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  1. It was somewhere in the snowy tundras of the North that the Dwed met his end. It was cold. A day of endless wandering as any other, the Dark Dwarf having lost all he held dear when the nation of Vistulia fell and his friends perished. He merely wandered since then. Devoid of purpose and hope. Nothing accompanied him but the cold sounds of metal from the weapons at his belt and the crunch of the snow below those worn leather boots of his. For once, he enjoyed the solitude, the ability to make amends with his thoughts, for no man could possibly interrupt him here. He took rest near a singular pine tree that stood, as solitary as he was. He began setting camp, as was his usual routine. Gather some scraps to set a fire with, set up the tent and boil water for tea. “A long road awaits me.” He thought, “But where am I even going?”. Crunch. The sound of feet touching the ground rang through his ears like an explosion. He had looked around and no one was anywhere near him, yet it sounded mere feet away. His head cocked instinctively towards the sound, and he was met with a frostbitten woman of bluish skin. “Don’t scare me like that, lass.” His figure grew tense. “You are far, far from home, Dwarf.” She noted. “No such thing as home anymore.” He muttered in response, standing up from his momentary rest. Within moments, the womans’ face was torn open, a giant, gushing wound and a hungry mouth at once. The creature charged towards him. “WHAT THE ****!” He cried out, his weapons now grasped within those cold palms of his, ready to defend himself. Stab. Twist. The creature lunged onto him. An elongated, talon-like nail biting into the cold flesh of his collarbone and then twisting. His shortsword came digging into the female's waist. No response. Then, the warhammer fell upon her head. THUNK! Her skull vibrated, cracking from the impact, yet it only made the creature angrier. Stab. Twist. Another talon dug its way into his eye, those fiery embers quickly dimming out as another frantic blow came at the creature’s head. THUNK! crunch. . . The warhammer sunk in the snow as Kargârn contorted. A terrible scream and a wet crack rang out through the frosted valley. Kargârn was no more. The creature feasted well that gloomy evening. A lone mountain goat wandered the areas of Alisgrad and Urguan, a pack of letters strapped to its' back.
  2. Ezra wandered around the old house that they managed to keep. She loved how it still looked almost new, Not yet being very old herself... 115. But she reminisced about their adventures and looked at all their pictures. Of themselves, and their children from being born all the way up to their current ages now. She remembered getting married to Brawly, whom used to be spritely and healthy. But now... He spent most of his time sick, and in bed. She thought about their children, those who chose to stay and those who left to go on their own adventures. But she realized that she knew that they knew something was up and they all returned home one last time. She chuckled, knowing that she couldn't have lived a better life then she had. Being surrounded by family, and friends just being happy to have those people around her. Ezra sighed, smiling at their children before lying down beside Brawly and grasping at his hand gently. "Rulg lat futh dihz amayzin' lyfe, agh gibbin' mi ahl deze kubz." Brawly smiled weakly as Ezra joined him on his death bed. His eyes regained a slight bit of their former luster as he beheld the face of the one he held dear above all else. The old man wrapped his fingers around Ezra’s hand as he forced words from his mouth. “Tiz lyfe wuld hav’ bheen emptee wit aut lat bhy mi zide. Indeed, et wuz… Mi waited futh lat… Zince da dey lat left, Mi long’d tuu heur latz voyze azh lazt tik. Dayt hope kept mi gwoen. Every tik Mi fought futh da ugz, mi unlee gurk wuz keepin’ lat ang aur kubz zayfe ang zequre” Brawly lifted his opposite hand to gingerly rub against Ezra’s cheek . His breaths became ragged and inconsistent, marking a rapid deterioration in the man’s physical state. The hand gently lowered to its former position, resting at the man’s side. “Et wuz wurth et… Every mouth, every year, every decade… Lat am ztill az beautiful az da dey wi met" And after this was said, She noticed her children gather around the bed. All sad expressions, some crying some not. She knew that they knew it was time for Ezra and Brawly to go. Yerro, had stepped up first. "Dew nub wurri momo, popo Mi whyll ztehy wiv bouf(both) latz...." Yerro nodded sadly, he fought back the tears and the immense sadness threatening to break through at any moment. Settling himself down beside the bed, close enough to both Brawly and Ezra trying to give them as much support as he could. Zahira, second beside Yerro was up next to say something. "Momo, Popo etz ahl ukee..." Zahira stammered, her voice starting to break. "Whee ahre ahl heere futh latz..." Zahira shed a tear, backing up to support Callum and Sola. Soon Soren, stepped up and walked over. "Mi ahm numb readeh futh latz tew goh..." The young goblin hunched himself over and started to really break down. He was afraid, and sad he wasn't sure what life had next for him after losing his adopted parents. Sola and Callum, both still slightly younger then the rest, had no idea what to say. They just cried for their siblings and their parents, clinging onto their oldest sister Zahira for what seemed to be dear life... The last to step out from the gathering was Emony. The shaman removed her white steel mask revealing to clear tracks where tears were streaming down her face. Emony kneeled to take her father’s opposing hand and gripped it tingly. “Mom, Dad, Thank you. You both were truly the greatest parents I could have asked for. The love you had for each other and for me and the rest of your children was boundless. It is truly extraordinary how much you sacrificed to keep it and us alive.” Emony wipes her face with her arm as she tries to force a compassionate smile through her pain. She stands, taking a staff from her back. The goblin taps its end against the floor as she clears her throat. “Kor, durub mat-ob, baduzg ogh za mbursh-ûr.” (Kor, ruler of death, show this couple the way.) “Naan ikhal khûr kraat-ul, gaakh ulu shakrop sha” (Though forces may pull them away, let it be that they stay together.) Soon Ezra took her last breath, eyes turning toward the window signaling that her soul had now left her body and went off outside. Her beautiful ruby red eyes, remained open. And her hand continued to hold Brawly's... [!] Ezra found herself within a lightless void. She beheld the vast expanse of nothingness with a cold indifference, for all her scenes had become foreign to her. Trying to move any part of her body brought no feedback. This had a single exception, a sense of warmth seemed to emanate from her left hand. Even in death, Brawly would be by her side, grasping her hand with the same firm, yet gentle grip he had always had [!] Before them, a thin tendril of light became