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  1. BEEN HERE LONG TIME, YE? Music :3 Painting of Jindrich, around 55 years old. Gray clouds grouped around the March of Grodno. In one of the rooms of this newly built castle laid Jindrich Jazloviecki. He was not in the best shape, and he knew about that. The Jazloviecki knew his days were numbered and he was going to meet his end soon. Because of that, a few days ago, he paid a last visit to the nation he loved and belonged to for nearly his entire day, visiting the abandoned city of Freimark, the duchy of Drusco and of course, the hill where the Margraviate of Lvinsk once stood. Filled with sadness, nostalgia and much, much more emotions, he returned back to what was now his home, March of Grodno, built deep in the hills of Kingdom of Oren. There, he suddenly felt it. His body weakened, his skin turned pale white and his face was covered in sweat. "Tak t-tady to je.." He muffled on his way to his room. He felt his strength go away with every step. Jindrich was shocked, even though he counted with this moment. All the blood he coughed out and the headaches reminded him that he will be gone at a close point in the future. He limped to his bed. Jindrich immediately fell onto it. The Tschech's entire body was covered in sweat. His entire skin was pale like marble. Laying on his bed, he felt every last second. Every last drop of blood in his body. He decided to think about all the ones, that cheered his life until his last moments. Sebastian Velho... Genkai Iekami... Berra Mierzwinski... Masashi Iekami... Andrzej Kowalski... Catalina Bennett... And mainly, his own family, the ones he shared his blood with... "Stanislaw, Maciej, Otton- carry your father's le.. legacy, and mine too, if I l-leave some behind." He thought to himself. "And never forget about August and Fiodor, my dear cousins. I w-will be waiting for you, wherever in Hell or in the Seven S-skies, because only GOD knows where my soul will end." He was done. His truly last moment was left for the person he valued the most, the reason all this, that right now is around him was possible. The Defender of Lechians, Borys Jazloviecki. "I w-will see ya a-again, dear c-cousin.." He muffled. Jindrich then closed his eye. And those... Were the last words of Jindrich Jazloviecki. Siła w Bogu, a my z Bogiem...
  2. He hadn't seen it coming, no one had. The young veteran had seen many die, but now it was his time. But oh, it was a time to be alive. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Treble de Murat, or as he would come to be known, Treble the Patriot, had been having a normal day when the attack started. He saw visions of men falling in the streets around him, Balian becoming the warzone of Providence from when he was an Imperial Guardsman for the Empire. Sights he had put behind him now revitalized in his mind once more as the young man flashed back to when he was but a boy, fighting for his country. He saw blood running through the streets, bodies everywhere, faces of those who he had slain on distant fields up close, grasping at him for the carnage he caused. He saw dwarves, blood spattered across their faces as his comrades fell lifeless around him. He saw the innocent Sedanite woman that his comrades had butchered outside of Haverlock, himself sobbing as they burnt down the church in the city. He saw the faces of children in the besieged city, cut down by the monsters around him as he transformed. All he found was sorrow and regret from his actions as he held onto the locket Lorraine he treasured so dearly. The man was pushed into another vision of the past, his joining of the family he loved so dearly and had given him a place to call home. Banjo, Arsenios, Tony, Klaus, Mikhail, and Morado all flashed by him so slowly, but to him it was too quick as he saw the coveted bandana he seeked for so long. His son, his bastard, taking refuge in the only place he could think of. His poor son, now an orphaned bastard like he was. How the Ferrymen would shape him to be so great, better than his father. Snapping back to reality, the olog’s hand crushed down on him all too quickly. Where the psychotic breakdown controlled his life, the olog had swiftly ended it, leaving The Patriot dead on the pavement of the Oren he loved. His final breath sighed as loud of a cannon as the bells tolled and a star beaming across the night sky in the desert heat. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Letters for the loved ones of the fallen. For Banjo Mareno ( @Masouri ) For Klaus ( @Estew ) To Primrose ( @MapleSunflower)
  3. 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.
