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[Kipchak Helmet worn by Saxton Von Stroheim at the time of his death] ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- A deluge of rain fell across the surface of the Ritter Tower whilst Saxton faced down a goliath warrior alongside his brothers. "Barbarian, Heathen, Scum!" Saxton mutters through gritted teeth; he's faced this Barbarian before, 'The Lord of Bones' they called him. A behemoth Frankish warrior, wearing bits and pieces of stolen Minitz Lamellar, in their first encounter Saxton's shield and armor was shattered by a single blow from the Frank. Fighting him alone was suicidal; but he wasn't alone, both of his brothers stood beside him, both were knights, both were templars. With such allies' victory was all but guaranteed. The Stroheims began to close in, Saxton made the first move; reeling back his Warhammer and swinging it toward the Barbarian. However, The Lord of Bones was fast for his size; the Barbarian swung as well, slamming his hammer into Saxton's. A thunderous BOOM rang out as the two hammers clashed. Saxton staggered back as his hammer was flung from his hands. "Boomsteel ?" he nearly gasped. Before the Frankish warrior could follow up with another swing both of his brothers kept him occupied. One of the brothers, Peter, clashed his hammer with The Lord of Bones'. Boomsteel clashing with Boomsteel, causing another Thunderous clap to ring out. The other brother, Robert, blinded The Lord of Bones with a radiant light bursting from his body. Saxton saw his chance; he had no powerful weapons or holy magics like his brothers, but he did have his instinct. And now his instincts told him to strike. He unsheathed a kriegsmesser, gripping it in both of his hands before lunging at the blinded Barbarian. Victory was all but guaranteed, but not without a cost. Saxton swung his messer down at the Frankish warrior, yet instead of cleaving his head in two he only managed cut deeply into the shoulder. Before, he could react or adjust Saxton felt something, a sharp and crushing pain in his chest, then he heard it. The sound of Thunder boomed from a-top the Ritter Tower and as it did Saxtons body was flung from the walls. As he fell, he felt pain for a short while, then he felt cold, and then nothing. ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Steel's strength, both fierce and fair, In time, it too will wear and tear. Corrosion's touch, a slow decay, Marks the end of steel's display. Once proud and strong, it stood the test, But in the end, it finds its rest. Mortality's embrace is real, Even for the mightiest steel. Tensei was a construct, originally known as A.L.E.C that arrived in Valdev as a gift for a Doctor, but eventually left as a friend to most in the nation. Though commonly found to be a little disobedient and to exert human behaviors, his loyalty was within Haense until the very end. During his first years, he made plenty of friends which he would fight and die for, some that can be specifically named, know who they are by first name. Marian, Laurissa, Amaya, Aleksandr, Demitrey, Fredrich, Juniper. Though he called many others his friends, these people have demonstrated unconditional friendship to Tensei. It was not his time, but it is what happened due to an unfortunate series of events. His final thoughts hoped someday, he may be able to see Haense in it's future glory. And that he would get revenge for hurting his friends like this. Somehow.

Mi Nepos was a complicated man, he was a fighter, a drunkard, a scholar and lastly he had a heart of pure aurum. Lucius Ramneseii Brutus died way too soon and way too violently for my liking and today is the day we make a vow as a people that we will not let any more of our own die to the servants of the wealthy one. For too long we have suffered at the hands of many different groups; in the deserts of Almaris it was the numerous desert tribes and in the distant past it was the LaVassieur Forest Dwarfs. All of these foes we have beaten back; and we will beat these new ones. The Mvs Rexum will be hunted for their crimes and crucified The Caelian people must be vigilant once more for around any corner could be your enemy. Lucius was killed in his own home with no one there to hear his last words; he clearly fought bravely like a true Caelian but even the brave Lucius could not beat the mvs alone. The Caelians must work as one to fight off these great threats or we will never be as great as our ancestors. However, we can not forget our great heroes like Lucius, who shall be remembered as one of the great heroes of Caelia up there with Caelianus Ramneseius and others. Signed ~ Marcus Ramneseii Scipio

[!] A neatly written note would lay beside the aged man who had slumped on his desk, his quill resting beside his hand. I am dying. I feel it coming when I lay down and when I get up. Yet I am not saddened by this. I have lived a life worthy of writing about. And so, I have dedicated my last few years to recounting it. In those pages I continue onward. In those pages, the memory of who I was lives. I am a storyteller, and I have told my story. I have been writing for a long time and yet I find some new story every day. There is not one that goes by that I regret the things that I have written, for each piece holds aspects of reality. The Kingdom is so different than it once was. I am one of the few who remain from my time. So many have passed on and yet I continued to write. Now I am the one passing on. There is freedom in that, I think. I am finally able to see those long past. I long to hear their voices and to witness them smiling again. It is close now, I feel it slipping away from me. My eyes grow tired and I have no reason to resist. So I say the last thing that is to be said, a final piece, perhaps, my best piece. Now, it is my time to sail beyond the tides, that place you cannot go. ~~ Beyond the Tides The night draws hither, O’ wintered breath, The jovial turn to cold display. Aged leaf from thrones on high, Welcomed to the ground below. The hour draws thither, O’ crippled touch, The desperate pray upon weak knees. Purest light of God above, Watch over as I take my leave. The time is nye, O’ faded sight, When at last the soul relents. A spark that fell from dulled eyes. Trailed by quivering exhales. The end is here, O’ Fallen Lord The quill slipped from my grasp. Taken to my olden friends, To rest with those I love. It dipped before the depths, This last light of mine. Descending betwixt sky and sea.

The End of the Warpath The Terror of the West of Arcas, The Blackguard of the North, The Torchfield, Roman had been called many names over his many years of life, all filled with hardship and blood, so much blood. Within the cursed forest of Aevos, the warmonger had found himself. He gazed upon a hulking figure of cobbled stone, shaping an all too familiar figure that looked like a visage he had not seen in several decades. A looming statue of dripping waters, looking like that of the armor of the much defunct Vira’ker. “How I hate seeing old enemies of my past.” It rumbles out, a long blade of cobbled stone, blunted edges being pulled from its form. “It’s been a long time, Roman.” The large armored man stares ahead, the gears in his head turning before a realization comes to him, a wicked grin coming beneath that dark helm. “Xavis Ashwood, now I know I’m the better man. While I aged you have died becoming this, how it must wound you.” He taunts, drawing forth his dreadful weapon from his hip, the Wartorch. With some twists and turns flames would ignite alcohol-soaked cloth, flames roaring at the head. “You always overestimated yourself, Roman, always thought yourself the strongest.” The Eidola counters on its march forward a hefty swing of its blade slashes forth. Roman would pivot to the side, his flaming mace arcs forth in the air, striking at the arm of being, chipping and causing mild cracks. Upon missing the first of his blows, Irlioz, the stone abomination, arcs his blade of stone in a backswing to Roman’s legs. Despite this, The Torchfield swings his mace upwards, meeting the stone chin of the being, crunching and breaking away the stone. The looming stone blade however impacts, sending out his legs from underneath him. “You’re slow in your age, you are WEAK!” The pale knight would bellow out, turning down the blade to attempt and plunge it towards his right arm. The aged warrior rolls out of the way, flinging up his Wartorch to use the cinders as a way to aid in his recovery from the ground. The tense battle between the two would go on, Roman using what little dexterity he had over the stone warrior in his old age. But it had been clear since the beginning that Roman was not going to win this fight, and he knew that. The blade easily smashed his shield into splints in one move, where Roman struck true once more causing great cracks in the stoneborn arm. Water was now pooling out of Irlioz like gouts of blood. The warmonger’s strength was draining, his breathing growing ragged and heavy as the battle waged on. As Irlioz caught that Wartorch in his last attack he would stumble back, falling down as his breathing was now labored, his damaged bones and age caught up to him after all these years. Irlioz approaches the warrior who was now propped up against a boulder, his helmet discarded, his weather-aged face on full display. “You were never going to win..” A tinge of sympathy was in the Pale Knight's voice. “Did you know?” He paused looming over Roman. “Of course I knew Xavis.” Roman let out a hoarse laugh as he sat there. “I knew it from the beginning, but if anyone were to finally strike me down it would have to be Xavis Ashwood.” A fierce grin still on his face. “A battle to finally put an end to Roman Torchfield.” Then will a somber feeling in the air between the two the Eidola would approach furth where the man was sat, the finality of the situation now brought forth; OOC NOTE

Via Weiss was a rambunctious young woman. Most people would describe her as loud and military-minded. She was four. A tournament beneath the tavern was raging on, and she jumped at the opportunity to go in fighting. Partially blind and partially deaf, no one likely expected much of the young girl. She swung, fighting against a kid twice her age and lost. Her glasses lay broken against the ground, and she grinned. It was exhilarating. --- She strode through the streets of Haense, ponytail swinging wildly about herself. Via, all of five, met a blonde boy by the name of Michael. He annoyed her immensely, poked fun at her and challenged her. And so she’d meet him in every challenge. A game of Ludo. A game of athletics. Sparring. Racing. She wouldn’t admit it, but he was her first friend. --- Some time had passed. Kids were being attacked in the streets of Karosgrad. Friends had died and were continuing to die. Desperation began to fill the girl, all of six years old. She would plea for the adults to listen, to do something but it fell on deaf ears. So Via took it upon herself to keep her and her friends alive. Riots came through the docks, screaming and fighting. She dragged friends out, only to go back in to save others. Children were tortured by the Duke, so it was rumored. Another child died from the spook running rampant. A raid at Reinmar. She rode in, oh so young and with a broken arm to boot. She’d killed her first men that day and felt their blood stain her hands. --- Her legs were shattered. She crawled along the ground, blind without her glasses. Noone was there to hear her cries. By some small miracle, she had dragged herself into the confines of Fort-Fort and eventually, Brendell and Michael found her. She was broken, shuddering and unable to move. And so the boys carried her home and to her family keep. She was late to a dinner, the dinner guests, though, would change her life as she knew it. Shamans. He healed her with loud, foreign words that terrified the young girl of six. And he unknowingly healed more than simply physical injury. She could see. She could hear. --- Some years have passed. The maypole festival came forth. Via was all of thirteen, donned in her cadets uniform with the widest of grins. The music began and she grasped at the maypole ribbon, following after her dear friend Brendell and promptly tripped on her face in the first round. She watched then, as Brendell made it to the finals. He loped about the maypole like a gazelle. And afterwards? He cut the ribbon, after checking no one was watching, giving one to her. She wore it always since. --- Her love for Brendell was all consuming, and yet, he is dead. He’d left for his trials, and has been gone months longer than expected. She couldn’t bring herself to remove the ribbon. Via wouldn’t speak with anyone for ages. Afterall, she and Brendell have confessed to each other ages ago, dating in secret for years now. She would just never get married. That grief turned to anger, though, as he arrived home - months later. She yelled at him, shook him by his shirt and past her tears, kissed him. Their first kiss was had in anger and desperation. --- Their shields kept close to one another, marching along to the beat of a magical ear cuff only those close enough could hear. Weapons clashed, screams and blood were spilt, and the Mori were fought. And they would go home, to a secret house they owned and of which they only knew of themselves, to share in their trauma and their grief. They clung desperately, distraught and broken, and seeking solace. --- She cranked the jukebox up, hips sashaying as she grasped at Brendells hands and they danced. They danced and sang, swinging out about their little living room - “Ra ra Rasputin!” And so they swung about, in front of the poor kidnapped Turtle with a thousand yard stare. Laughter erupted from them both, enjoying the rare moment of privacy and their moment overall. --- They sat on the roof, legs swaying back and forth as they looked out over the city. It was when they turned to each other, that laughter came. Both held a belt, of twine and ivy alike. Without meaning to, they proposed at the same time. They were soon married. Soon after, their first child came and they had a long conversation. They only want one child. It will allow them to better focus on their work, and to still have their own lives. One, alas, became four. Though each were loved dearly. --- Trumpets and a choir heralded the doom of the day. This wasn’t their first fight, that was for certain. Snow and ice pelted over the city, the cries of the people coming all around them. All of their children, all but one, had made it into the palace as the people were evacuated. They’d gone back out to find Lauritz, and had gotten separated in the chaos. Via found her only son, and ushered him back to the palace, before having headed back out for her husband. She squinted past the flailing wind and snow, barely seeing a shock of red hair and so she quickened her pace further. Her hand extended out, only inches away as she grasped for her beloved husband, his hand so close to her own. “Der stachel..” Those were Via Colborns last words, mere inches away from the man she could not bear to be without.