visible, its light providing a slight amount of comfort to the couple. Ezra once again felt the embrace of her life mate as he hoisted her up into his arms. The two followed the shimmering radiance that seemed to call to them. Before them flashed moments from their life together. The moment they first met, their first date… With each passing moment, the darkness was dispelled, leaving only an ethereal white. [!] Before the pair lay a field of ankle height green grass with a singular tree not far from where he stood. Brawly began to move towards it, slowly and cautiously. Each step yielded no sensation to him. The man’s grip tightened upon Ezra, as if within his mind he held the fear of losing her. They were able to see a wake of trampled grass behind them where Brawly’s now shoeless feet had indented. Brawly eventually reached the lone tree and took shelter beneath its branches. The shade they provided was a light, muddled, black, far different from the void they had exited not moments before. It was unoppressive and welcoming. [!] Brawly set Ezra down with shaking hands, gently lowering her to the shade covered, grassy carpet that lay beneath the great tree. The man leaned his back against the wooded trunk of the arboreal behemoth, gradually lowering himself to a seated position, beneath its branches. His gaze turned once again to Ezra. “You won’t leave me again… will you?” He questioned, reaching his right hand out to her. Upon his face was a look of unease as he sat waiting for her response. Ezra remained silent for a moment. She moved to his side, leaning against him as she so often did while the two were younger. “Ob korze Mi won’t.” Found upon Brawly's desk were a stack of letters addressed to various persons Dear Borok: Dear Madoc: Dear Bumba: Dear Rex Dear Gusiam and Lenora Jusima: Dear Peralien: [ooc] Credits:
  3. Ardad Rashul lays down on his bed. He coughs and hacks, grabbing a napkin. As he observes the once clean napkin, he sees the usual amount of blood on the napkin. Hearing Adam come up the stairs he quickly hides the napkin, not wishing for his son to know just how sick he really is. For months and months, now he has been getting weaker and weaker. He looks out the window of his small Balian abode and thinks about everything that ever happened. He thinks about when he first arrived into Balian at age 18, still unsure of the world, unsure of who to talk, unsure if he would be welcome and invited, unsure if he could ever make something out of himself. And yet Ardad would find himself sure, he would find friends and good people who helped him. Helped him become a Senator, helped him become a corporal. He thinks about the Vuillers and the Darkwoods, Captain, Arkent, the royal family who he all got to admire. He thinks about King JOhn and sighs, wishing he had been able to get and walk to the palace before he had died. He smiles thinking about all his time in Balian. But then an old adage kicks in, not all good things would last forever and for him, he knew it didn't. He thinks about the first cough. THen the second and the third. He thinks about the first time he ever coughed blood. He thinks about the medics who said they weren't sure how to cure him. He thinks about how he travelled the world looking for a cure. He thinks about the bar in Oren where he first met Adam. Ardad smiles thinking of when he first me the lad and his excitement to fight the kid had. He thinks of how he realized he was his long-lost son of his long-lost wife and he realizes that he has been called to a higher calling. To be that of a father to his son. He remembers the feeling of the burning Balian sun as he returned back. He remembers reentering his old house. He smiles and grins of how he trained Adam and his son's excitement in being trained and the giggles they had reading stories and eating food together. Now, it's over for him. He rests, his final rest. He looks out the window and sees Adam, his only son, all that he has left. He sees him talking with some of his friends and smiles feeling happy. That night he would have his final dinner with Adam. He tells him that he will to be fighting dragons so his son thinks well of his father and to prevent his son from dealing with the pain of sorrow and grief. He hopes that one day when he is older Adam will learn of what really happened but still learn to love him in what little time they had together.
  4. Death is a part of the circle of life. New life is brought into the light, They grow and excel through life. Until one day while they’re old and gray, The circle closes upon itself. Another life has come to pass. It was a rather brisk morning on this particular day, Adrian went about his morning but this day was different from the rest. He packed a small bag with several articles of warm clothing, his favorite book, a journal, and a quill. He looks around his room one last time, several paintings of his wife and children. “...This is my last journey….” As he stepped outside, the fresh snow crunching under his feet as he started his long trek to the far reaches of the north. He just kept walking. Flashbacks to his youth years, watching his sister murder their father and then take her own life, his wedding, the beating of Emir de Rosius by his own hands, the birth of his children, and finally the death of his Dijana. As all of his memories continue to shroud his vision, Adrian zones back into reality, now standing atop a mountain covered in snow, an ice field resting below. "....I'm sorry..." For those who’re close to Adrian, they would surely notice his absence, either his friends or his family. The question would remain, “...Where’s Adrian?..”
  5. Fundin Orckin, the reborn self of Bori Orckin sat in the green collective's cave, scattered pieces of ripped paper all around him. He stood up, hands in tight fists at his side. He was silent for a good long minute before letting out a bloodcurdling roar, plowing his fists into the stone walls again and again, still howling with fury. His eyes seemed to almost glow with red rage, he started slamming his head against the wall until the sap that was once blood poured down his face. He crawled out of the cave almost nothing but a savage beast. He spent hours like this before finally regaining his composure. He returned to the tree, tears streaming down his face. His eyes became affixed to the sword at his side, he pulled it from its sheath. He stared at the steel blade, before looking upwards at the stone ceiling, he leaned up against the tree, turning the blade towards his chest, "Curse ye Norleh!" He screamed, his face then went solemn, staring in front of him, "See ye soon Pa, Ma..." He muttered, pulling the blade towards himself. The blade pierced the tree, and the body of the dwarf lay limp. He did not know what fate would hold for this so called "halfbreed sinner's" soul, but he knew that he would eventually see all those he lost, once again. a single tear ran down his cheek as he let out a final breath. Bori, Fundin, whatever name this dworc now held, had finally and truly died.