  4. This post is ooc, do not comment ic unless your character knows of these events. Thank you! The High Pumplar Jeannette, third of the title, was chosen in person by The Pumpkin Lord Knox himself and the chaos of lightning — at the trifling age of thirteen. In her time, she bore witness to six halfling villages, and the eventual fall of five. This meant she spent a good deal of years following her ascension preserving the sanctity of The Knoxist Doctrine, at odds with the false King Cyris, in addition, her own cousin; Cardinal Jorenus of the Haeseni clergy. Always though, she put peace between weefolk before her disputes and pursued making amends. On a particular, unremarkable day she set off, seeking enlightenment on the hidden truths of her people. Entering the marble vestibule of the library eternal, she was unknowing, unaware of the feuds between bigg’uns that shortly would leave white stained red. Alongside a high elf, and two others, she ascended to an upper floor. She had taken these two others to be fellows, unobtrusive visitors, unsuspecting of their forms. The smouldering fire in the eyes, mouth and chest of the one beside her only brought to mind the one she trusted in most. Lord Knox, the Olden Overwatcher of the Weefolk The concept of ‘trust’, between wee-kind is paramount, but seldom does it extend to bigg’uns. In a few fleeting moments, Jeannette was reminded why. Her own blood-curdling howl rang out — the high elf she was in company of smothered, whilst freeing herself, only able to protest Jeannette’s entanglement in the abrupt attacks with a fruitless flail of an arm towards the unfortunately misplaced halfling. Her nimbleness allowed her to be spared barely, for once she was grasped, it was over as swiftly as the bellows of the wind. The air was pulled from her throat, guilty fingers squeezing her flesh as they sought to draw the last breath. In her reposeful home village of Honeyhill, her grandma, ‘Meemaw’ Applebottom, awaited Jeannie’s return for supper. The elderly woman tapped her cane on gravel persistently, peeking above whilst the skies darkened, a brooding omen of the message the weefolk were soon to receive. For the screams of The High Pumplar could cultivate clouds that thickened with thunder and lashed with flashes. Beyond their blackness, brewing teardrops to collect and cascade, to grace the landscape with wistful drips. Finally, to bleed streams into thirsty earth. A hefty collection of screenshots
  5. 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 never had walnuts despite 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?”
  6. [!] 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.
  7. 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
  8. 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
  9. 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.
  10. 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…
  11. 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)
  12. EAGLE'S END 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, it's time” 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
  13. 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:
  14. 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
  15. [!] 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
  16. 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))
  17. A Dark Knight falls -=Sir Duncan Vuiller lying dead near his own knight tower=- Even from his childhood, it was evident to Duncan that life was going to be something he would have to fight against. His family was a very aggressive Gorundyr one and he was raised as such. However, once upon breaking the lines of combat to save a friend he endangered the victory for his people, which led to a severe beating from his family. This was when he received his large facial burn scars, making him almost instantly recognisable. Knowing that he could not take living in such a condition any longer, he made his way down to Old Providence, with nothing but 20 mina, the clothes on his back and hope that his life may be turned around. And it was, upon his arrival to the city, a High Elf by the name of Minuvas greeted him with a smile, welcoming him to Oren with open arms and kindness unlike anything he had seen before. The Mali’Aheral helped him get set up in a small apartment and taught him about the city and offered him help finding a job should he need it. He soon met a man named Charles Walker, who invited him to join the Ministry of Justice, an offer he took up. Throughout the years Duncan would learn, fight, investigate and prosecute his way through the ranks of the MOJ, leading to him becoming a Supervising Solicitor in almost no time at all. With the help of one Sir James Madron he had fought many battles, surviving and learning true mastery of a blade. At the same time he met an elf called Celeste Valentine, with whom he spent many years in a relationship with, of course they had to hide it but he was very happy with her. Duncan would soon be greeted by two men, a Mali’Ker named Zirath and a human called Toni. They ended up inviting him to a brotherhood known as the Jaeger Brotherhood of Luciensberg. The training was integral in