WHAT IS LOST IS FOUND "Mom-killer." "Womb-Wrecker." These were the words that Grigoryi grew up with, words that would become as commonplace as greetings. There wasn't a day in his childhood that he went without these words. If only his father Ailred had known, maybe he would have stopped Grigoryi and Boris from being bullied by their older siblings; it's not like they asked their mother to die in childbirth. Those words came from Rhys, Stefaniya, and basically all of his siblings except Angelika. Yet, everything was Grigoryi's fault. He was expected to apologize for everything but never once received an apology for those years of unrelenting torment. The young Ruthern grew more estranged from his family daily, often sitting on remote rooftops just to have a moment alone. Yet, Boris fell in line. Somehow, he wasn't weighed down by all the trash thrown onto him from birth; one twin was successful while the other walked the low road. There was only one thing he looked forward to as he grew a little older: a glimpse at his first crush. Vasilia was so.. real. He tried to socialize with her for once, no matter how distant or cold he was. Unfortunately, nothing could happen there. Grigoryi discovered they were direct cousins, so his hopes were dashed harder than shattered glass. She got married and was shamed by many for what life threw at her, yet he was happy she found love. Grigoryi was always outside Vidaus or locked away in his room. He hated being there; he hated that no one was stepping in. Childhood was flying fast, and Boris had joined the BSK. Grigoryi went the other route, going so far as to drop an egg on the top of the Lord Marshal's head and pose as Boris; it didn't succeed very well, but at least Grigoryi could outrun the guards. He was an enjoyer of chaos, as cliché as it would sound for a hated child. The young boy even helped smuggle alcohol out to other kids, though he knew better not to get hooked too; that's how he met Vasilia. She managed to stop those young kids from drinking alcohol. The boy nearly ate gravel with how hard common sense smacked him. Though no longer a troublemaker, Grigoryi continued to grow up cold and distant. He was always watching, always listening. "NO! VY ARE LYING!" Angelika screamed at Grigoryi before her blonde locks sought safety in Rhys' embrace. "What in Godan's name are vy doing?" Rhys scowled at his younger brother, his hand patting the top of the blonde's head to calm the crying child. "Ea was telling Angelika ve truth, Rhys. Vy pretend to be ve loving big borsa, ag yet what did vy do just now when her mamej died? Ea heard vy two by Madalene's casket, calling her a [wench], saying that vy were happy she died." Grigoryi clenched his fists, upset that he couldn't get Angelika to see the truth, that this family was a horrible one she should not get attached to. A family of backstabbers, smiling snakes. Ever since Fenika passed, they seemed to hold this bitterness. "..Vy were hoping she would niet make it to be Seven Skies to be with papej." "Don't lie. Vy hated Madalene!" Grig spat out, knowing he was telling the truth. Rhys scowled, his brows furrowing in disdain as the funeral wrapped up outside. "Everyone back to ve keep, except Grigoryi." Grigoryi threw down his gloves in anger when they exited the palace. Fenika's death had affected Ailred so badly, yet his eldest children could not see how much Madalene loved him and how much she helped him. Years passed, and Grigoryi found his success in doll-making in Urguan. Due to the war in the area, the cold young man took on a pseudonym: Greg Ruthers (unaware of the history behind the name 'Ruthers'). The dwarves loved his dolls, as crazy as that might sound. They often requested dolls made of Yemekar or dolls of themselves to give to their kids, though he didn't question it. He was a success until he lost everything. Grigoryi tried to be useful as a Ruthern. Even if he disagreed, he would marry a noblewoman, though his heart was already hardened. The noble bloodlines of Haense were too intertwined, diluted, and inbred. Grig could contribute the muddled bloodline as the cause of the temper and arrogance of half the nobles he met. He decided to search for nobles in allied nations, starting in Elysium. The night started rocky. Grigoryi could not find a suitable noblewoman, and some of the commoner women were unhappy with him despite his attempts to make it right. He stood on the balcony that overlooked the rest of the masquerade until he felt a graceful pair of hands on his back before finding himself shoved over the railing. A few servants carried the injured man to the clinic, pressing the rag against the crack in his head. The masquerade continued into the night without him. It would be almost a week before the injured man could step outside the clinic, but something was different about him; it was weird to see such a negative guy smile. The man giggled aloud, his laughs interrupted by the grimaces of pain as he held his bandaged head. He gazed down at the Mondblume, who was walking the man around Elysium. She pursed her lips, stopping the amnesiac to look him over. "I know you remember nothing, but you need a name." She gently patted his shoulder. "Your eyes are so blue. They remind me of water.. so I'll call you Lev." The woman smiled wide before taking out a small, leather-bound journal and handing it to him. This moment was special. Lev had never received a gift, at least not one he could remember. "Ea canniet decide what Ea love more, ve gift or mea new name!" The man smiled, holding the journal close to his chest as Amelia departed. Daily, he doodled in the journal things that haunted his dreams to make sense of them. [Missing Poster - FOUND MAN] Lev gently knocked on the minister's office. Minister Aylin de Astrea was such a nice lady. This motherly figure had almost adopted the Ruthern ever since he lost his memories. Lady Aylin was pouring over paperwork before looking up at him. "..Is there any-" "No.." She interrupted, not wanting his disappointment to last much longer. "I'm sorry, we keep contacting the kingdoms and their nearby nobles, but.. no one has reported a missing family member." Lev quietly nodded afterward. He didn't understand. He wondered if he had family or if his family would rather he stayed a cold case; maybe the minister was looking in the wrong kingdom. Lev worked away, sweeping the tavern in his spare time. He'd been left in Elysium so long that he gave up every hope. The nobleman was finding it hard to make a living in Elysium, given all the raids and killings at the hands of the orcs and ferrymen. He was sweeping the entrance to the tavern when a horse stopped in front of his path. The strong woman looked down at him, examining his features. "Who are vy? Ea would recognize those features from anywhere. Vy are a Ruthern, nie?" Tavisha dismounted her horse, looking over the bewildered man; he thought this day would never come. Lev quickly set his broom aside, beckoning the dame to his small house. "Do vy recognize any of these, balyzm.. Ea dream about them many nights, but they are never clear." Lev would carefully set down somewhat abstract paintings. It was the crude recreation of their family portrait used to hang in the duke's throne room and a crude painting of the red keep surrounded by the harsh snow. Tavisha looked over them, her suspicions growing stronger that she was right. He could finally go home. Lev stood by the funeral pyre. Though he had no idea who died, he wanted to pay respects. When all was said and done, and the Haensers returned to their day, the man noticed a woman alone. Though never a fan of blondes in his youth, her presence caused his heart to pang. Lev took off his coat, offering it on the freezing shoulders of the beautiful woman. "Vy aren't from around here, are vy?" He grinned before dipping his head to her. "Non, was it that obvious?" Sylvie pulled the heavy coat around her tightly, shielding herself from the harsh winter. "It was a long walk from Balian." Lev put his arm out. "Ea hate this cold too. If vy like.. Ea could escort vy back to Balian. Being alone on ve roads with all ve bandits is very dangerous." Sylvie took his arm, unaware that this was the man she was betrothed to marry all those years ago. Grigoryi clenched his fists softly, looking up at Rhys. Grig was trying hard to remain calm, but his expression faltered, upset, confused. "Ea waited for years, lost in the west, hoping that Ea had a family that would come for me. Why did niebody come?" "Vy were an adult, Grigoryi. Adults sort themselves out." Rhys scowled, beginning to depart. Rhys was old, reduced to using a cane; perhaps karma had come around. Grigoryi's heart sank. No matter what he said, Rhys remained silent. "Mea memories are gone, everything I knew is gone. Vy are ve only one left alive, tell me who Ea am! Why do vy have niething but silence?!" The old duke shook his head, and that knowledge remained with him to the grave and seven skies. The pair wanted to marry and fix up Sylvie's old family manor to the east. There was just one thing to do though, and that was to confront the new patriarch of Ruthern; Rhy's son. Mikhail quietly looked down at the two of them, Sylvie and Grigoryi. The young duke rubbed his chin. "Vyr past does niet matter, aedypapej. Vy are here now, ag whatever happened between vy and mea papej is forgiven now." He looked between the two adults standing beneath him. "Ea will let you live here, pick a farmhouse. Vy wanted a homestead? Vy can work ve fields." Grigoryi softly raised a finger when Mikhail finished. "There is.. one other thing. Ea would like to wed Lady Sylvie, vy are mea duke. Ea would need vy approval." The Ruthern quietly kissed Sylvie's forehead, looking down at the red infant in her embrace. Lev was amazed such a small bundle could bring such a multitude of feelings. "Eja, little one.." He quietly whispered, gently taking little Vasilia's hand around his finger; little Vasilia Louise vas Ruthern. She would be the first of three. Her two siblings would follow in the coming years: Juliyus Ailred and Cecilya Petra. “She’s only just arrived, yet I can't wait for her to grow.” Their family was complete, even if the farmhouse was a little cramped. After completing her walk of humility, Angelika arrived at Haense in her sack clothing. People lined up on the side like it was an event. They didn't care about the person, just that they got to throw all sorts of things. Grigoryi frowned, pushing his way between people to try and follow the procession. He felt guilty; she shouldn't be the only one up there. Grig was guilty of sleeping around before he was married, but he was too scared to walk the same path Angelika took; he was a coward and ashamed of it. Seeing her head as bald as an egg, Grigoryi followed suit that night. He took his path of shame and shaved his head in solidarity. Grigoryi threw the hay bales into the duke's storage. The work was hard, having to harvest, bale, and stack. It was tiring for his aging body, but deep down, he was happy to be useful. He could just undo whatever past he had. After all, no one who remembered his past remained alive by now, like a curse to keep him from knowing himself. At least he had a new past. This generation and the ones after it only had interacted with a sweet and nervous Grigoryi. In some sense, he had been reborn. The aging man opened the door to the small farmhouse, only occupied by his beloved. Vasilia started a new life in Balian, Juliyus was off sailing, and Cecilya was enjoying married life with her family. An empty nest, a sign of success, but a lonely sign nonetheless. Destruction and death were inevitable, but it was still a shock to the descendants as the Mori emerged. Their demands and their brutality never seemed to stop. They kept getting closer. First, it was Amathaea, and then it was like a domino effect; one by one, more lands fell. Grigoryi, despite all the memories in this decrepit farmhouse, left and took his wife into the city. He figured they would be safe from the Mori behind the impenetrable red walls that kept Karosgrad safe. What is the point of memories if you're not alive to cherish them? It was one of the smallest houses in Haense, but it was safely nestled deep within the city. This home was theirs, a private little hovel with what they needed to get through the difficult times. There was so much going on, and it was as if the world refused to slow down and take a breath. It refused, and yet amidst all the chaos, humanity had yet another war. Grigoryi couldn't believe it, Adrians and Haensers fighting. If the rumors were true, but the old man was unbelieving. How could two cousins of culture turn on each other like this? Perhaps it was meant to be a generational clash between Adria and Haense; it had been this way since the War of the Two Emperors when the Koeng allowed Adria to burn to the ground. However, he couldn't recall whether it was Marius I or II. With each hearsay and parchment he received, he used it as fuel to heat their small home. It was useless; humanity was only safe when united. That was the only good thing about the Mori. They united everyone. Grigoryi had grown sick, and eventually, his smiles couldn't hide his deterioration. The medics didn't know what was happening, but something was slowly destroying Grigoryi. Sleep eluded him, and pain ran rampant through his body. He tried changing his diet and following folklore and wives' tales, but there was no change. It overwhelmed him, and he could not travel far from their little house. It pained him greatly to miss Ceceliya's wedding, as he would have given anything to be there. He hated this, being unable to walk his daughter down the aisle; his privileges of being a dad slowly disappeared. He would find relief sometimes, but it normally came from the powdered drugs often sold in Karosgrad's sewer. The Mori's victory was inevitable. Humanity and their fellow descendants were uprooted from their homes once more. Grigoryi looked up at the red family keep, filled with sorrow. Even though his late brother might have been the last one with the key to Grig's identity, he hoped there might have been answers in that keep. The old Ruthern had only seen his family's portrait so far, as he couldn't walk deeper into its walls to discover more. Still, now he was truly going to lose it all. Any clue to who he used to be, any clue on what his family was like, he had to abandon it. He sent his wife along with the first evacuation party, as he wanted to grab a few of the family's memories to take with them. Savoy was so crowded. No matter how long he looked, he couldn't find his wife. He found his granddaughter, though, deciding to stick beside her to try and keep her calm during this chaos. Grigoryi salvaged a few materials, and soon enough, he was knitting a small doll for her made of various patches of fabric. It wasn't as pretty as the Haeseni Girl doll, but it was made special. “Here, nie girl is complete without a little faithful friend by her side.” The man handed the patchy doll over. He remained beside the campfire for as long as he could- but his dose of sewer drug was running out. Grigoryi could feel the pain creeping up his body like a hive of ants overtaking him. The old man wished his wife was here to show her what a spitting image her granddaughter was. They came with the storm, the Mori. Not even Savoy could keep the descendants safe for long. The ground broke open, the storm beginning to rage on as they attacked. People fled below ground, no matter what the depths brought. Grigoryi ran towards the opening, but he was stopped short by a sharp pain ripping into his back. The Ruthern looked down, his hand trailing over the bolt that stuck out of his stomach. The silence was deafening, his ears roaring as the screams gradually flooded back in. Everything happened too quickly. Grigoryi woke with a small gasp, glancing around the makeshift clinic. His pain was mostly gone, probably subdued by what little medicine the medics had left. The man reached down to look at his stomach, stitched up, and wrapped it with improvised bandages. The bolt was gone, but not everything was healed. Grigoryi felt himself slowly worsening as the days passed. It was an internal bleed but so slow that it hadn't been caught. He released himself from the clinic and nearly jumped to follow everyone to the new world. The descendants emerged from their blue refuge, overflowing into Aevos like a broken dam. Many people never realized how much they would miss the little things until they lost everything. Birds were just birds, but to hear them sing once more- their song was unlike any other. The sky was still the sky- but today, the sky had never been more beautiful. GRIGORYI DEMITRIUS VAR RUTHERN 1833 - 1927 (SA 37 - SA 131)