  6. I Wonder… [PK] _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ _________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ A slow and warm breeze swept through Myrine and into the manor of house Mösu which now stood silent, no longer sounding like the violent coughing of an old and dying man on a warm and beautiful morning. Few clouds filled the sky providing shade from the blazing sun in the sky for those outside yet it was fantastic weather that one would not want to miss on that day. Soon the breeze ended up in Ragnarr’s room and later on him but he did not react. He did not react to the feeling of the breeze touching his skin nor did he react to the sound which it was making and neither the smells it brought for he could feel nothing of it. He lay still on his bed as if he did not know how to move. Ragnarr soon woke up from the sleep he had been in and found himself devoid of all senses. He was greeted by a vast blackness that he was not unfamiliar with. It felt as if he was floating through a vast and empty space while in reality, he was just laying down on his bed. The silence that surrounded him was only filled by the voices within his head. They were taunting him and telling him ideas of grandeur and divinity. “You’re a God!”, “You’re a killer of friends! A traitor! An Oathbreaker!” is what the voices told him but this time he did not listen to them for he had other thoughts to think about. “I wonder what would’ve happened if I did not leave Norland…” He thought to himself pondering over how his life might’ve played out differently if he did not leave Norland when he was still a young adult. Perhaps he would’ve settled down on his father's farmstead once he died and raised a family there instead? Maybe join the military and fight for and defend his home? Who knows and it does not matter. “I wonder what would’ve happened if I never returned to Norland…” Was the next scenario he thought to himself. Perhaps he would’ve found what could only be described as legends or myths, artifacts from a bygone age? Who knows and it does not matter. There were many things he wondered about but none more than the future which scared him terribly, the only thing that had frightened him his whole life. The fear of being confronted with danger and possible death in battle was a fear he had grown used to and bested. The fear of losing a loved one in battle or even childbirth is a fear he had grown used to for he was a father of 3 healthy children. But all these fears were nothing when compared to what he felt when he thought of the future and neither did he grow used to it nor did he best it. “I wonder what will become of what I have built once I am dead…” is the thought he feared and hated the most for it had him going over countless scenarios and possible futures where he saw the decline and destruction of what he built in his entire life. The death of his kin, both biological and adopted. The name of Mösu is forgotten in the annals of history as the books and people who remember their name is destroyed. The ransacking and razing of the communities he helped build. But yet there was still some futures that brought hope and optimism to his degrading mind and soul. Futures of where his descendants take what he had built and expand upon it and or create something of their own, bringing an even brighter future for their House and maybe even a Golden Age. Time flew by and he felt the feeling of anxiety within him grow the longer he stayed in this black abyss until it finally climaxed. “Who goes there?” He thought to himself before realizing who it was that had come, the feeling of anxiety dispersing. “Ahh… I should’ve known it was you.” Death now stood before Ragnarr, ready to take him where the dead go once they have given up their last will to live and yet he did not put up a fight. The man who had brushed with death time and time again, both in battle and outside of battle now let it take him, embracing its bitter-sweet nature. Later after a long time, filled with silence and worry after not having seen Ragnarr leave his room and or having heard him, someone entered the room in which Ragnarr took his last breaths in, only to find a puddle of organs and blood alongside the clothes and jewelry which he wore.
  7. Owyn was the sixth born amongst his siblings, and the second son. It was a loving family he had been born into, in times when peace was abundant. Yet fate would not leave it so. Tension and turmoil would sink their roots in as Owyn first learned of the world. First was his mother’s death, not so long after his final sister had been born, little Laurentina. Then came estrangement as his eldest sister, Henrietta, would be cast out for what she wrought upon their father in her marriage. Next a sister, Daphne, would be taken this time by that Pale Rider. Years passed and Owyn grew, confiding himself as no more than the spare to his brother, Helton, the heir. That was the task he gave himself in quiet, availing these deaths in righteous delusion that he would one day as Duke make this pain and suffering worth it. But that was a lie, all to mask the covetous nature of his heart. And then came war. From then on all was calamity, the complete and utter upheaval of the world Owyn had been born into. Institution after institution crumbled and decayed, smashed to bits as surely as Southbridge had been. Owyn had fought then, alongside his father and brother, for an Emperor and Empire the world despised. He did so because he thought it made him better, for only a dutiful son could ever hope to inherit. Where others fought for wealth and baubles, land and wives, he did so only because he was obliged, a true nobleman. Only this was another way Owyn deceived himself, for he had his prize in mind, though pride and patriotism were there in equal measure. The war dragged on and the nation’s fortunes withered. His father, an already elderly man by the war’s onset, had passed away between campaigns, leaving his brother as Duke. Owyn had spent much time away from home then, finding comfort in traveling abroad between campaigning seasons. Still he was drawn home with his father’s death, embracing his remaining siblings at the funeral. With his brother, though they quarreled, he still felt the fraternal bond, and the two wrestled as they had in younger years. Glad that despite their divergent paths, they were brothers still. Not long however after, was their family visited with death once more. Murder is what Owyn likened it to, the day the news broke of his brother’s demise. Caius de Ravensbourg, may his bones be crushed, had issued the execution of the Duke at his capture, affording him no ransom or cell to wait out the war. This was a blade through Owyn’s heart, an impotent fury that engulfed him, for while the war was waged this murderer was beyond his reach. So then the task of raising the orphaned children of his brother fell to Owyn, children who bore the title he once so coveted. The prospect dangled in front of him so, he needed only to reach out and take the title he so righteously considered as his own, like so many others would have done. But Owyn did not, after all this time Owyn’s ambition faltered, it was not right. The prospect was a poison to his soul, he could not imbibe it in his grief and his zeal. To do what is right, Owyn obsessed himself with this now. So then when his youngest sister, Laurentina, went to him with her prospect for marriage, Owyn was inflamed. How could she have possibly considered such a match? For she would forsake what Owyn considered to be right and good in the world, the faith and family that they had been brought up in, for so trite a thing as love. Owyn challenged the man on the spot and was promptly refused and beaten by the suitor’s men for it. Of the hands that pulled him up to recover from the pummeling were those of a Prince whose place in the succession was not so dissimilar from his own. From then on, Owyn was estranged from Laurentina, a rift that had only just begun to mend when fate would next reveal its hand. The war was at long last lost. A conflict that had consumed over half of his life, of his families’ lives, was over and they were defeated, the entire nation laid low as the vanquished. The country was then put into a tailspin; the defeated monarchs sought to quarter the realm in their final act before death. Quickly enough, armies were again raised, beneath one banner was the heir, who claimed righteousness to reunite, and under the other was the spare, who had once lent Owyn a hand. Owyn went to neither initially; there was no right in this Brother’s War, either side would have seen him slay comrades and dear friends alike. But then this civil war came to Providence, where his kith and kin had resided, the entire world being drowned in the fever pitch of the armies. Owyn damned what was right and wrong right there and then, abandoning the false pretenses that had guided his life until then. With victory came a dead niece and the title he had long ago coveted. Then his sister Laurentina died. Laurentina had flung herself from a tower, taken by madness. Owyn could not weep a tear for her, heart hardened to news of death, instead his sorrow manifested in the hollowness he felt inside. Years passed and friends died just as they had before Owyn became Duke. Owyn took a wife and tried to find love with her, but his growing reservedness held him back. She bore him a son, but he remained unfulfilled. Ever the Duke reigned, the more alone he felt, prone to a brooding depression. Time would pass still but eventually that too would be cut short. A word on his youngest sister drew him from home, and then his demise. Owyn Leopold Helvets 1836-1876