the development of Duncan’s fighting style and he grew to hold a lot of respect for both men as they taught him a wide array of techniques to help him fight. Together the group would work together to fight a variety of enemies, however when the Ratiki sieged Luciensberg, they and the people of Luciensberg found themselves defeated and displaced. On one of the MOJs many fights Duncan witnessed the passing of Ernest Colbert as he was shot with a boomsteel javelin fired from a specialised arbalest. A friend of his and someone he looked up to was gone within seconds, turned in mush. Duncan continued the fight until the retreat was called, but he was mentally scarred with the image of his superior dying. Mere days later he and Celeste were out when bandits approached, both drew their weapons and the fight ensued. Duncan managed to get out of it unscathed, but Celeste had been stabbed, and in his arms Duncan watched as she slowly passed away. Throughout the following years Duncan, while still at work and progressing through the ranks, became more and more saddened as many of his colleagues including Joseph Warwick, and George o’Rourke took their own lives. Mentally, Duncan was deteriorating very quickly, he was unable to surprise a burning rage and hatred at the world he was in. It was on a whim in yet another fit of rage, Duncan put on his armour and made his way to a small village in Norland to go confront his family. In only 1 hour Duncan killed the entire family, showing little to no emotion aside from pure hatred. From there on, despite still working as normal, treating everybody fine, it was evident to anyone that annoying Duncan would only result in him lashing out at them. Something had changed from the old Duncan, a man who was optimistic and hopeful. From there he worked up to the rank of IBI Director, sometimes disappearing to satiate the bloodlust that came with the anger that burned inside of him, but otherwise trying to keep down the hatred he held. As the years passed, it came to fruition that he was soon to be transferred into the Imperial State Army, as part of a shift of power, something that bothered him slightly as he had previously had negative interactions with those who were in the ISA. However, he was pleasantly surprised with the fact that everyone was rather pleasant, he trained and eventually joined the 4th Brigade, an honour he accepted with a smile on his face. An old friend of Duncan’s, Hans Braun spoke to him before Duncan was due to meet his friend Rev Vuiller, and made the decision to comment on his belief surrounding Duncan’s relationship with Celeste. The religious lecturing struck a nerve for him, anger began boiling as an argument would ensue with the both of them screaming before Rev and his sister Ravn approached. Duncan apologised and walked inside the tavern to talk with both Ravn and Rev. However, the entire time Duncan was planning how to deal with Hans. The next saint's day, Hans was found dead on the top of a hill, and his bloodied cross found on the doorstep of the Melphestaus manor. Eventually, Duncan grew to form a very close relationship with Ravn and after several years of courting, Duncan finally proposed with the approval of Cardinal Johan Vuiller, her father and also the closest thing Duncan had to a father figure. They got happily married and had 4 children and adopted another: Johan II, Lucien, Drasus, Laurelie and Nicole. As he would reach the rank of Leftenant, Duncan would finally calm down slightly, although still suffering from breaks in sanity and killing those who stood in his way. Life seemed peaceful and calm until he met Ragrin and Gorlim Ireheart, two men Duncan despised, criminals who had mutilated and killed all over Oren. One fateful day Duncan saw them outside Saint Harald’s Abbey and decided enough was enough and he would finally arrest them. Joined by many Holy Knights and his father in law, a fight took place, with the dwed narrowly escaping. From there began a very long lasting war of which Duncan saw a hell of a lot of bloodshed, himself causing a lot of it. As Duncan lay dying, he would sigh ever so slightly. He knew it was finally the end, however he debated whether him dying was a good thing or a bad thing for the world as a whole. He had done many good things, such as almost single handedly winning the Battle of New Esbec for the MOJ and the variety of criminals he had put away for their actions. He had helped a variety of people and contributed a lot to society. He was a father with 5 amazing children and a great wife, a friend to many and someone who could be trusted with a variety of tasks. However, could this truly make up for every bad thing he had done. He had killed his own friends, innocent people and even once a child. His psychosis was always progressing and it would only take his wife dying for him to completely snap. Maybe it was good that Duncan was dying, it meant several people would be safe, and that they would not be killed to satiate his bloodlust. As he would gently pass, the question remained unanswered, only whoever remained afterlife would be able to pass judgement on his case.
  18. 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.