A depiction of a 14 year old Ilaria in Sedan, praying. SA 93 It felt like just yesterday- the day young Ilaria Amador’s world fell apart. She had lived well as the third child of the Baron of Mondstadt. She and her siblings- Olessya, Airomar, Anastasya, and Emiliya would spend hours roaming the streets of Karosgrad. Until the day the King declared that the Barony of Mondstadt would be no more. Sweet little Ilaria did not understand. She remembered her eldest sister, the fiery Olessya, petitioning at court not long after. It was not long after her father disappeared, and Ilaria became the sister of House Amador’s matriarch. “Where is papej?” She had asked her mother, the Princess Petrysa of Sedan. The princess gave a vague, unsatisfying answer to her daughter, and returned home to Sedan, with her five children in tow. Of course, Ilaria made do with her situation. She rose to join the courts of Princess Augustina of Balian, her cousin-in-law. She stayed at her family’s side, and tried her hardest to reclaim the stolen honor of House Amador. Her loyalty would stand with House Amador, always. A depiction of an 18 year old Ilaria, gazing out her window in Sedan. SA 97 Ilaria had lived her whole life following her mother’s words. She had been told to marry rich, to strive to find a wealthy husband so that she, as the third child, may live comfortably. Of course, that was until she met Quintus Varoche. Oh, young love. Ilaria was absolutely smitten with the Illatian boy who lived just down the street! He was sweet and funny, and oh how cute she thought his accent was. But alas, he was a commoner. It broke the young Amador’s heart that she was to be forbidden from her first love. How unfortunate that her loyalties were to her mother’s wishes first. A depiction of Ilaria in mourning after the death of Her first husband, Pavel Bassett. SA 110 Oh, Pavel. Though he was no Quintus, he treated Ilaria well throughout their marriage. Together, the landless Marquess and his Marchioness had two beautiful daughters; Nicolette, and Edlynne. Those two girls were the light of Ilaria’s life. After the death of her husband in a hunting incident, the usually reserved Ilaria wept for how she would have no one to care for her children. Until, that is, she received a letter from her dear sister, Olessya. A letter asking Ilaria to return to Haense to be with her siblings, nieces, and nephews. Of course, the now widow obliged, and returned to her childhood home of Karosgrad with her sweet Nicolette and Edlynne. Her loyalties lay within her children now, and Ilaria sought to provide them the life they deserved. A depiction of Ilaria praying for her daughter, Edlynne. SA 116 “Be wary of strangers. Do niet follow people vy do niet know.” Ilaria told her children. One could never be too safe, after all. Oh, but Edlynne. Sweet, curious Edlynne, who could not even speak. One day, the little wanderess followed a stranger out of Karosgrad, and was never seen again. All that was left behind was a beaten stuffed crow- the same one Ilaria’s sweet daughter carried everywhere. Ilaria spent days lamenting having ever let her daughter out of her sight, even for a moment. She had put out fliers with her sister Olessya, offering reward for her youngest child’s return. She searched for days on end herself, and found little solace in the fruitless endeavors. The only one who brought her comfort during her grief, was one Gregorious Roa. While he may have brought her some peace, Ilaria would never forget the loyalty she owed to her sweet Edlynne. A depiction of Ilaria on the day of her wedding To Gregorious Roa SA 117 (Art by Pitohui) Ilaria was a widow- who had bore two children, at that! To marry a Viscount, and especially one so caring towards her, was an opportunity she could not pass up. The Amador still followed the words of her mother, urging her to marry wealthy so that she may provide for her dearest Nicolette. And perhaps she may have some other children. Not that they could ever replace her deceased daughter, but to maybe ease the pain. The ceremony was beautiful. Ilaria was a stunning bride, and Gregorious her dashing groom. She soon moved to Urguan to begin her new life as the Viscountess-Consort of Pavia. However, not long into their marriage, Ilaria felt ill at ease. Her husband was very cozy with House Bishop, who had claimed Ilaria’s ancestral home of Mondstadt not long after her family had lost the title. When a scandal involving Lord Ludwig Barclay of Minitz occurred in Pavia, Ilaria found that her husband was planning to vassalize their land under the Bishops, who owned a Duchy within the dwarven lands. Now several months pregnant, Ilaria sought to sneak a copy of the contract to King Georg of Haense, and annul her marriage. She would never allow such injustice to occur, not while she had the power to bring such dishonor to light. As a result of her contributions, Ilaria was granted the position of ambassador between Haense and Urguan. And, perhaps as some light in the darkness of events, the Amador gave birth to three beautiful babies; Firentia, Edvard, and Henrik. While some regret for her marriage may have lingered, Ilaria never once doubted her actions. After all, her loyalties were bound to Haense first. A depiction of Ilaria gazing out the window of her room. SA 129 Firentia, such a darling girl she was. She was bright and bubbly, albeit sickly. Ilaria did her best to care for her. She may not have done the best job, lying to the triplets about who their father really was, but she did not wish for them to feel the shame of sharing the blood of a criminal. That is, until sweet Firentia found out. What only broke the Amador’s heart further was when her sweet daughter chose to move away from Haense, and spend the rest of her days out with her father’s name of Roa. While Ilaria had sworn that her loyalties lie within her children, she first promised it to her House, and she could not betray her other children. A depiction of Ilaria on the day of her wedding to Quintus Varoche SA 138 It had been a long time. Ilaria had moved from the tragedies of her two failed marriages, and recovered from the losses of her two daughters. She was well, on her own. Until, by sheer chance, she was reunited with Quintus Varoche. At first, his presence had caught Ilaria by surprise. It had been well over thirty years, and she had not only started two families in that time, but also helped reclaim her family’s lost noble title. Of course, that did not change the fact that her heart fluttered at the sight of her first love. It seemed as though her dear Quincey thought the same, as not even a few months later, he proposed. He may have proposed to her without a ring, and in the wrong language, but Ilaria was overjoyed nonetheless. Now in her fifties, she could imagine no greater joy than spending the rest of her life with the first man she ever loved. The day of the wedding was spectacular; it was perfect. A small ceremony, of course, but it was preferred that way. While her gray hair was starting to show at her roots, and the wrinkles on her face creased when she smiled, Ilaria still made an elegant bride. She hoped dearly this would be her last marriage, and that she could spend the rest of her days with her Quincey. And on that altar, with one of the brightest smiles she ever wore, Ilaria pledged her loyalty to her third husband. Now old and bedridden, Ilaria gazed out the window. She thought back on her life. The happiness her family brought her, and the pain her losses felt. Her three beautiful daughters, all of whom she was very proud of, and her two sons who had grown up to travel the world together. While she may have harbored regrets, Ilaria stood firm in her beliefs, and they guided her actions truthfully. One last time, Ilaria thought of who had made her life so bright. She thought of what she had done; the many things she had achieved for her House and family. A weak smile crossed her lips, as she thought of the duties she carried out in the name of House Amador. “Loyalty,” She sighed, mildly amused, to herself. “Such ein fickle thing…” Her eyes closed, and a final breath was taken. Now, reunited with her family in the Seven Skies, Ilaria Annabelle Amador promised loyalty To none other than her Creator, who had called her home. Nicolette Quincey Airomar House Amador Lady Ilaria Annabelle Amador Dowager-Marchioness of Aveyron, Dowager-Viscountess of Pavia 79 SA - 146 SA

The Fall of a Butterfly She came into the world a happy girl, slowly growing to follow in her parent's footsteps. Her father shows her the mali’ame path and her mother shows her the path of a leader. Though she never truly was ready to take on the burden, however as every leader does. She moved forward and did her best, marrying the man she fell in love with and having a beautiful child. She pushed forward, she carried on. After the death of her mother, her health began to fail but she continued. Or tired too before passing the torch off to her sister. The death of her cousin caused another hit to her health. All of the heartache and stress tolling on her before she ended up on her death bed. She lay there, writing out a small note to her husband, her father, and her siblings. “Over the years I have come to understand that my place on this plane is not a permanent placement. It can easily be taken or simply stopped. To each of you, I give my love, Vaen’lean. Please care for our daughter whom I am not able to be there for. To my father and siblings. I love you all and thank you for caring for me” She scribbled the last few words before folding the note and laying it to the side. Her head lay back on the pillows of her bed, the long brown curls she wore slowly cascading down her shoulders and onto her chest. The rhythmic breathing came to a slow halt, the woman’s eyes closed.