  8. 【 𝓚𝓲𝓷𝓭𝓷𝓮𝓼𝓼 𝓒𝓸𝓻𝓻𝓾𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓭 】 Kindness. That is what she swore by time and time again. If one was kind they would only receive kind things. Even as a little girl, she believed if she was nice and treated others with her best intentions, then she would be forever happy. Such was merely a childlike view on what was really a unkind world that was riddled with lies, cheats and pain. She soon learned this but much too late. Even still, in her last moments the beauty thought if she smiled through it, Godan.. no, the world would be better. Even with such thoughts as she was held in a dark place, she let her mind wander. What life would have been like if she had seen it for what it really was. And how her life panned out because of her naïve views. She started thinking of when it all started, her youth. Youth, it was a pleasant time for the dear Vasilia. She was loved by a big family. She had four siblings that she cherished in her heart, Vladrik, Emelya, Viktoriya, and Nikolai. The closest to her was her eldest brother Vladrik. When they were younger they were often seen throwing their beloved beets at people, and were inseparable. So close indeed that he was her comfort, her home. Even when her father would scold her for things, Vladrik was there to get into trouble with her all over again. It was the fun times she would long to return to. This bond shrunk however, when news of the dear Jan Otto Kortrevich's mauling was heard. Their beloved father was dead, he was there before and then not. Even this didn't wake up Vasilia's childlike thoughts. She continued to be kind, even as she struggled to eat. The food never tasted the same, and nothing felt as bright. Everything was dull and soon she found herself growing closer with one of her eldest sisters, Emelya. Vasi's mother was distant and didn't care much for her daughters struggle, but Emelya helped her sister get through the depression, she helped her distract herself with goofy ideas and pamphlets. One noteworthy was the cute pamphlet made by the two about Kindness, they named themselves the Daughters of Haense and spread them around. It could be seen as a Childs ignorance to the painful world, but it was a bright light in dark times for the young girls. And so Vasilia continued to grow. Near her young adult years, Vasilia grew much closer with her youngest brother, Nikolai. He hadn't been one she focused o most of their youth, but she rekindled the bond. They grew close, closer than she had been with Vladrik. Nikolai was her new comfort, her borsa. She came to him when she needed him and shared time with him when she needed the warmth of family. Nikolai grew much faster than she had mentally. Even in her early twenties she still believed kindness was the only way, and killing was wrong. Second chances existed. Nikolai had learned that this was not true and many times scolded his sestra on such, but to no avail. She loved and continued to spread such, even when it ended with her getting hurt. One of such noteworthy accounts was her small time with the late Johann Ludovar. Vasilia truly loved him. She had been arranged to marry his brother, but found herself falling for the eldest sons charms. She organized such and began to court him, and even shared the love not only to him, but to his two lovely daughters, Adele and Amicia. She loved them all deeply, and in her heart began to picture them as a large family. She was too naïve still, and made many mistakes. She broke Johann's' trust many times by mistake and risked the girls life on a trip she thought was completely safe. Her childlike actions made her unqualified to be the lead of the Ludovar family, and Johann had to put an end to their relationship. Even in the end, she still loved him dearly and always considered him her true love. It wasn't until the beautiful Kortrevich reached her thirties that she had truly gauged how cruel the world could be. She hadn't found another love, and struggled to make friends with the other noble ladies. She felt she was disappointing her family more and more, and finally she broke and made a mistake. She fell in love with a commoner, a simple farm boy. He would be her biggest mistake. She was blinded in what she thought was the acceptance of love, he said she was perfect and that she didn't need to change. She needed that, no one ever said such and under the pressure to change her ways she instead chose to escape, and escape she did. She fled to live on his farm, on the outskirts of the large Oren empire. They were happy, for a time. She found herself pregnant and the world finally made sense, she wanted to raise her children in safety and comfort. To be as they wished. Just as she wished, two beautiful sons entered the world. Kaleb Joseph Kort and Jan Nikolai Kort. They were her everything, life was happy and full of reason! All that happiness crashed down, when her beloved cheated on her and threw a fit when she was upset of such. She sent for her brother for help and was taken home. And a brief argument befell the Kortreviches and her beloved. Her children were taken and her love had hit her and blamed her for it all. Many things went down, and in the end the rightful parent won, Vasilia had her two sons again and she would raise them without the influence of their cheating father. She thought distance was enough, but her soul took a beating one day when she witnessed his trial, and his hanging. She still loved him deeply, and witnessing his demise because of her broke her deeply inside. She cried often, staying in her room in Jerovitz. She raised her boys by herself, hoping they'd earn the full Kortrevich name, preying they wouldn't only be bastards for the rest of their lives. She was happy and loved them, but deep down she was tattered, her ideals of kindness were always wrong. Kindness was something one would be lucky to have. The world wasn't meant to be kind, people were meant to struggle. Even still, she kept a happy demeanor for her darling boys, and paraded them around, helped them make friends. Jan flourished in Haense and made many friends, Kaleb was more secluded. She never really thought much of it, until one day he vanished. All her happiness and hope drained. The ladies days of enjoying her life crippled down to frantic searching everyday. She searched and searched until her beauty was worn down. She was weak and thin, not taking care of herself and being a shell of a human. She needed her boy to be okay, and she didn't know if he was alive or dead. And so did her searching bring her to her end. She asked the wrong people and was taken somewhere so dark. She was terrified, but in her heart she just pictured resting in the seven skies and watching her family, watching her sons. She could be freed of her weak body and be able to see them grow old. So in her last moments she did not fear death, she instead smiled in the face of it, forgiving whoever was doing this to her, and accepting them with a loving heart. She wasn't going to be hateful, not when happiness was a breath away. And with such a smile, her life was ended in the dark rather than the bright lights of the world above. News would be spread, a lock of her brunette hair was sent to Jerovitz, inside a note, one that read: "Lady Vasilia passed a grim demise. Her pointless life had been freed from it's chains. Her death has served for something far greater than herself, in paradise again she joins you. "
  9. 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...