  19. 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”
  20. A mother, a daughter, a sister, a woman of faith. In her last days, a wave of nostalgia would overwhelm the weathered woman. Her memories of growing up with her first family, meeting her father, catching Azzam from the trees, teaching Zahra to bake, Saalih and Zaina’s terrifying desert adventures, the formation of the bakery with her sister, those early days so far lost. The birth of Mehreen, her beloved daughter, and how they faced life together. How the two, always hand in hand, faced a dark, unforgiving world. The constant chaos and fear that followed a harsh life in the desert. The loss of those she loved, Matilda, Hassan, Thamer, and yet, she and her daughter persisted. Amidst chaos and confusion, Allah’s light continued to shine through. All the days spent in the Masjid, Mehreen by her side always. Her union with her husband, Murad, an incredible gift Allah had given her. Fatimah, her beloved niece, was brought into the world. The birth of her twin boys, sweet Maalik and Matin. The expansion of her family, ushered by the most thoughtful man she’d ever met, her husband. She always marveled at the fact that she was able to experience such provision, love, and compassion in her lifetime. In her final moments, as she felt her body succumb to the harsh desert winds, Marah thought of her husband, her beautiful husband, Murad. The quiet moments spent in the gardens, baking and climbing shelves together, the time with their beautiful children. Her children. Each of them flashed through her mind, as if they passed through a veil she couldn’t follow. Mehreen, Aila, Maalik, Matin, Amina, Zuma, Shams, Qamar, all of the children she cared for so deeply, gone. Their charming smiles, their gentle spirits, their love for adventure, all passed with them. Yet she remained where she stood. A quiet moment of pride and heartbreak. Her children’s admirable strength, unfortunately, accompanied by their own mortality, (in contrast to her fading mortality). An overwhelming cold surrounded her. Though the slightest light remained as she saw her father’s tender face. The first person she met as she entered their lush oasis, who helped her as she stumbled upon their home. His benign face greeted her, whispering a word of faith, before leaving her behind as he too passed through the vail. And so she remained, alone once more. As she entered the Oasis, she would leave again, alone. All of her family, the Hattans, Hamads, Ulamahs, and Hadads, her dear friends, Matilda, Diana, Joseph, Philippa, Aylin, Daibibdh, Nin, Rosa, none were with her. As this terrifying cold continued to engulf her, there was a moment of levity and light. Zahra. As Marah prepared to enter paradise, in shaa allah, her sister would be there waiting. Reunited once more, their hands would interlock. She’d give her sister’s hand a small squeeze, the symbol of their resilient sisterly bond, one that would never fade. This quiet moment, reunited with the one she loved most, brought a peace that surpassed all understanding. Her sister, her beautiful sister, had passed on, her family prevailing. Marah knew she could pass on without worry, as her sister did. Death is just a doorway to eternity, and now Marah could pass through peacefully. As she drew her final breath, she whispered “اغفر لي الله ، إينا لله وإنا عليه راجعون” (Forgive me, God, we belong to God and to Him, we shall return). And with that, Marah had passed on to Jannah, In Shaa Allah.
  21. 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.
  22. 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.
  23. 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.
  24. "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, before piercing her heart- and finally giving herself rest... 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 found myself growing fond of her, yet it breaks my heart for me to kill her off. 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.
  25. George Alexander seats himself at the end of the long hardwood dining table reading over the daily papers. He had just witnessed the lifeless body of his beloved wife Juliya, yet he could not shed a single tear. Ethel, his maid for over 30 years, hands him a mug. He drinks the contents subconsciously, whilst looking at the papers. As he set the mug down, it tipped over spilling its orange-colored liquid all over his Mallard suit. George looks to the spillage in sheer shock, taking a hold of his neck as he choked - tears streaming down the face of the man, his eyes and his face turning a dark rouge. The Count dropped to his knees as he tried to exclaim in pain - but he could not. Sat across the table was his only remaining son, Edward, leaning ever so delicately on the armrest as he could only help but watch his father quietly asphyxiate. George tried to crawl to the gardens for fresh air, but; as he neared the door a small foot shut it closed. With his last energy being spent on trying to escape - the Count let out his final breath. And thus, the second Count of Aldersberg, Prince George Alexander Novellen-Aldersberg, had found his peace. HIH George Alexander Novellen-Aldersberg 1802 - 1862
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