Silence filled the cold chill of the room of a familiar tower that the specter found himself in. Having used his last few moments to interact with caporal objects to mount an aurum arrow upon a stand before his armor fell through his form, unable to be reworn. "There goes the final link. The synod is finally behind me. only a few things to do remain." The ghastly figure spoke out in silence. He stared down upon his ethereal body, feeling his mind still ever so slowly slipping away. He couldn't remember how old he was, in life or in undeath. All his thoughts could recall were hunts, and the one elf who he viewed as a sibling. Mouth unmoving he spoke a brief few words to himself, accepting what was to come next Talion extended his arm out towards the nearby quill and ink, ectoplasmic goop breaking off in chunks to grasp and start writing his final letter in a script harsh on the eyes and unable for normal man to read, those who tried finding themselves feeling like they have stared into the sun itself for just a bit too long. (blackspeech script) "Valindra. By the time you see this I will no longer remain as I am. I learned rumors about being able to trap a slain ghost inside a weapon, and I seek my end. My rock has been unbound of my own will, and I write to you just before I do this act. I pray this will work, and give you a final farewell gift in this action. I wish I could give you my azhl to fashion into a new dagger, but I am unable. I do apologize I can no longer remain by your side, and wish you luck in your endeavors of the path you sought to go down. if this is successful my exoplasm shall be trapped inside the aurum arrow you see on the stand. If you do finally get your way and become a Shepard, see to it that I am pulled free from the arrow and bound to you so I can resume my hunt by your side. Many things have probably occurred since we last spoke, and I wish I could hear all about them. However my mind is slipping away more and more with each day. I can only remember you and the hunt as well as how to write. Everything else is fickle and hard to grasp like water in a fishing net. May this be my final keepsake as a hunter and as Korkul. Let puddle know I will no longer be a problem Yours truly, your Ethereal Raven." Talion, known in death as Korkul the Hermit took one last mimicked sigh before throwing his ghastly blue form upon the arrow. An echoed scream soon rang out through Lurin's streets from Valindra's tower as Hermit was killed in a way they wished, calm washed over him in those final moments, the little bit of ectoplasm and soul that remained now bound forever in the aurum dagger until one versed in the arts of its manipulation could pull it free and bind it to something or someone else.

[An artist's peaceful rendition of Astrid and her son, Matthias] The day Astrid Parvana Rosiliya Colborn was born was a stormy one, with her first impression on the world was a blood-filled cough. Weak lungs and poor health plagued her youth, though it never squashed her devotion to music. Her first instrument, the violin. Her first song, a wheeze. Thankfully, as days went on, her health and skills improved. She performed, played, and taught through her melodies. Sadly, every song must come to an end. The day Astrid’s voice could no longer reach her highest note was a grave one. The woman declined until she was once again bedridden, trapped to the very pillows that imprisoned her childhood. Pale skin, sunken cheeks, and a frail figure signaled the worsening of the woman’s condition. There was no cure, and the doctor assured her of little hope. Still, her song was not finished. She craved a family. The day Astrid’s pregnancy announcement was greeted by a frown from her doctor, she knew she had a choice. She was weak, and only had the strength for one person. Her or her child. The choice was obvious, and she shut herself back into her pillowy prison to keep what little strength she had left. The day Astrid Rosiliya Colborn Barclay's child was born was a sunny one. A warm afternoon, with colorful birds littering the sky. Rays shone down on Matthias' rosy cheeks as he slumbered peacefully. Peace. Peace. A peace Astrid longed for as she rested her head. Peace. Peace. A peace Astrid recieved. ---------- The woman’s remaining time was filled with writing. Lots of it. Some songs, some notes, but especially a lot of letters. Messages to everyone that had impacted her life. Dear Mamej, Dear Papej, Dear Carolus Colborn, Dear Brendell and Nikolai Colborn, Dear Anabel Colborn, Dear Konstanz Barclay, Dear Virgil the Darkspawn, [A portrait of Astrid's final moments]

No one had seen Haelera Scrivener for the past several weeks, but that would change come the 24th of the Amber Cold. As the sun rose over the fields of Haense, a horrifying sight was revealed to passersby. The ground was marred by scorch marks and ashen patches of grain. In the fields lay the body parts of the once intact women. She is drenched in blood, more blood than what would suitably belong to a human of her stature, and her form is mangled almost beyond recognition. The killer acted with surgical precision, contorting the poor woman’s corpse into a sickly symbol of an ouroboros. The skin and cloth around her wrists were burned and melted. Just above the cut of her neck were two puncture marks. Upon her lifeless eyes a severed bat's wing has been placed. Aside from her blackened wrists, her skin was unusually pale. The body parts were cold and stiff. It seemed that where she lay now was not the place she took her final breath. Aside her body tattered and burned pieces of cloth rest; a massacre of green and orange.

[!] Artist depiction of Kosher in his youth -=-=-=- Screams…cries…terrors… All of these plagued the veteran soldier, from his first battle to his final. His thoughts were haunted by the faces of the fallen. Those who were still alive however, hated him with a burning passion. After all, a century of conflict and after decades of constant fighting had taken its toll on the bastard Prince. Kosher still remembered when he had first been recruited. He was visiting home in Stygian Hollow when a Norlandic raid had come, and he had been thrown into a fighting force consisting of people known as ‘Rustlers.’ Little did he know at the time that they would shape him into a warrior of renown, from a simple smith from the hills of Urguan to a battle-hardened soldier. There he met some of his greatest friends, such as Elsil and Elsiimah’Ceru, the likes of the great Blair, and even his best friend.. Brian. Brian, his first love. He didn’t even remember how they met, but it was love at first sight. They always were up to trouble, and even got married on a whim. They planned to settle down in the Duchy of Elysium, not wanting a life of crime in the Rustlers any longer. They were more than just husbands, they were best friends till the end. And once Brian’s end came at the noose after a brutal battle at Yong Ping, Kosher thought he would never recover, and some say he never did. Everyday after that, Kosher swore that every Yong Pinger that ever tried to be friends with him, he would slay. After Brian’s death, Kosher was crushed. His brother Elliphas came back into his life, but it did not fill the hole in his heart. Fal’leon tried, and failed. Thus, Kosher left the decaying House Ceru, the successor to the Rustlers, and tried to make himself useful. After a few unfortunate incidents, he was banished from the Kingdom of Elysium after over two decades of faithful service. After a string of slanderous insults, Kosher went to join the Ferrymen for a bit as he found a new home in the Crown of Elvenesse. Evar’tir Oranor, the High Prince of Elvenesse took him on. Though Kosher dreamed of something bigger than Elvenesse, he dreamed of Elven unity. Thus he aided Vytrek Tundrak’s efforts to unify Elvendom, and was given an impossible task. Though whilst all this was going on, he met his new love… Melawen Taliame’onn stormed into his life like a raging storm, taking him by surprise. They got married quickly, and shortly after had Acanthus and Aster Daesmon, with the former getting prepared to become Prince-Heir. They had a successful marriage by all means, though after a plot to assassinate Kosher was unveiled, she quickly went into hiding with their youngest child, Clematis. Whilst his marriage to Melawen was occurring, plans for Elven unity were being set in stone. Though one elf posed a threat, and thus had to be silenced. Kosher embarked on a mission with his son Acanthus, and multiple men at arms and ambushed Minuvas Melphestaus, a supposed prophet and claimant to be the ‘Speaker of Malin.’ They successfully put him into a coma, causing the downfall of the Princeps of Ebonwood and directly causing the massacre of the Mali’Imperi. For this effort, it was cemented that Kosher would take over the Crown of Elvenesse, now the Crown of Amaethea as Prince-Royarch, as Vytrek Tundrak had been crowned High Prince of Malinor. His reign was largely peaceful, other than a small war with the Uruk Horde that resulted in the prevailing might of Malinor as a whole. Though, crumbling relationships and a stint of depression plagued the Prince, and after a mere decade and a half of rule, he abdicated the crown in favor of Acanthus. He would no longer play a large part in global politics, other than a few minor moves, made mostly to anger his enemies. Kosher’s life was mostly waiting. As the world calmed down, he settled down with a woman named Vullenia and had a son named Cetaur, who he would come to adore during a stint on Failor. He still was a soldier and fought a bit, but mostly for money and nothing compared to the evil acts he used to do. A few people died, but at the end of the day killing was his job still on Almaris. Nothing he had done was horrible after Malinor though. He mostly stayed out of trouble and kept to himself the his fellow Lords of Hus, a collective of wealthy individuals that held immense influence in the Far Northern regions of Almaris. Once the migration to Braevos was made, Kosher once again stirred, beginning to make his name known for harmless pranks or shenanigans. Yet, after over a century of constant battle, being loyal to a mask to a crown, to being disgraced from it all, he was finally through. All that repentance was for naught, as he was executed like a dog over nothing. The only honorable thing about such a demise was the champion who gave him the honor of a duel. Towered over and tired, Kosher was swiftly defeated by the Orc.As he fell into eternal sleep, his nightmares turned to dreams, for what had been good was great. Thus Ended the Third Prince of Amaethea, Kosher Fier Daesmon.

A pale elf in a wedding dress stood upon a cliff’s edge, looking upon the rising sun, its reflection on the ocean was bright and vibrant, shining into her golden eyes. Her Snow White hair flowed as the warm breeze brushed against her. The elf stood there remembering her past, she was only 35 years of age when she arrived in Celia’nor, a young elf brought to the principality by her dear uncle for one purpose, and that was to serve. Uncle Aearion, thank you for taking care of me, bringing me to such a wonderful place, because of you I got to experience a life of work and I enjoyed every moment of it. @smol_bean160 Raziel, you took me under your wing and taught me to write and to serve drinks, because of that I could always make drinks for myself and my family whenever we needed it. Thank you for everything you’ve helped me with, if we could meet again, I’d wish to be your student once more. @Laeonathan Ahmanu, the first person’s attention I caught. I still remember the day we met, you showed me a glimpse of your beautiful magic, I still remember how my cheeks flushed red on that beautiful night, I wish you happiness. @THEKINGOFPIRATS Rosalyn, you were beautiful, you were kind, the most wonderful girl I’ve ever laid my eyes upon, I’m sorry I left without a warning, if we meet again, I hope we will grow to be as close as we once were. @unisof Rinsova, dear sister, we are not as close as we used to be, I miss you and father dearly, if we meet again in our next life, I’d be honored to call you my sister once more. @candyzeroyal Elledan, though we were not related by blood, you were a sister to me. I enjoyed our long conversations, our quiet drinking nights and the warmth we gave each other, thank you for being apart of my life. @Cosmopain Elliphas, our love did not last long but you made it exciting. Loving you made me feel young, and even though the pain was hard to endure when our love ended, I do not regret anything. Please take care of yourself and learn to trust again. @Kanapes Cetaur, my beloved son, you brought light when I was in the dark, watching you grow up to be the fine young man you are now was a gift, you are a gift. It felt like only yesterday you were clinging onto me and now you’re off on your own journey, discovering who you are. I love you son, more than you will ever know. Forgive me for leaving so soon, but I can not endure a life without your father. Kosher, the love of my life, the prince that saved me when I was on the verge of losing myself, you made everyday worth living and if I could go back to the day we first met and fell in love, I would do it a thousand times over. I love you and only you, I will never fall in love with anyone else the way I did with you ever again. You were taken away from me, you were taken away and I wasn’t given a chance to say goodbye..but that’s fine..we will see one another soon enough…I’m coming..my love.. @Pancho Just as the sun rises above the ocean, in an instant splash of water, the warm embrace of the ocean hugged the high elf as the light of the surface began to fade to black, the life of Vullenia Maor Tawarenion, the wife of Kosher Daesmon has come to an end.

· • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • · The breath’s journey began with the cry of a newborn. A rowdy, tousle-haired baby finding its voice during its first moments in this world. Over the days, the cry morphed to laughter - a rousing ringing echoing through the halls. The breath continued, accompanied by pattering feet down long hallways, shifting into a myriad of questions and jest. Like a wild rose bush, the breath grew; wild, tangled with a thousand emotions, everchanging. Short, harried, sweet, tense, a long exhale of peace. A sigh lifted on the wings of the wind. A lingering voice faded into quiet laughter. The breath danced along the winding path, light and airy, cheerful, darting through the shadows that attempted to snuff it out and slipping through the grasp of overgrown brush seeking to ensnare. The path wound backwards and forwards, crested deep chasms and climbed over grassy hillsides until it bore the breath at last to a wide, green valley, filled with an emerald carpet of forest. A valley where the breath floated carefree, a leaf beckoned by the breeze, until it morphed into one last, cheerful laugh as it danced upwards into the sky. There, at last, it dissipated, only the lingering memory of the breath’s long journey remaining in the one left behind. · • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • · The sun shone high above two figures resting in a field patterned with vibrant hues - reds, yellows, blues and purples - woven into the grassy carpet. They sought shade beneath a large oak tree, one that was more than happy to spread its leafy branches over the two gathered at its roots. The first - taller, strong, and bound with stoicism - helped the second - a wan, frail lady who looked upon the world with undiminished vigor - to sit and lean against the welcoming trunk despite the latter’s stubborn admonitions. A knowing look displayed on the frail one’s face, a visage wrinkled with age and curtained by wispy, silvery tufts of wild hair. There was no fear there, only peace, as she chattered thoroughly and gesticulated with a veiny hand when sparse breaths did not allow her to articulate. A thousand stories, a thousand memories, all merged and unified and knitted into a conversation between the two companions, softening into a woven, lingering smile. Weary emerald eyes drooped shut, kissed by the sun filtering through the oak tree’s canopy overhead. A hand rested over that of her friend’s, the one who sat with her, talked with her, had walked through so much of life with her. With one last smile, a whispered ‘thank you,’ a last exhale danced with the lady’s spirit hand in hand into the heavens. Though death now caressed the wrinkled, gentle face, Nisreen’s shine was none the less bright. · • -- ٠ ✤ ٠ -- • ·

As the dwarven forces stormed Norland's capital, Dagius Fylch instinctively drew his blade... or at least he attempted to. He forgot that one of the guards had taken his blade because he was "suspicious." Homeless was the right word. He sighed and bought a low-quality weapon from one of the many shops around the city. As the battle commence and the Norlanders charged out the back gate, they realized they had been tricked into coming out, and they promptly went back inside. As everyone made it back in, the gate slammed shut, leaving Dagius outside with nothing but a pair of shears and a low-quality Warhammer. He looked through the gates with a pleading expression at Knox, the guard who had taken his sword previously. All he saw on his face was a hateful smirk. Dagius now realized that he was indeed fighting on the wrong side. As he turned to face the oncoming dwarves, he tried to take one down with him. The dwarves were too quick and dodged his attack, his hammer shattering like glass when it slammed into the ground. As Dagius accepted fate, last thing he saw was a dwarven battle-axe crashing onto his head. As the axe came down, he muttered some comforting words to himself. "I'm back dad, I'm back."

[!] On the edge of a dim jungle cave somewhere on an isolated tropical island in the middle of the ocean, a very old man stands, his toga loosely draping down over his body, his century old glasses clung to his face, staring out at the sunset as he releases hundreds of posters into the wind. UNUM EXTREMUM EXPEDITIONEM [!] Somewhere else in the world, in the lively tavern of a great empire, the stories of this man’s life were told. His troubled upbringing, his rise to nobility, and fall to obscurity. His various cons and exploits, his adventures and expeditions into unknown lands for no particular reasons. They told of his love stories, his tragedies, and his victories. “I heard one time he got so drunk he married an old hag, only to leave and never speak to her again!” one man says, “I heard he stole an entire swan boat in the sacking of Providence!” “I heard he cheated the entire nation of Yong Ping out of a large swathe of property for a circus he NEVER BUILT!” “I heard he charged people a hundred mina just to say to eat only steak and lift inhuman weights!” “I heard he invented some gel which blocks aging, maybe that's how he’s lived so long!” Though some of these men had never met him, nor seen any of his products or the extent of his dealings, they spoke of him with such confidence that it didn't matter if what they said actually happened or not. He really did invent that gel. Though, it didn't stop aging, it was just a placebo. But maybe it wasn't just the gel he invented, maybe he had found the true source of immortality. A life so unreal, so imaginary at its core, that nobody would dare forget it. ULTIMUM ACTUM [!] Finally, a man stands over a grave, nestled behind an old ruined castle, emotionless and stoic in his stare. The headstone read: “BEN JONES II SON OF BEN JONES I EXPLORER EXTRAORDINAIRE BORN 1812 DIED 1932, AFTER 120 GLORIOUS YEARS “Glorious, my good man!”” In truth, the grave was empty, but it mattered not. For he had lived a life so glorious, it could not be contained in a single box upon death. “I pick up your adventure where you left off, utterly lost and aimless, but joyous.” Muttered the man “And I pick it up gladly, Grandfather.” And with that, the end of an era. Fin

