hours of the night, he would know in his heart that he did it for himself. It would take years to unravel the thing that Amalric was when he died. It would take longer to unravel the circumstances of his death, and his relationship with Hesperia Von Drakenhof. Only she could truly tell the complicated and tragic story of his life, and even she didn't know him completely. And this is how he ends. An unfinished story. A mystery unfounded. A tragic ending to a tragic life of a tragic child.

The Suicide = +----+ = Throughout the life of Legolas Neldor, he has experienced a lot of both very horrible situation and very positive one. Legolas Neldor, a young little elf from Elvenesse, travelling around to many cities, he finally decided to live in Oren and served the MOJ for the rest of his life. At the young age, he always dreamed to be a police but it didn't go as plan in Elvenesse, so MOJ is the final decision he made. Very little have been done by him at first to the MOJ, however as time passed he has been promoted to a higher rank where he worked harder and harder. Not long after, he became a Supervising Detective and joined the Secret Service, but as all people say "The end always arrive". Legolas Neldor was fired by the MOJ, even though the reason of it was a misunderstanding. No one chose to believe his words but the one who chose didn't have enough power to save him. One day the young elf, who once believed in helping everyone, lost all his hope. Legolas Neldor could not accept the fact that he won't be part of the MOJ anymore, so he decided to end his life next to the place where he will never forget..... ---------------------------------------

In the dead of the night, a hooded figure snuck into numerous buildings in the Vortice capital city of Talon's Port... Nothing was taken, however some choice homes would find notes placed atop spots where the council members would have no choice but to see. Once this task was finished, the hooded figure made their way to the top of the Alley Alehouse, not bothering to lock the doors of the rooftop. The figure sat upon the wedding stage, sighing and dropping their cloak, revealing a de-crowned Vivian Maelstorm, her face reddened and puffy, running mascara covering her cheeks as she withdrew a moonsteel dagger from her waist-sheathe. “....Syl always told me that elves would last hundreds of years before devolving into madness… well, I guess that wasn’t the case with me, huh?” The short ‘aheral chuckled dryly, her free hand lofting to remove a final note from her bosom. “...Maybe one day, everybody can forgive me.” Another tear fell from her real eye as she set the note gently against the ground, away from where she had planned to die. As she did such, a tinge of hurt shot through her core. The woman had lost so many in such a short amount of time… how selfish was she, to take her life at this, when so many others had suffered so much more! She grit her teeth as she sat back down upon the stage, deliberating upon her next course of action as memories flooded into her mind. Her wedding with Joakim af Orvar… How they married under the Heart Tree. The birth of Dana and Corrin af Orvar. Her short-standing marriage to Seryne, and how horribly that turned out in the two years they spent together. Her thirty something year long marriage to Eoghan O’Cathain, the wedding they had within the settlement of Talon’s Grotto, and her children- Eliott, Lilith, and Seteth… Two of which were now dead. Her marriage to Sylvain Ainzworth Majin, and their many, many children… those of whom the pair had adopted, and those of whom the pair had produced of their own blood. She choked back a sob as she remembered the pain the pair had endured together. Her sisters, Athri, Lenora, and Sana, and the love they shared… Her brothers, Gail, Ren and James, and the laughs they had... her best friend, Eugeo, and the secrets they had kept together… her many children, two in particular stuck out in her memory- they were only thirty four, how could they live with the loss of their mother? Mystralath and Belladonna were both old enough that they would remember Vivian forever more- unlike Fable, Claude and Aer, who were still mere babes and had hardly spent any time with Vivian. The red-headed monarch sobbed again as she raised the dagger, staring up to the sky in emotional agony… before plunging the blade into her chest, taking the moonsteel directly to the heart. After a few seconds, the elfess slumped down, the colour draining from her once purple eye as tears fell, her hands dropping from the hilt of the blade and down to her lap as she fell to her side, dead. Inside the note, when she were to be found, was a single paragraph, reading as follows. “To my people, to my family, to my friends… I have loved you all so dearly, but it is my time to depart now. I bid thee farewell and I hope to meet you all again in another time. You are all so important in your own ways. As of the Deep Cold of the 35th year, I wish for Athri Onfroi Belrose-Maelstorm to carry on the Monarchy of the Unified Domain of Vortice on my behalf, and to be crowned as the Heir Monarch by the Congress. Thank you all for your time. Vivian Maelstorm”

"Let us hope, that I do ne land in water." "Wuh" . . . [!] a SPLAT could be heard as a young female jumped off the edge of the side of the Alurian Tavern 27 . . . 32? I have lost count, but anywho some age old Elizavetta Maienne de Rosius was originally a court palace woman in Oren, later on in life becoming an Alderman, in her life, she had met a young man named Anton, whom she loved dearly, but she did not love him. Eventually, after finding out some shocking information, she realized she had been deeply sick all along . . . Elizavetta, horrified at this new information, ran to Ando Alur, where she met an elf named "Elren" This man would become to her, a very close friend. Elizavetta eventually took her life, after falling into an even greater depression, for reasons "unknown" to her. She took her life by jumping off the tavern in Ando Alur. (Side note, this is my first PK post, so I apologize if it is bad)

Outside the small home, a solidarity fox sat curled under a Berry bush, lifting its head to any passerby that might stumble into the small village. It waited for an owner that will never return. After running from issues causes she attempted to fake her passing only for the plan to ‘bite back’ Across the bay in Sutica, in a windowless attic, trapped by her lover she writes her last words: “All for love and none for heart, the soul was broken from the start. To little, to late.” As her breath croaked in the dim lighting she let out a final chuckle, blowing out the flame of the lamp she laid down for the last time on the thin mattress.

You cant run from your sins. = + = Flavius Xolol, a freshfoot, from traveling to many cities and meeting many people to becoming something he couldn't escape. Flavius loved to explore new places and met extremely nice people. As a young guy he was alone, his old man... a humble farmer died of sickness and the young guy would venture out to a world he'd never imagine. Flavius settled in The beautiful city of Talon's Port. Now known as Vortice He collected many memories with his friends in the north, the forest, and the keep he lived in for sometime. Feeling distressed about his home and his colleagues's internal issues. Flavius was forced to make a choice... The poor human, greatly influenced by his own desperate need for adrenaline and action, chose the side of the aggressors. Talon's port received many attacks from his colleagues which in many ways hurt him. After returning to Vortice one night. He'd realize Talon's port was not the same as he left it as. His friends now gone... his home now replaced. but what truly crushed him, was the constant suppression of his feelings that haunted him for sleepless nights. One day the young human, who once believed in helping everyone, did the most selfish act of his life. Flavius Xolol , feeling guilty, took own his life drowning near Vortice waters. (OOC NOTE): FIRST RUSTLER PK POG