  10. 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.
  11. 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?”
  12. 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
  13. A Knife Through the Heart The sound of rain provided a peaceful atmosphere that greatly contrasted with the events that had just transpired. Two murder cases would soon become three as the body of the Argent Legion's own Commander, Genkai Iekami, would be found laying outside of his manor just beyond the walls of the City of Krakovia. An attack that lasted only mere minutes felt like eternity for the Oyashiman, his final moments were not spent pleading for his life but instead reflected on everything leading up to his tragic situation, and in that period it was as though time stopped, all the while he maintained eye contact with his heartless assailant. A cold hearted individual who had chosen to kill the one man who was willing to listen, choosing instead to silence him. In those final moments Genkai thought about all the regrets he carried with him, all the tragedy and emotional turmoil he experienced over the years weighing on him at that moment. If he had known he would die on what should have been a joyous day he would have taken the time to tell his friends so many things that would now go unsaid. Things such as how he was proud at what they were able to accomplish in their own lives, especially Borys Jazloviecki, a man he held to the highest regard for as long as they had known each other. He would have thanked them all for the memories he would always carry with him and the adventure he was able to experience. As much as he wished he could come out of this attack alive, he felt some comfort in knowing that his final resting place was in a city he watched rise from the ground up, and that he would finally be free from the pattern of tragedy that never seemed to fail in finding him. Finally, after 20 years, he was somewhere he could call home, somewhere where he felt he truly belonged. Genkai Iekami would die not regretting a single moment he spent with the men he met and had grown close to. If only he could have heard their voices just one last time even if it was to bid farewell until they met again, and he longed even more so to see his eldest son one more time as there was plenty he had wanted to tell him that his pride never allowed for him to and so foolishly thought he had the time to do so. Instead, he heard the stone cold voice of his killer as time seemed to speed up once again. As his vision grew black, he heard one thing, the very last thing he would ever hear again as he struggled to survive, the pool of blood growing larger underneath him: "You're making a mess." The killer lifted the blade they had disarmed from the Commander and used it to deal the final killing blow. It was impaled right through the man's chest. And, for a moment, the Oyashiman felt a blinding pain. And then he felt nothing more.
  14. The cries of the war can perhaps be heard from miles away, striking fear into those that awaits the return of their beloved, and those that they hold dear. Estella Decaden carried herself through the battleground as a proud Haense soldier along the side of her dear Auntie Brite, and her mother Isabella. That battle have carried on for long, she was tired. Weighted down by the heavy armor and the single blade she carried with both hands, still she dare not rest. Again and again she would swing her sword blindly at any that comes at her, heaving with every breath she buried herself into the battleground. Somewhere along the way she lost sight of her Auntie and Mother, but she cannot afford to stop and look for them, she knew that they were out there doing their best, so she had to do her part. But tired, the sword felt heavier and heavier by the minute...until her strength failed her. The coming blade that she failed to block would bury itself deep into her chest, her cry and rasp of pain echoed as she fell but was soon drowned out by the countless war-cries. She laid upon the dust covered battleground that trembled from the marching hooves and spears. The pain from her opened wound caused her not to hear the clashing of blades, but the constant rings that echo from her ears. She felt her attire below her armor soak with her own blood yet she was numb to the pain. As the battle rages on around her, all that came to her mind was not how afraid she was this morning — but her family. Her brown eyes gleamed with coming tears as she was struck with precious memories of her family in her final moment. Her Mother and Auntie were somewhere on the battleground still, hopefully alive. Her sister Rosa was god knows where, her brothers who she haven't seen for years, her aunties and uncles that she so wanted to see upon her return to Haense. She had yet to visited her Elysium friends. The cookies she had promised to Mister Boots. The flooding tears blocked her vision before clearing as they rolled down her cheek, mixing well with the dirt floor. But most of all she wanted to have that gathering with her family, it was her family that she missed the most throughout the years. She was filled with regrets for all that she has yet to do and say... With her last bit of strength her hand curled slowly into a fist as she try to cling onto the very image of her family, they were suppose to gather in celebration to the victory of war, the very image of a warm family with a warm meal...yet the image was slowly fading as did her strength....her hands going cold. "Rosa..." She mutter each name with each painful breath in hopes of clinging to that fading warmth in her head, wishing and hoping that her sister would go back in her place and take care of their mother. "Brothers..." Wishing she had more time to understand him during his time of need. "Brite...Boots." Wishing she could keep that promise of having that warm meal, the cookies she promised. "Mother..." She would rasp with falling tears, her dear mother that hugged her during her need. Her dear mother who took her in and gave her a warm family, her dear mother that tried her best for all of them even when she lost her beloved husband. Her mother that she loved so dearly. The love for her family and friends filled her with painful tears, there was no chance for her to say goodbye. Even if she did it was too late as the last bit of warmth slip from her eyes, leaving her lifeless body upon the battlefield. Lost until the war ended and the cries of victory can be heard...