The Last Goodbye Pride in myself was something I swore would never die Gaining respect means giving up a past life As I lie here, my strength waning, I reflect on the path I have tread and the legacy I leave behind. I have dedicated my life to their prosperity, to ensure a better future for them. There is nothing left for me to do now but to embrace the twilight of my existence. The light at the end of the tunnel It is their time to flourish, to rise and shine in the light of their own achievements. They are capable, resilient, and I have every faith in their ability to thrive. Yet, as I surrendered the reins of responsibility, a mixture of hope and pride swells within me. I have witnessed their growth, their resilience, and their unyielding spirit. They possess the strength to overcome the challenges that lie ahead. It will be difficult at first, for change always brings uncertainty, and the unfamiliar can be daunting. But they will adapt, they will learn, and they will forge their own destinies. They must. However, I have lived far longer than I ever imagined. Old enough to witness the rebuilding of what was destroyed and to see my grandchildren. Remade into something that is a tremendous achievement compared to the horrible past we experienced. It fills my heart with pride to know that I have played a part, however small, in shaping a brighter future for those who will carry our legacy forward.. Leika sat her herself down, her knees weak the very idea of what was going on. She came to terms with it.. Long ago, and yet it was bittersweet. She never foresaw this, after so many years. This couldn't be the end their lives could it? To feel the very life slip through her own breath. The illusion crafted by my arrogance had protected me from the wrong that I couldn't admit In the pursuit of happiness, I found moments of joy and followed people blissfully, basking in their smiles and finding my own contentment. Amongst this journey, I discovered those who became my steadfast companions. My sister Amethyst, who embraced me into her family with open arms, even though she barely knew me. Their laughter became the lightness of my existence, a true embodiment of happiness. Ellathor, a remarkable man who may hold resentment towards me, but remains a great warrior. He always gave his utmost effort in every breath, a Vanari in his own right. He was my greatest confidant. Rosalyn, a recent addition to our circle, holds an intense fire within her soul. At first glance, she appears quiet, but lay next to her sword, and you'll quickly learn the error of your ways. Ahmanu , you came at just the right time. You filled a hole in my heart where once was held by previous military leaders. I was so used to being betrayed Fo I was skeptical of your every move. But every time you strove far beyond my own sword. You were there to command what i could not. It was always an honor fighting with you. Floria, our fates intertwined in rocky fashion. Both ambitious when we first met, she was a young Vanari, still finding her footing. Our minds clashed from time to time, but as the days grew longer and darker, she returned to help pick up the pieces I had broken. I never truly understood why she came back, and I suppose I'll never have the chance to ask. She saw us as family, and I willingly welcomed her in, scared of being alone, terrified of being abandoned once again. Valindra, one of my oldest friends, despite our different outlooks on life, we never strayed too far from each other. Even when we lived apart, I could proudly proclaim her as my oldest friend. I defended her, defended who she was, and stood silently by her side, ready to embrace her whenever she allowed it. Madoc, my cherished drinking partner, our friendship began with laughter and games. Through the years, we witnessed each other grow into distinct individuals, yet our bond remained unbreakable. In times of disappointment, you were the friend who gave me hope, and I could never hate you or turn my back on you. Thank you for being there, my dear companion, throughout our shared adventures. Fal’leon, oh, I always joked that he would steal my husband from me. They were much closer than I could ever be to my own husband. I would jest that it was all part of their druidic connection, but maybe I wasn't too far off the mark. Falleon's helpful nature extended beyond the realms of knighthood, becoming the foundation of the Vikela system. I admired his gruff yet loving demeanor, his carefree nature that seemed to envy his infectious smile. Floods of memories drown me in the abyss Ceiling fades, empty space, hanging barely from a cliff that's thousands of feet tall Ehrendil, my second love, the only love I could hold onto. Our story, tragic and poetic, akin to something a bard would create for the stage. Perhaps one day, our love will be immortalized in a play, and I often wonder what title it would bear? I still remember the playful banter we shared, the bets and games that entertained us. "Are you dangerous?" he would ask, as I fired a dart while Valindra watched as a fair referee, blindfolded shots aimed at a hidden target. "Maybe I am, so what?" I echoed, firing the dart that cost me the game. It seemed I would not receive free tattoos as we had wagered. I would have to find a new teacher, and surprisingly, he offered, "I don't usually do this, BUT I'll show you how to create one tattoo." My voice resonated with hope, for a new teacher had been found, despite losing the game. "Really?" his gruff voice inquired, "Don't let me regret it." The vision shifted, transforming into a bird of paradise pin, then a tattoo a symbol of our smiles and a pledge of eternal love under the night sky. Pledges we never broke, devotion to one another despite the challenges we faced. Our enemies may have been vast, but they could never comprehend the depth of our love, nor know us beyond their own limited perspective. We loved deeply, and our love bore beautiful children. Kaev and Larissa, our first born twins, an unheard-of occurrence within our family. They emerged from the crucible of war, perhaps explaining their divergent views and stances. If I had one last chance to see him, I would wish for him to be alive, and Larissa, a blossoming flower of growth, a remarkable young girl. May she outlive me by far, surpassing my years with her own accomplishments. “Little dandelion take care of our people, Do what I could never do.” Cyprien, the next in line of our bloodline, a strong-willed boy. One day, he will break free from his shell and embody the dramatics of his father. He may not see it yet, but I do. His father resides within him more deeply than I ever could. I hope he finds someone he loves. He's everything I wished for him to be- he exceeds my expectations every day. Medea, Raell, Solus, children not of my blood, yet bound to me as if they were. They bleed for me, and I entrust them with their own futures and lives. They hold the keys to their destinies, but they will always find comfort in knowing that a De Astrea will be there to catch them if they ever fall. I love them beyond words, for they gave me a different perspective. I used to resent the concept of adoption, for one child is always left behind. Yet, this did not happen to them. They will grow into fine warriors and leaders. The memories of happiness far outweigh the bad, and I treasure them deeply. They deserve to be cherished even more. I often wonder if the friends I made still think of me as I think of them? And now I fall Now I fall into oblivion The void of memories that plagued me, was it Oblivion? The ideals that motivated my actions were preserved in my mind during the last decisive moments of truth. Was it a fall from power or a fall from grace? I still had no idea. At the end of such a long life, you would think I knew more. But each truth I discovered didn't change only the world and its great mysteries. I was envious of my father's authority and respect, especially after seeing my friend Karl achieve it with Haense. They possessed things I did not, but by the time we were through, I had far more. I still held onto the memories that had just surfaced—bitter, sweet—a mixture of my life. It was something they could not take from me. Landing back at the beginning of our prime We'd built ourselves and our kingdom in the summer sun one brick at a time I missed my mother, being in the desert, the kharasi, and the people I loved. And yet, I longed for the heat and the light on my face. But as I stepped into the stone city, everything was taken away from me. Chaos engulfed me, and I formed new friendships and found lovers. Initially, I was content with being no one, having only my family and a few questionable companions. I treasured those relationships. However, time passed, and I was given tools and bestowed with a title. At first, I despised being referred to as a princess, as I wanted my mother's title. I simply desired to be a wildflower. I recall doing my best to maintain the favor of my father and sister, willingly fulfilling any request they made. The reasons behind the drastic changes they imposed upon me remained unclear. From being a diplomat to an ambassador for the south, I received assistance and a title that I initially detested. The Ashford name, unfamiliar to me, was one my father took pride in, yet he never used it. Astrea... Ashford, a title with a bloody history. Nonetheless, here I am in the city while the rest lies in ruins. Is our world truly crumbling? Is everything I dedicated my life to falling apart? There is no salvation this time. Not this time. I was labeled a wildflower, but appearances can deceive. Like delicate petals, my spirit was once whole, but the world had cruelly pruned me, leaving me to languish in a vessel of uncertainty. A mere façade of beauty, I withstood the weak sun, all the while lacking the nourishment my heart yearned for. I clung to the edges of a glass, my existence teetering between sinking and floating, lost in a tumultuous sea of emotions. As a protector without a shield, I embraced the weight of responsibility, shielding those unable to fend for themselves. But as I built walls of obligation, the ones I cherished most were forcibly pushed away. With each bond severed, I found myself retreating, cornered by adversaries lurking on every side. Society's expectations for a perfect princess became my cage, confining my vibrant spirit and preventing me from soaring free. Oh, how I longed to bloom with authenticity, to embrace my untamed nature! I sought the gentle touch of empathy, the nurturing soil that would help me flourish. Until I had someone to be my shield. Now those walls are nothing but rubble and dust What was once silver lining of us has turned to rust SA 85. With fierce determination, my arm swept across the chessboard, shattering the delicate balance of the pieces. My voice echoed through the heavens as I unleashed a primal cry of defiance, challenging the very fate that had entwined me. Every step I took toward the West sealed my doom and, with it, the fate of my people. Each stride became a tempest raging within my mentality, a relentless torment tearing at the fabric of my being. The weight of my decision pressed heavily upon my shoulders, threatening to crush my spirit. Should I fall alongside my beloved city or offer them a sliver of hope, a fighting chance at life? The agonizing deliberation consumed me, as I questioned whether there would be people left, whether they could endure the encroaching wars looming on our doorstep. My heart writhed with the torment of remembrances and conflicting ideas. Yet, this was not the perspective of a mere puppet manipulated by external forces. No, this was different. This choice held a potency that allowed me to stand as something more. We had fought relentlessly and tried our hardest to safeguard our world, but this judgment, this sacrifice, stirred a force within me that kept me standing. In the face of despair and against overwhelming odds I marched onward, embodying the defiance of a fallen kingdom. A monarchy that disapproved of the custom of kneeling and pleading with a city that was significantly worse than their own for forgiveness. They had done nothing to warrant such treatment, yet they expected it. No outrage came from those we once thought were our friends. We were betrayed by friends, betrayed by those we had extended a helping hand to. I accepted the weight of my decision, the ultimate expression of sacrifice and the embodiment of hope, as a lone figure against the backdrop of a world in disarray. A deal was struck, our hands shook, and a bottle of wine was opened. Our fate was sealed, without so much as a council. Was this where everyone turned on me? Or was it before ? In those days when we’d fight our demons together If we had started over, oh, I wonder... Returning to the gates, I, Leika de Astrea, was met with a scene of chaos. Guards fought guards of the same colors, engaged in a fierce skirmish. Then their accusatory gazes turned toward me, their words laced with frustration and anger. "Where were you?" one of them shouted, his voice filled with resentment. My eyes flickered to the side, my grip on my crown tightening before I abruptly cast it aside, the symbol of my authority discarded onto the cold street below. But as I spoke, a revival of tenacity erupted from within me. The restrained hatred and resentment, the weight of treachery and hidden intentions that had tortured me from behind closed doors, erupted. So much time spent raising the city rather than my own kids. Was it all for this? I stopped trying to act like my sister or my father. Instead, I was engulfed by my ancestors' ferocious hatred. My golden eyes narrowed at the guard, my voice cutting through the air like a sharpened blade. "Did you truly believe I was blind to the intricate web of deceit you spun, the plots you orchestrated behind my back?!" My voice thundered, each word infused with seething anger that resonated through the air. My eyes blazed with a fiery intensity, piercing through the guard's facade of arrogance. My grip on my emotions tightened, my rage fueling my words as I continued, my voice a whip crackling with righteous indignation. "But now, you shall bear witness to the repercussions of your grave underestimation of me. I Am no longer the little girl you once knew. Let's see how you fare with this." My voice resounded with Fierce grace. My tone carried a sense of dignified authority, befitting a monarch who had been wronged. For the first time, I was no longer the warrior princess, the war-torn queen. I was the wildflower queen, Leika de Astrea. In my final moments of strife, I stepped into my role. The chaos broke my heart. Heart breaking, If I has tears to give them it would be spilling out. Flooding the streets. How far had I let them all fall to come to this? Would we have fallen? The guard's facade of bravado faltered under the weight of my presence. His eyes widened, a glimmer of trepidation betraying his realization of the formidable force standing before him. The force he had forgotten had thwarted so many plans and coups before. This was just a droplet of my anger. "I have grown wise to the intricate schemes woven behind my back, and I shall not be swayed by the deceit that once ensnared me," I declared, my voice filled with measured resolve. Infused with an air of regal certainty, my words hung in the air like a delicate tapestry of power and perseverance. My graceful authority resonated, transcending the realm of petty revenge. My purpose lay not in obliterating my adversaries, but in showcasing my unwavering strength and resilience as a ruler. I was not my father; I was not my cousin who stood above them on the staircase, the weight of my words being calculated in his head. Behind him stood my son, my sweet son, brainwashed by his own family to turn against his mother. Did I blame him? No, the answer was clear. I could never blame him, I could never even let my heart and my mind battle to hurt him. If he had wished to kill me, I wouldn't have stopped him. Every regret, and yet... I could never turn my anger toward him. I watched as he turned tail and ran. Would I ever see him again? The answer was no, I would never get to hold my son, see him grow up. His sister left to be the eldest, his name erased from history.. Snatched by the very people who sought to kill me countless times. Fallen into oblivion? Then it was just my cousin left. Faust witnessed his own plans crumble to dust, his treacherous raid against his own people unraveled by my cunning. And yet, here I stood, one step ahead. My hands curled tightly around the draft of the western concord, rage burning in my eyes, and my voice trembled with a mix of heartbreak and fury. "How dare you! How dare you betray our own kin! You could have come to me. We could have found a way together. But no, you chose silence and darkness, plotting behind our backs, until your actions led to the slaughter of our own people! Tell me, do you feel any remorse? Do you regret the blood on your hands?" I spat each word, my voice laced with a deep anguish and a seething anger that threatened to consume me. He gave no answer, his cowardice on full display, and he fled before I could even give the order to capture him. At that moment, Leika de Astrea emerged as a force to be reckoned with, fueled by a mixture of righteous indignation and sorrow. I became a beacon of defiance against the dwarves, the wood elves, and all those who dared to challenge me. My resolve, hardened by the fires of betrayal and the sacrifices of my fallen comrades, propelled me forward. No longer burdened by the weight of leadership, I embraced my role as a warrior, a strategist, and a symbol of resistance, vowing to bring justice to those who had caused so much pain. Yet, such a memories only brings me anguish only brings me the option could it all have been changed? How fragile of me to break so easily Fear took the lead, now I'm still falling Falling deeper, faster, I find myself weighed down by the burden of choices. My world is torn by war, and yet I wear a mask, a smile on my face that only my husband sees through. He knows the cracks in my facade, the torment that keeps me awake at night. I see the toll it takes on him too, trying to shield me from the weight of it all. The pain, the screams, the never-ending paperwork—if my hands were real, perhaps they would feel the same pain I do.So many lives were lost in the service of our country . Gratitude fills my heart for those who remain steadfast, while regret lingers for the bridges that have burned. So many people I will never see again. Fallling I yearn for Astrid, her blade gleaming with determination, and her unwavering support that bolstered me in the darkest of times. I wish I could have done more, offered solace and strength in her moments of need. Her absence leaves a void in my heart that echoes with lost battles and unfinished conversations. I miss seeing Roy's smiling face, his eyes alight with mischief, always trailing behind the woman and princesses. His unwavering loyalty and playful banter brought a lightness to our heavy burdens. I shall miss seeing Mikas Face, Riding along on his chicken.. simply observing Lord knows that man has seen it all. Nikko and Luca, my brothers by blood and bond, with whom I shared countless childhood memories. We laughed, we fought, we dreamed together. The distance between us now weighs heavily on my soul, and I long for the simplicity of those carefree days. Roylan, whose warmth enveloped me in his embraces, his words a balm for my weary spirit. The void left by his absence feels unbearable at times. I ache for his presence, for the comfort and understanding he offered without judgment. Plume, the young child known as the heart of the city, whose green thumb nurtured the plants that adorned our once vibrant streets. Now, as the world crumbles, I worry for the fate of those beloved flowers. Who will tend to them with the same tenderness and care? Verrona, whose motherly presence brought comfort and direction during difficult times. In the middle of the confusion, her wisdom and compassion stood out like beacons. She instilled strength in me, and I long for her kind words. A second mother when my own has abandoned me. Theo, my half-brother with whom I shared blood and who I cherished company. I miss the connection we shared, his laughter, My little brother. Where have you gone? Will you even care that i am gone, you have no one left. No one that knows your name. Frisket, whose fascinating demeanor and ever-winding wisdom offered clarity to even the most complicated of situations. I yearn for their advice and their enigmatic puzzles, which frequently held the solution to our victories. Your highly developed hyspian culture, Would you be alive today if I had pleaded with you more to stay at the wedding? Our Sorvian Monty the friends that stood by my side through my trials and difficulties. I am terribly saddened by their absence as I consider the significance of their sacrifice. What should I do with their unclaimed books, tales, and wisdom now? When he learns that yet another colleague has perished, lost in the never-ending flow of battle, who will be there to console him? Absolon, whose talents and charisma commanded admiration from the people. His legacy still reverberates, his name whispered with reverence and respect. I mourn the loss of his light, extinguished too soon. Flour and his bakeries, their delicious creations that brought joy to our civilization. Ereine, with her infectious smile that could light up the darkest of days. I yearn for her laughter, the way it lifted our spirits and kindled hope within our hearts. Her absence is a void that cannot be filled, the sky lost a star that day. Aylin and Esmond, the true heroes, whose wisdom surpassed measure. They were taken from us too soon, fighting for the very ideals I shattered. Their loss weighs heavily upon my soul, reminding me of the consequences of my actions. I often wonder what would Aylin have done? A question I often asked myself in times of need. Falling into oblivion Into oblivion But it wasn't all bad. Not at all. And as I approach the end of my journey, I can leave behind a legacy of both triumph and lessons learned. It's time for me to find my final rest, to embrace the peace that has eluded me for so long. May my enemies learn the consequences of their actions and may those who come after me forge their own paths. I shall miss the people who I called home. [!] With her aged body, the former monarch closed her eyes one last time. She held onto hope, finding solace in the idea of finally being at peace. These were the last wishes of a dying woman, her farewell to the world and her hopes and aspirations for the future. Goodnight, Leika Juno De ishe Astrea , Little Butterfly, Lady Dangerous, Warrior Queen ,Queen Leika De Astrea Wildflower of Elysium, Lady Paramount, Mother of the Realm, Countess of uhrie, Princess of abhrami.

