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Search the Community: Showing results for tags 'pasnia'.
Found 4 results
- The Parting of Trust - Empty streets of Krakow, The Amber Cold 1611 The clouds begin to part as Conrad Roswell steps into a small village he use to know so well. His heart torn between the friends in Courland he has made over the few years that he had lived in the land and also with the future and the well being of his people. A piece of paper is all that floats the streets of krakow, as Conrad looks over the paper he sees that the Kingdom of Lorraine has now joined this rebellion. That is when the weight had been lifted with his memories of his recent past and on to the future. Conrad then takes out some paper and a quill as he reflects on his thoughts making sure this is what he wants, he sets the paper down on the log on which he was sitting and let out a sigh, “As times come dark a light must shine, that light has never been brighter.” He then takes the quill off of the log and begins to write… The Letter Read: With the death of King Tobias has come a great darkness over the lands of Courland, King Joseph Alexander has brought so much sadness to me and my family. For not only did he remove the regents put in place as I have made this journey, but he has also evicted my family and I from our house in Alexandria that i must say was being kept up well and all taxes paid. An unlikely ally had emerged after I had stepped foot on the road, this ally has proven to me that they are people of a good cause. House Ruthern has done many things for this once great kingdom as well. But King Joseph Alexander has failed to realize such acts of kindness and loyalty. Not only has King Joseph refused to acknowledge such good men, he has done something that cannot be forgiven… Conrad takes a long breath as he tries to calm himself down realizing that the future will shine a better light to the lands. King Joseph has killed only a mere child, one child that was far too young to be guilty of any crimes. For this occurrence I Conrad Roswell declares the men and women of Vallendar and loyal followers to no longer be vassals under the corrupt Kingdom of Courland, If the Kingdom of Courland continues to fight the men and women of House Ruthern we won't hesitate to join into this war and end such corruption. Signed, Conrad Roswell, Magnate of Vallendar, and Anguinatus of the Anguine Legion
*A few notes made out of a lightly golden parchment would've found it's way to Metz, Aleksandria and parts of Mardon, bearing the words of an unknown, but wealthy man* Truth be told, plebians and lordlings of whichever realm this note might find it's way to, I come with both a word of advice, warning and a point. I am Tristifier Ross, loyal servant and man-at-arms to the true House Roswell since the Coalition war, having served with Magnate Casimir Staszak and Patrek Roswell and hearing all the tales of the Pasnian people and House Roswell in the process. I learned much during the twenty years I served alongside Count Conrad's father, presumably the greatest was on how to be a man, but I digress. Conrad is no man at all, he is but a spineless squid and a snake which lives on the bottomn of the deepest of oceans as the bottomnfeeder he is. He knows no honor or loyalty to himself , selling himself and his name like a common prostitute for measly minas and not something that could last for eternity, his honor and reputation. House Ruthern which he now claims to serve is a house much the same, selling itself to the highest bidder in order to preserve what? A legacy born out of another House, the Carrions? The Ruthern's have proven to be manipulative and oppurtunistic fools. This is a time for unity! Not division! They have, along with their vassals proven their stupidity through their recent acts when the Westerlands have just fallen and humanity is preparing to strike back against the foul undead. You gave up Krakow to Lorraine but a few years ago when they were pressuring you, giving your loyalty to House Staunton for protection which they so generously gave you, now even after all that's happened you sell yourself to their side for naught but a small dirt hovel along the streets of Alekandria and a keep that no longer belongs to you. You, the supposed successor to my friend sold yourself to a wood elf which so easily cuckolded you and as expected, you did naught to defend your honor. If I was a man of lesser courtesy I'd have perhaps suggested you change your name from Conrad to Cuckold, as it appears fitting, considering the recent events which you have indeed proven yourself to be of such status. Perhaps you have forgotten, Conrad, it was House Ruthern who attempted to sway your mother away from your father during the coalition war to use you as a political prisoner, but you so easily run into their arms now? Why? Do they have a few minas laying around which you just have to put your hands on? Are you so ignorant of the people that truly wish to harm you that you are blinded by the monetary gain you waste away so easily. Your aspirations have lead you to the gutter, your fortune is no more, your army is no more, your livelihood is no more. All you carry is a name which you have added naught to but dishonor, like the Rutherns have done to the Carrions. Perhaps the Stauntons will be so gracious as to spare you all if you find the honor and courage in yourselves to surrender and admit your wrongdoings, perhaps even realizing your hypocritical acts. Your pretentiousness truly knows no bounds But I presume fools will always be attracted to fools. Signed; Tristifier Ross Anguinatus of the Anguine Legion