  15. Elenore Decaden sitting by her mothers bedside as she takes her last breaths. [418 E.S.] ------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- "My Dearest Raden, My heart has felt heavy ever since you left. I only wish I knew what happened to you. I wish for the day I can feel your loving arms and soft skin again. I wish for the day we reunite. Elenore has grown into a healthy, happy young woman. She will attend lifstala in just a few months. I am certain she will do quite well. She has your eyes, your curiousity and your kindness. I still remember my return to Haense. Where you and your sister showed me kindness and love. You have always been there for me, wether it be as a friend or a partner. I see this kindness in our daughter. And I could not be happier to see you in her smile every day. However, I am no fool. I know I am not long for this world. I feel my body weaken, my heartbeat growing irregular. I know I am sick. But I cannot tell anyone. Elenore would be extremely worried. She would drop her entire live to take care of me. I cannot have her do that. I love her too much for that. I wish I could see her wedding day. I wish I could see our grandchildren. I wish I could see her grow old. I wish for her happiness. I will see you soon my love. Yours forever." Dianna's last letter to her deceased husband. Written a week before her death.
  16. 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.
  17. 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.
  18. In loving memory of, Atherian "Mr. World Wide, Der Ryder", 4th of Snow's Maiden 1807- 9th of Grand Harvest 1860 (11 S.A - 64 S.A) Atherian was a man of many lands, a man of many faiths and a man of many names. Our story begins one faithful day in 1829 where Atherian woke up in the Cloud temple, a monk greeting him as he woke. Atherian had no such memory of much but surprisingly he would end up back where he was born in the kingdom of Norland. He was first visit the town of Elysium, a small farming village located on the upper mouth of the River Petra in Norland. From here he would have his first encounter that he could remember, with an Elven woman named Liluth Solros, Atherian would later disagree with Liluth on much but for the time being she would make an early acquaintance, from here Atherian would meet his first true friend and mentor Uruan Stormheart who was ironically a dwarf and lived in the kingdom of Norland. Atherian would spend much of his twenties in Norland serving in the Northguard and taking a profession as a blacksmith. He would eventually land a position as Warden of the Northguard. From his time in Norland he would join the Der Ryder clan meeting his soon to be life-long friends, Morpheus, Watcher, Eros, Lorlai, Darir, Brian and Octavia. When Elysium got it's independence Norland, the Norlandic economy took a large hit causing for Atherian to look for work elsewhere, he found a job with a certain Reinhart Starmisk, a traveling merchant and Vesryn a philisopher of sorts, who both would visit the land of the Orcs or so it was called "Krugmar" at the time. Atherian would help open a Bazaar there and along the way would make many friends with the Orcs of Krugmar noting Targoth Borok, an orc that liked Fried Chicken that called himself the Colonel, a goblin named Barbog, a Fisherman orc named Ahng Glur, a mighty Olog Wrestler called Gil'riik, a orc 'Klomper' Called Hudin, One Sokron Da Bull and many more orcs that he would forge great relationships with in due time. Meanwhile, the der Ryder clan would have set up shop in Rozania a fairly odd settlement made up of a bunch former Suiticans who had escaped the Chaos and strife that was the final days of Suitica. However, conflict with the new regime of Suitca now called Savoy and the Famous goats of Sedan, (who ironically Atherian would lead in due time.) The war turned out poorly for Rozania, them loosing all of the engagements of the war, however, by a pure miracle the pretender would drop his claim. But in the end this would not save Rozania with Continued raids by Savoyard forces and more internal strife would lead to the kingdom of Rozania to dissolve. The Der Ryders would be targeted as a culprit by the Rozanian Royal family for much of the strife and later would be forced to flee Rozania for the Settlement of Sedan where Atherian would eventually rise to the rank of Lord Marshall. Around this time Atherian would convert to Canonism indoctronated and radicalized by a few groups he would do jobs for and associate with mainly the Morenos and Sedan. Atherian would later join the millitary of Savoy untill it's eventual independence from the Holy Orenian empire Sedan was quite peaceful at this time surprisingly and as such Atherian wouldn't have much to do as Lord marshal of Sedan until the war of the Wigs would start. There Atherian would take the roll of a minor war leader, rallying his small numbers to pillage Orenian settlements. Atherian would help lead his men to victory helping build the new city of Havorlock. Atherian was often Chastised by the Chancellor of Sedan for his lack thereof a Noble birth. As such when Atherian arested a elf he had a long time grudge for had been banished from multiple settlements for being a murderer -to give this elf the swift justice that he so deserved. However, the elf claimed to be an urguani citizen but Atherian ignored this lletting his dwarven comrade execute the elf for his heinous crimes! However, a young girl of royal birth seized her opportunity to take the title of Marshall from the man striking a plot with t Archchancellor they schemed to try and execute the marshal, Atherian left with no choice fled to Oren, to meet with an old friend Jarad Vullier, striking up an agreement with Jarad and th empire a coordinated strike would occur by imperial forces at the time of when Atherian's trial was to occur. The coordinated strike was successful the orenian forces capturing and executing two Haenseni nobles. This later would be a partial cause for his eventual capture and execution by forces of the Brotherhood of St. Karl. A drunken Celebration after the victory at Haverlock with the Sons of Nagg, a band of orcs had lead Atherian to Haenseni territory. Atherian had stayed back to talk to an Orenian and a Haenser when all of a sudden Brotherhood forces appeared out of no where swiftly cornering and arresting Atherian. With this the prine of Sedan would be informed of his capture and all would come to witness Atherian's demise. The Haenseni gave the man his last rites and even returned his body to Providence but the execution was slow and painful the Lord of Marshall f Haense brutally striking the man's hands before giving the axe to the vice Chancellor of Sedan who would swiftly end the brutal execution. And so it was... one man had met his quick and sudden demise.