───────────────────── ☾ ───────────────────── The sun was burning onto Reetus' skin. Along the shore, a wooden boat sits there. Nothing was on the small wooden boat. Just a sail and an anchor. All alone on the sandy bench, laying on softest hot sand. He tried to rethink his decision and what Gaius said to him. His own best friend begged him to stay. He felt guilty. How could he lie to his friend? How could he look at Grayson with his own two eyes? He felt like an impostor in someone's skin. No, He is one. An impostor. An impostor who was pushed and pushed. What was the last time he did something for himself? What was the last time he loved doing something? What was the last time he hung out with his friends? Who was he again? Impostor or nobody? He couldn’t tell anymore. He was nothing to everyone's eyes. A nobody. A nobody who hated himself for all these years. Who wanted someone to notice him. How he was suffering. How much people push him away. He was tired of getting back up. Tired of watching everyone grow. But to Reetus, he saw his family and friends still younger. Maybe it was too late. Too late to say sorry. Getting up from the sandy ground. Reetus looked towards Almaris for the last time in his life. Then taking off in his wooden boat to never be seen again. [!] Under a couple of rocks, a couple of letters were left there. Maybe to be found or just left there to be washed away. Tobias Gaius Wyn Theo Sheo Ayred Grayson ───────────────────── ☾ ───────────────────── Oocly

[♪] It was a sunny day in the realm of the Argent Sun. A Holy Knight, named August Jazloviecki-Buckfort was sitting in his old armchair that remembers the golden era of Savoy, while smoking his cigar. The sun was shining on his old, hairy face and the man simply smiled at the distant star. He was old, he sensed that his end would come sooner or later. He puffed his cigar one more time before extinguishing it and standing up “It’s time” he thought to himself before walking back inside the old Triglav Keep. The man put his sword on the clothed table and prayed for a moment. Once he was sure of his intentions he went down to the cellar and took out a barrel of Uruk Guzzoline. “I once cheated death, it’s due time to embrace it” he said to himself before walking out with the said barrel and putting it on his horse. It took several days for the Knight to reach the heartlands that have been like a second home for him ever since his beloved Savoy fell. There was one thought in his head - Dumapalooza. So as he did exactly what he has planned - August approached the gate, and greeted his nephew Aleksander Wilhelm with a smile, as none of his relatives knew of his intentions. He went in carrying the barrel in his bag,after that the Old Knight went for a peaceful walk toward the building, while entering he moved through the crowd to find himself standing near the fireplace that was close to the podium where the candidates for a new Duke of Adria were standing. He hesitated a bit, but after a short prayer he glanced at the gathered Adrians and opened the barrel. The smell was quite distinct, though due to the crowd it didn’t spread quickly. August raised his arms and poured all the content of the barrel over himself. He was certain that his decision was righteous and thus this action will be the best and only possible way to purify his soul. Moments later the elderly man reached into the fireplace and immediately caught on fire. The crowd turned their heads towards the Knight but it was too late. Holy Knight screamed his last words as his body stood in flames… His goal was simple - hit the representatives of House von Draco, enemies of his relatives and of his own. Then the most unexpected of all possible things happened - a poor recruit stepped in to stop the burning Knight. He could not stop therefore he rushed into the boy, causing burn damage to his clothes and skin. He did not succeed, but he tried. His duty was fulfilled and his soul cleansed. The last Argent Legionnaire, last living Savoyard and last Jazloviecki Holy Knight dropped dead as his body burned in agony. August Mikołaj Jazloviecki-Buckfort lived 109 years, now he departed on his last journey, to find eternal peace and finally reconnect with his lost friends and family.

FEAR THE OLD MAN IN A PROFESSION WHERE MEN DIE YOUNG. “It is not what you want, when duty calls. I must answer, always.” “And now for the promotions to Armsman. Step forwards, Sebastian Bishop.” Lord Marshal Johann Barclay called out to the members of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl gathered on the square. Sebastian grinned with a cocky smile as he walked forwards to the Lord Marshal. He knew this promotion was coming, not for his outstanding mentality or likeable personality. Sebastian Bishop knew this promotion was coming due to a simple fact of him being one of the best in battle. “Thank du, Lord Marshal.” He said with a sly snicker towards The Lord Marshal Sebastian found himself on the battlefields facing down enemy forces. “Get the Lord Marshal!” The now Armiger shouted out as he spotted Lord Marshal Hieran Melphestaus unconscious on the floor infront of the enemy. He charged forwards together with Sviatoslav Godunov to face down the foes. “Cover mich, Sviatoslav!” Sebastian Bishop called out as he grabbed the Lord Marshal to carry him away. SWISH! The halberd of the enemy went right towards Sebastian’s face, cleaving half of it off. The Armiger cried out in pain yet he carried the unconscious Marshal away to safety nonetheless. “I am pleased to announce a new Sergeant to my officer core.” Spoke Lord Marshal Sergei Aleksandr. “Please come forwards, Armiger Sebastian Bishop.” Finally, Sebastian thought to himself as he stepped forwards on the podium to be promoted. “Thank du, Lord Marshal. Ich promise to serve the Brotherhood of Saint Karl to mich last breath.” He spoke with a sense of duty and loyalty in his voice, the left side of his face now scarred and partially covered by an eye-patch. The young upstart that once was, who only cared about being the best with no regard for others had now faded. Now, Sergeant Sebastian Bishop was truly ready to give everything he had for the Brotherhood of Saint Karl. He gave a salute as he finished his speech before sitting back down. “Down the hill, sir! There is a wooden bridge that we can use to flank them with, permission to assemble a squad to engage!?” Sergeant Sebastian Bishop roared out in the midst of the siege on the Inferi fort. “Permission granted, Sergeant!” Royal Captain Felix Weiss shouted back at Sebastian before the Sergeant assembled a force to go engage, consisting of Ser Vanhart, Baldrum Colborn, Ser Walton and Tulip. Soon, they were receiving heavy hellfire and projectiles from above. “Put up dur shields, do nie falter!” Sergeant Sebastian Bishop commanded as they held firm against the constant onslaught of fire, an incredible feat as they covered the main force with only five men. Soon they pushed upwards the wooden bridge, with Ser Vanhart and himself at the front. “WATCH OUT!” Sebastian Bishop slammed himself infront of Ser Vanhart as a massive olog sized Inferi charged through ice, taking heavy damage and the loss of his only remaining eye. And there he sat in the square of Karosgrad, flipping around some medals of Valor in his hands with no vision remaining, a disabled veteran that now lingered as a ghost of his former self. It was many years before he finally amassed enough mina to purchase himself artificial Animii eyes. “Hallo.” Sebastian walked up to a pair of kids who were looking at a Brotherhood poster. “AAAAAHH!” They pointed at his extremely scarred face and pair of golden Animii eyes before running away. “Bah.” He walked inside of the barracks where he encountered the now Lord Marshal Felix Weiss “Gutte day, Lord Marshal.” He grinned at his old friend before giving the man a salute. “Permission to go back in the line of fire und duty?” Sebastian Bishop asked of the man. “Go back? In my eyes you never left, Sergeant.” The Lord Marshal said towards the man with a pat on the shoulder. Sebastian read a missive now, he grinned to himself as he read the title. ‘Writ of Aulic appointment, Lord Marshal of the Realm, we now announce Sebastian Bishop as the new Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl!’ The man beamed with pride and enthusiasm as he got straight to work. “I am here to announce my retirement as the Lord Marshal of the Brotherhood.” Sebastian said with a somber tone, Alas, he had been struck by a condition that caused him to be far too tired for the Lord Marshal job. He left the podium, dissatisfied with his work. He scribbled down Lieutenant Wilheim Barclay as his favoured replacement and went to his home. And suddenly, there he stood. In the duma hall facing down hordes of Mori legionnaires with their commander at the front. “Retreat, Sebastian!” Lord Marshal Wilheim Barclay shouted out at the oldest veteran the Brotherhood had left. “Ich will cover du, leave the rest of du!” He roared out as he went to face down the commander, drawing his shield and blade. “Care for a duel!?” The old veteran challenged the commander, their best of the best. As the two clashed weapons, he held firm. He always did, he always will, Sebastian thought to himself. Then he heard a friend, A Lieutenant under him, a man loved by many drop dead in the hallway. Ser Baldrum Colborn had fallen behind him. “DID DU KNOW HIS NAME!?” He roared out in fury at Nakaas. “HIS NAME WAS SER BALDRUM COLBORN, A LIEUTENANT UNDER MICH! LOVED BY MANY, HE WAS A GREAT FRIEND!” His blade struck through, slicing apart a piece of Nakaas’ shoulder. “DO DU WANT TO KNOW MY NAME, NAKAAS!?” He shouted at the commander. “ICH AM SEBASTIAN BISHOP, THE OLDEST MAN STILL REMAINING IN THE BROTHERHOOD, AND ICH HAVE NOTHING TO LOSE!” The two clashed blades but soon the old veteran began to tire out, and it showed. “Well met, Sebastian, then let me tell you something. Nakaas does not mean anything, it is simply a title of someone nameless. I was once known as Toriel The White under her ladyship before YOUR kind slew her!” The commander roared back out at Sebastian before both men let forth a wicked grin. “Then let us see whose vengeance is stronger, Sebastian.” Toriel The White said as he readied his blades. “Ich would have it nie other way!” Sebastian responded before the two men engaged once more. Yet it did not last. slowly, Toriel gained the upper hand as the man’s indomitable spirit that had trademarked him his entire life soon died down, soon he was impaled on the commander’s war glaive. “Well fought, Toriel The White.” He said as he took a final puff of his cigar before the man slipped out of consciousness, dead upon the Duma floor. “I will remember your names, Baldrum Colborn and Sebastian Bishop.” The now scarred commander of the Mori said towards the two dead men.

FIELDS OF GREY [♪] The battle was going to be horrifying. That, the old soldier knew for sure. In his lifetime, Wiktor Jazloviecki has seen enough to make him able to predict that from the atmosphere alone. And even so, it exceeded anything he could have ever expected. He rallied together at the Herzogtum of Minitz along with his Lechian brethren, adorned in the armour of the Hetman of Eagle’s Watch. He listened as soldiers and warriors chatted around him- some prayed, some jested, some discussed- but all appeared well-prepared for the upcoming clash. Upon hearing orders shouted left and right, he made his way up on the wall, gone to inspect the horizon. There, he met his nephews- Waclaw and Aleksander Jazloviecki. As he was talking with them, many men and women, the proud defenders of Minitz, flooded the walls and Wiktor was sure the collision of the vicious and dreadful Mori and the honourable descendants was upon him. He unsheathed his sword and readied himself to oppose the horrors. The locusts came first- twisted, sky-faring spawns of Iblees. The Minitzer protectors loaded their bolts into their crossbows, stones into their trebuchets, and shortly after, the black night sky was filled with hundreds of projectiles, many of which found their targets. On the ground, eldritch arachnoids came in like an avalanche, crushing into the walls with horrible vigour. And, the worst of all- from the Minitz lake, bubbles appeared on the surface. Not very long after, a massive orb of energy and dark magic showed itself at the sight of the defenders. Soon, it started to hover over to the Duchy. The vile creation started to rip the city apart, tearing it piece by piece. “Retreat to the gates!” The orders were clear, and Wiktor, with the rest of the soldiers moved from the walls to defend the main gate, which has fallen under the attack of a horde of Dreadknights. The plate-clad undead beings stood armed in front of the gate, their lifeless eyes laid on the descendants. As the protectors of Minitz stood prepared right at the bars of the gate, the Duke gave the order to open it- luring the battalion of Dreadknights in. Once they stood under the now-lifted gate bars, the Duke commanded for the gate mechanism to be activated. The bars crashed down, impaling through all who stood under them, that being, in the favour of the defenders, a great portion of the Dreadknight force. Another order was shouted- ignite the buildings that stand nearest to the gate. With the order being accomplished, Duke Brandt instructed to open the gates, letting the Dreadknights in. The two armies collided, and a storm of steel began. The battle was fierce, and Wiktor tried to cut through as many as he could. As the numbers thinned, he noticed that red colour cascaded down his side, and soon enough, he started to lose conscience. The world started to spin as he felt his strength slip away, his legs now being barely able to carry the weight of his body. He tried to resist, to strike one more time, but could very scarcely raise his sword- and in a brief moment, he only felt a cold breeze and complete silence. Closing his eyes, he then departed to eternal rest.

