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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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