- Pasnian Migration of 1596 - Pasnian Men and Women going to their new home Conrad shuts the heavy oaken doors, enlaced with thick iron braces and an almost faded brass lock. In days of old, the very doors he nonchalantly shuts stood against the shoulders of many an intruder. Now those days were past, locked away inside the memory of Conrad and his people. As the rasp of the wood battling against the stone floor came to an end, and the iron lever slid into the lock, the thud of the door filled the room, until it was entirely silent. The room was empty, secluded, devoid of not just sound, but conflict. Conrad himself liked it this way. This way he was detached from the many troubles that plague the land of Axios and those who tread upon it, this way he was not Oren or Pasnia. This way, he was merely Conrad, his own entity, alone. A heavy, yet relieved sigh met the end of the echoing thud, before he trudged toward his chair. A slow sit, then a reclined souch shortly followed, before he slid his hand below the side of his desk, pulling a drawer, and retrieving his treaty-making equipment. The parchment was laid, the ink was set. As he found the quill, he noticed how worn it had been. The very same quill that served Conrad’s time as a noble had never been so worn as it was now. The decay of it was almost exponential, Conrad would remark. Times were indeed troubling. Leagues were formed, then dissolved. Treaties signed, then torn. Perhaps it wasn’t just Conrad’s quill that had worn so rapidly these days. As the man began carefully and intricately etching each proposal, statement, and diplomatically concocted act of flattery, the memories would flood his mind. The memories of years spent on the castle balcony, overlooking the land he once called his own. The health of the good people of Pasnia, the succulent taste of the first bite into the apples grown on his lands. The melody of the local bard’s lute, the laughter amongst the streets of his lands. In another world, it might’ve still been his home. Then came the memory of the treaty he signed, the ink that donned the very quill his careful hand swished about now, the indents created on the stretched sheepskin canvas. The same treaty that marked the end of Pasnia in this world forever, at least as the populated land it once was. His people became nomads until then, bending to most of the rising, and then falling lieges. Migrating and fleeting alongside the power of other momentary nobles and Kingdoms. The Lotharingian coins they carried with them were perhaps the only constant of those days. Now with the assured permanency of the Staunton leadership, having stood inside its walls for so long, Conrad and his advisors shifted their gaze to the Courland Kingdom. Observing the honour, well treatment to vassals, and protection Courland offered, discussions were held. Nights spent in halls drinking and debating, serenading, and a few times even roaring, conclusions were met. These conclusions Conrad now immortalized into the short piece of information he wrote on. The Ruskan approach to Courland was nothing but a positive argument to his case. The well treatment they received, and the help they were given, merely added to the Staunton reputation of honour. Conrad firmly planted the dot at the end of the letter, signing the bottom, and rolling it up. Another relieved sigh followed, but this time followed by a small smile. Perhaps the Pasnians might find another place to rebuild, and continue their history. But these lands weren’t, and could never be Pasnia. They were not Oren, who could carry the name wherever they went. His people needed a new name. Conrad took a brief moment to ponder what it might be, before the train of memory-laced thought that nostalgically carried him through the letter before returned. Conrad needed a name befitting of his history and the distant past, to rebuild what only now exists in memories. “Istria.” he’d mutter under his breath, as his hand would grasp at the door’s handle, pulling it. Allowing the outside world to encompass him once more, and for Conrad to stop being an individual, and become Istria. The letter read: “Dear noble King Joseph Alexander. I, Conrad Roswell, Count of Istria, solemnly swear to serve under the glorious nation of Courland, and the honourable House Staunton. We swear to fight in thick and thin, and serve the interests of our Staunton lieges. We humbly request for a land to house our Pasnian peoples in by the wise Ruskan Archduke, under the name of ‘Istria’. We promise to serve for as long as we stand, bound by oath and honour. We promise to fight until GOD himself tears us from the world, and our very beings are scattered. Ave Courlandia. - Count Conrad Roswell. -”