  19. From ashes and to ashes; conception until demise; everything must come to an end. St. Terrell may have not been around for too long, but his impact showed up differently. Known as Terry by friends, or father Shipp, the zealot made it his goal to rejuvenate the dim in spirit and better those who didn't deserve redemption. On the day of his demise, the man started it as he did any other, with a prayer: "Oh GOD, please instill me with the power to accept those who I cannot change; I request you burden me with their suffering and show them the light, the joy of life, rather than condemning them to live a life of sin and torment." This is how the man started every day. He went above, and beyond in his community, abstaining from food so as to 'face others' qualms.' by enduring the punishment of his creation. Continuing with his day, Terrell stopped by his slice-of-life spot: the Garden of Serenity. Quickly shuffling across the riverbed, the idol hobbled over towards a stone slab juxtaposed to a tree - it lay perfectly with the sunlight beaming down towards it; resting in the middle of the rays was the bread that the man seemingly had been cooking. Taking the bread, the zealot soon rifled it into his satchel as he ventured off towards that day's mass, planning to distribute the loaves there. After mass had concluded, the shoeless priest made his way towards the back of the Armenian church he frequented - starting to distribute his meal to the needy. It was only there that the true test of virtue happened, as a peasant put a blade to him, requesting all coinage or anything of value. Not being a materialistic man, St. Terrell opted out of conflict as he gave the man all that he asked for, as the thief needed it more than him. But alas, not caring about capital only goes so far when you are being robbed as his would-be murderer became enraged with the lack of wealth is shown as he plunged his knife into the man. Terry crumpled towards the ground, a smile dawned on his face as he muttered: "I forgive you."
  20. 7th of Tobias’ Bounty, 1857 So it came, another weary night for the old Duke of Cathalon. He had spent the eve pacing his halls, ever drained from the ordeals of recent years. Once he had all the piss and vinegar of youth, but father time had seen to that. His hand grazed over a dusty windowsill, recoiling as he took notice of the wrinkles that adorned the appendage. “All that you see before you is yours, dear. From the River Reden to the Petra, all that falls beneath the statue of the horse is yours.” He heard his mother say, recalling the touch of her hand on his brow and the golden tresses that would wreath him in an embrace. It was a simpler, boring time. It almost moved the Duke to a smile, were it not for the dagger that punctured his mind for daring to recall. Her death was but the first that he could not put right, the thought unsettling him as he gave a final look out over the hills dissolving into dusk. Beside him now paced a phantom of his younger days, moving through the vaunted Cheval Hall. He sparred with the pottery as a boy, practicing his spins, twirls, and pirouettes as he had been taught. Below he saw himself drinking with friends, belligerent in his candor as he socked a bard in the mouth. He also saw his sister come and go, the presence of his elder sibling he greatly missed as she departed at last with an easel and wrapped portraits. Arriving at the door of his bedroom, he took a glance back to it all now. Where once had been visions of himself, he saw his children scurrying about the halls. In one corner his sons Helton Rhodes and Owyn Leopold quarreled, fighting over whose turn it was to shoot the arbalest. Another he saw his daughters Henrietta Therese and Francesca Ada fuss with their dresses and braiding each other’s hair. At the windowsill he saw Guinevere Amadea throw down a rope of bedsheets to escape for the night while Saturnina Cyrille fidgeted with her hands, contemplating tattling on her younger sister. Then there was Daphne Priscilla, no more than four at the time, cradling the newborn Laurentina Marigold wrapped in swaddling clothes. The Duke lingered there for a time, finding some small contentment before the beat of his heart struck like a hammer, pressing him on. Within his room was darkness as he was greeted by a pale specter of a woman whose back was turned to him, Raven-haired, he knew it to be his wife Leopoldine Vivien and so the Duke moved to embrace his beloved. He imagined the warmth of her touch, shutting his eyes as tears sprung forth and dripped through the vision of his wife. Still, however, she did not turn to him. “You know this is not real…” she murmured to him, “I know.” He murmured back, collecting himself after a few breaths. When the Duke opened his eyes the specter now faced him recalling every gruesome detail of the dead woman. She was devoid of eyes, peering at him with empty sockets that bleed over her porcelain skin, her neck ripped and torn open as if by some savage beast. Thus did the Duke’s torment begin and every image of his dead loved ones appeared within the room. The twisted form of his mother Blanche, broken by the fall she had taken. The contorted neck of his daughter Daphne who had likewise fallen from a height, unable to breath in her last moments. Then there was his eldest daughter Henrietta who had perished most recently. He had only seen after she had been prepared for the funeral pyre, but nevertheless the eerie stillness of her form was enough to unnerve him. So many were gone now, what a truly terrible thing it was for a father to outlive a child. Beyond the dead, however, the Duke saw a light come through in the windows of his bedroom. The landscape that had so recently fallen into the night was now engulfed in flame. In the shadows cast over the land, he saw the fates that were still to come, small horrors in and of themselves. The Duke shut the curtains and turned to the dead. “I’ve had enough for the night.” He spoke aloud and they did vanish, leaving him alone in the dark. Shutting his eyes, the Duke made ready for bed, retracing his way around the room from memory. Outside he heard the whinny of a horse and the clip-clop of its hooves, no doubt one from his own stables, paying it no mind he crawled into bed. Thomas Andrew then laid down and died. R.I.P. 1793-1857