Chagrin d’Amour et Étoiles Filantes The Maiden She was a fiery thing when she arrived in Petra, likened to a wildfire with her messy red curls and that temper inherited from the father she had never met. Her grudges seemed never ending and so were her questions in regards to the authority of her relatives over her. The sheltered upbringing Laetitia faced caused her to become somewhat uncouth and foul-mouthed, especially in regards to those she viewed as trying to force their authority over her. Laetitia didn’t understand why her mother insisted on dragging her off to a place so cold and dreary. Only that she was finally being allowed to show her face in official, formal settings. This was a great change for the poor girl, and something she had never been allowed to do prior; for fear of her grandmother’s reaction upon learning of little Lottie’s existence. The bastard of a second daughter with the illegitimate son of her grandmother’s treacherous sister; her mere existence was scandalous enough to rend the heart of any woman. And Laetitia proved to be no exception. During her time as Mistress of the Robes to the River Court, Laetitia had fallen head over heels for the illustrious Prince Marius of Haense, younger brother to the man who would later become Georg I of Haense – the latter being none other than the man poor Lottie’s heart would ache for most in the final years of her life, a fact known to everyone who was anyone as she was almost constantly at his side; doting on and fawning over him. The Mother Much like her heart, the state of Petra would become war-torn and weak in the aftermath of Renilde and Marius’s affair being leaked to the public. For many years Lottie traveled Almaris in an idle manner, no responsibilities or desires aside from finding some… purpose for herself after her very world was torn asunder in the chaos of Petra. Peace and respite, that was what she wanted most. She found it in the Morrivi Courts, and for a handful of years she was golden. She was loved, admired… she felt whole again. There was a time when smiles and jokes were a common part of everyday conversation, no matter if it was with a stranger or her nearest and dearest. The highlight of her life was undoubtedly at her debut, when she was named the first ever Swan of the Symposia Pragma. But it would not last, much like the reputation of the woman once thought to be the loveliest of roses in the garden of her family. The Crone Her father’s outright dislike for Laetitia came suddenly; it was one huff at the news he’d eloped without informing anyone and suddenly he was jumping at the chance to disown her and put an end to her “disrespect.” What’s more, he had taken to scolding her for being a “golddigger” every time they met, a fact that was by no means true. During the Symposia she had briefly courted a man of common status before he suddenly stopped attending the Symposia’s events… At which time another suitor made himself known, and she accepted him. What’s worse with her situation at this time, the sudden deaths of Georg’s wife and daughter caused him to grow distant. Not that she was not sad at this news, but She had never met Georg’s wife and infamously had a rather sour relationship with Mariya. Laetitia grew worried, and sought solace from this familial and romantic strife with an uncle, Franz Sarkozic. He was supportive, warm, and paternal; everything she needed at the time–and everything she wanted out of a father figure. He prioritized her over his work, and was there to comfort her when she was upset. He always stood up to protect her, and offered her advice when she needed it most. During a particularly heated conversation, Emir announced that he had ruined Georg and Laetitia’s relationship by gossiping with him about how 'wouldn’t she make such an awful wife and stepmother?' This was Laetitia’s last straw, and she promptly announced that Emir was dead to her. After storming out of Haute-Epine, Laetitia and Blanca promptly filed a lawsuit against Emir, which they were quickly intimidated into dropping as Emir formally disowned Blanca. The rest of Laetitia’s life was one complicated, downward slope. Her heart continued to weaken from the stress of it all, leading to another family argument as Emir refused to treat her for a heart attack until Franz insisted he would have Emir charged for murder if she died. She was well enough for a time, and her family soon decided enough was enough and arranged her marriage. She was to wed a man from the Roa family, who had established for themselves a Viscounty in Urguan. The marriage was as brief as her first, secret marriage. The only difference being that this time Lottie was the one to make a widower of her groom. Her heart was failing, slowly. She knew it. She would never live to watch her children grow up. And so, she wrote. [!] A public statement would be released announcing the death of Laetitia de Roa, formerly Laetitia de Rosius d’Abbassia. It is with great sorrow that the passing of Lady Laetitia Henrietta de Roa, Mistress of the Robes to the Morrivi Court, is announced by her next of kin. She passed on the 18th of Snow’s Maiden, 1923, of heart failure. We ask for you to be with her family at this time, and offer them your prayers. [!] In the days following the news of Laetitia’s death, letters would be sent out Eryane Franz Renilde Emma, Mariana & Blanca Emir Georg The Roas OOC stuff

[This post is about an IRP event, if you were not there you don’t know about it!] A lot of things were to be said about Otton. A lonely individual, a misguided individual, a gullible individual. A pushover. Despite being one of undeath and immortality, there was still an ever so slight resemblance of his previous life within his bones toward his own kin. He was doing just that, aiming to assist his kin and an attempt at repairing mistakes, reconciliation. A quick meander happened upon that keep and he would greet the man outside. A quick exchange of words was to be had, before he was quickly ushered and led inside of those isolated walls. A cold feeling overcame Otton as he approached the project that was to be worked on, just a few days prior he had done the very same thing, his guard down from familiarity and comfort that his apology had been accepted in his mind. Misguided once more, nothing unusual for the immortal, yet this time truly fatal. An uncountable number of assailants, ones he had seen before and yet denied their deal. But this wasn’t about their rejected deal. It was about his actions. He had been found out, and no matter how innocent he truly was, guilty was all that awaited him. His pleas had run out, no more were to be accepted, and this plea to be his last. The impossible was being committed, an act so heinous he had only ever seen it once before himself, the event that had led up to the present. His power fell, a draining not felt before as genus was stripped from his marrows. Gift soon depleting, and nothing left of the Prince of Comoară, nothing left of the Hierarch of Illia’s Blood and nothing left of Otton Jazloviecki. He was truly slain. “You have become what you hate, what you feared has overtaken you. Your daughter unable to be brought back, and all was not by mine hands. Not even a smell is present upon my marrows and yet the most heinous crime against our kin to be committed. Revel in it, writhe in it. Your fate awaits you, eternal shunning and a life of being prey, not the hunter.”

A Halfling's Life [!] A portrait of Aech, expression devoid of laughter or mischief. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. The grandfather clock upon a certain halfling’s wall tick, tick, ticked through the minutes. An amber eyed figure of just two feet gazing upon it’s glass face. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick, tock. How infuriating. Aech thought to themselves. How long have I been here, staring at the time go by? How long has time been staring at me? Tick, tock. Tick, tock. Tick- CRASH A crystalline dagger embedded into the old clock’s crystal pane, stuck perfectly between the minute and hour hand. . . just before the time hit 12. Aech with his right hand outstretched, golden and amber mists, trickling through their fingers like sand before dissipating back into the aether. Perfectly aimed. Perfectly thrown. Perfectly done. He supposed that's what happens when you’ve been alive so long. Practicing endless repetitions. Fighting in countless battles. Then again, she had barely been alive compared to many of her friends. . . Though surely, she’d lived a long life for a halfling. They studied their hand then, glowing orange eyes watching that glittering aura orbit around her fingers, weaving through the air. Watched as the magic traveled through where her ring and pinky finger used to be. . . How funny it was to think back to how she had lost them. Decades ago, before they were even an eminent. . . Must have been in Krugmar, multiple rexes ago... His gaze traveled up further his arm, the beads of orange light that pulsed through just beneath their skin. Illuminating a pathway to the many scars he had collected through the years. Burns along her arms from fighting a water elemental. . . Her magegold tattoos that ran like veins across her collarbones. . . Her two missing legs, of course. . . The stab through her hand. . . a large scar across her back from her first brush with the ferrymen… my, wasn’t that eventful. She recalled that injury, how it had almost been the death of her. Perhaps for a larger descendent, it was one to recover from quickly. But not for she. What a fate that awaited for such a small being, born with a heart of fire. Born to burn, born to fight, born to illuminate. Perhaps that was the day she realized how weak she was. And so began the climb. Training, learning, fighting, everything in between. Until they stood as they did today. Certainly no longer young, but with power thrumming at their fingertips, they had everything they had ever wanted. Money enough for anyone, gold and all that glitters in amounts a dragon would envy, and power. Strength. Magic. And yet. Bored. How infuriating it was, to have all you wanted! Life was meaningless without something to want, something to chase, something to become! To amble about your days with power so great you could challenge a god, power enough to raze cities! And for what? Never would the chance arise to be part of something more. She could feel it in her bones- her time was coming to an end. And there was nothing she could do to stop it. Aech lifted from off their seat, floating through the air towards a nearby mirror. They gave the smallest of smiles, even in such a state of boredom finding amusement in their minor flight. The two atronach legs they had, which allowed them to float about as they did. They had a dire wolf to thank for one, and a siren for the other. So many adventures had she partaken. Adventure. Excitement, discovery, knowledge! That’s what she was missing. In their youth, such was commonplace! Everything was a new experience, there was thrill in everything if you looked in the right places. Pranks to be played, chaos to cause, memories to make. . . He had seen kingdoms rise and fall, perhaps even helped with a few. He had seen enemies die, some by his own hand. He had watched children grow old and die, he had loved, he had lived while many friends had not. But now. . . nothing. Just the clock. Ticking by. . . . Silence. Ah, that's right. They murmur to themselves. The clock is gone. Perhaps. . . it is time that I go too. [!] A portrait of a young Aech- full of mirth and joy. And so they sat before the fireplace. A hummingbird of copper and ruby feathers resting upon the mantle, old as a bird could be. “Are you ready to fly, my jewel? One last time?” They uttered out. A booklet of letters sat within their lap, each small letter handwritten with. . . the closest thing to love a sociopath could feel. She placed the small bundle of letters beneath the bird’s claws, and off it flew to the aviary. . . For clearly, such a small bird could not fly across Almaris alone. She smiled faintly as it flew off, though she was not sad. Rather. . . relieved. She stood from where she sat, and pain suddenly arced its way across her body. A feeling too frequent now. I’ve grown old. Somewhere within her, she knew tonight was the last night. The tiny halfling curled up in their chair by the fire, staring into the flickering flames. He felt his eyes grow heavy, his breathing slow. She wrapped herself tighter in a thick blanket, fighting the chill that threatened to pierce through her body. Dreamily, they thought of all the people they would see again, soon. . . Brian. . . Vesryn. . . Octavia. . . Plume. . . Alucard. . . Frisket. . . Her ex-husband, that would be awkward for certain. . . Countless others, to be sure, that their sleep-addled mind could not remember to iterate. Bah, no matter. I’ll be seeing them all soon. Vaguely they could process someone entering her home. . . Ah, she got my letter. Good. Valindra kneeling beside him, holding Aech in her arms. He smiled, as she held his tiny hands in hers. “Thank you.” He whispered. In and out of consciousness did they float, every now and then being aware of the tears falling onto their body. . . The mana gem that sat embedded between her collarbones began to flicker, as they used a last bit of magic to dry her dear friend’s tears with a breeze of warm air. Magic pulsed through their body, as for one last time Aech enjoyed the power it gave them. Am I selfish? She wondered. To leave so many behind? There are ways to evade death. . . and yet I let it take me with open arms. Do I fight to stay alive? Like I always have? No, no. . . I deserve a rest. His eyes closed.