  21. DEATH OF AN ANCIENT FELLOW A PK OF PETYR BISHOP [1773-1854] Petyr Bishop would take his last breath within the confides of his bed, surrounded by friends and family. The founder of the Barony of Avoria and former Sedanian knight passes, having accomplished much of his accomplishments in the former years of his life. Petyr after the Sedanian Rebellion began to settle down, withering for the last years of his life. Petyr only returned with the Josephite Bishops during the twilight of his life, upon return he was obviously disappointed of it's current state, being vocal. Yet, somehow, the senile old man still cared for his entire family, wanting the best for them in his own vision. His last word before passing was, "Water", having called for his son Ivarus to get him a glass of water. Petyr's last thoughts of were Sedan and Haense, having been both within his life. He thought fondly of the rebellion and the rebels that he fought with. He smiled after hearing of the results of the Siege of Southbridge, glad to hear that the Imperials were defeated before his passing. His smile despite being crooked and somewhat toothless was obviously filled with joy. He left behind a hastily written note for his family before passing, To the Josephites
  22. Lying bleeding out on the on his bed, Szymon looked to the cealing and pondered. Within that moment, he realized, his life ultimately meant nothing, he had accomplished nothing, he was nothing. In his younger days in Rozania he trained to protect. In this, he failed without a shred of doubt. Whenever he closed his eyes, all he could picture was the smoke that arose from his home as he fled. Even when he had found his way to Norland, he was as useless as ever and contributed nothing of worth or value to the Ash Guard. He was honestly no more than another body on the field to bolster their numbers, and in all honesty, a waste of space and resources with the barracks. His hand curled around a golden ring that marked his engagement as tears streamed from his eyes. His ultimate failure… He could not protect the one for whom he cared the most… Cristonia. His life had been nothing but a downward spiral since the day she disappeared. The blood continued to drip from Szymon’s wrists as his vision faded in and out. His last thoughts were of days long gone and a place that didn’t exist. “Rozania… forever…” Szymon called out as his vision faded to black. For Szymon, there was nothing after this. No comforting afterlife, no faces of those who he had know from life… nothing… What awaited him was pure silent oblivion.
  23. Bori Orckin, a young dwarf who's lived in Kal'Darakaan for some twenty years, looked upon the city for the final time. Gripping his walking stick tightly. tears starting to form in his eyes. He let out a slow breath, looking away from the great city for the final time. His boots trod along the stone path, for the final time. The halfbreed took a moment upon exiting the gate to offer a prayer to the brathmordakin, not for the last time. the dwarf trailed along, with the only trace of him left residing in a near empty home in a small part of the city. He was not seen by dwarven eyes for some time afterwards. He would return to his life before he joined the dwarves, moving around small settlements, taking odd jobs to get by. He wouldn't forget the fond memories, but he knew he could never really return. Letters were occasionally sent to close friends, but his eyes never set upon dwarven lands again.
  24. The life of a Wild Mondblume The Last Cigar A child stood with her father in front of the gates to New Reza, meeting the men that she would later deem her closest family. That same day would be the day she met her first love, Klaus Makensen, who would pour itching powder down the back of her dress. She would spend her days either with Friedrich Barclay, another boy she had befriended, or Klaus. The days may have been short but the fun they shared was long and valuable. At some point she and Friedrich had made a blood pact, promising that if they ever found something that they would announce the findings together. This later never came to persist throughout the years. Soon the time she had spent with Friedrich faded away as he began preparing for becoming the next patriarch. This fed into the obsession that was Klaus Mackensen, the two becoming inseparable. They would always be seen together, running off to the Wick Woods or the forests that surrounded Oren’s land. What they did inside the woods was never spoken of, at a young age they both would indulge themselves into the art of dissecting wild pigs and chickens. This led to the psychotic traits the both of them would begin to show, leading to almost wild animalistic behavior towards one another. Trading words of “If you leave me, I will hunt you down and kill the one who thought you were theirs.” and vice versa. At one point she had even left a pig’s liver on the balcony of her own uncle Fyodor Erdhart. When the two were not threatening each other with loving words, or hunting purely for the kill, they were in haense planning their next prank victim. The only one the girl only ever cared to prank was her older sister, Loraina Mondblume. Time and time again the sister would be pranked with a nagt tree, ant’s blight in soup, and a plethora of other things. But one day it would backfire on the Girl tremendously, almost getting her kidnapped. She had been with Klaus, using his help to throw a paint bomb and a glitter bomb onto her elder sister as they both broke out into laughter. The two continued laughing as the girl’s other sister arrived, Dhara Mondblume, holding a fishing rod and looking at the two confused. While the girl had caught her sister up on the recent events of things, two people came up to them; one a human male and the other an orc female. The two people had tried kidnapping all three children, the male knocking Klaus and the girl out onto the floor. The next few minutes were a blurry flur, as what seemed to be the entire HRA rallying to apprehend the two adults. A few medics came in and took the girl and Klaus out to the hospital, tending to their heads. The coming days were a blur to the girl, her uncle Astoro Jovanovsk checked up on her several times a day when he was not on duty. But all the girl could do really was sit in her bed, under the stairs and stare at a book blankly. But soon her light came back, Klaus came to visit to make sure she was alright, and took her out to sit under a birch tree. There he came forth with a ring, some letters enscripted onto the metal. “A promise ring, because I promise to be by your side.” The girl smiled at it, and wore it on her at all times. But this didn’t last as the panic of the Infirni war raged on within the lower states of the continent, and soon the evacuation of all the peoples of every nation. But before that, her father had said goodbye to her, giving her his own helmet amongst other things. Amelot The Brave may not have been a present father in her life, but she loved him as much as a daughter would either way. The girl had cried hard and long when she had heard of her father dying, from being pushed into a lava ravine. The next few months spent on a ship, heading to a new world was painful. Her family was split up considerably, her mother and older sister missing the Haense boat as her last sister sat crying into her shoulder. The now woman grew distant emotionally from all she had once interacted with. All ships soon stopped on a small island, letting all onboard stretch their legs for the time being. The woman smiled as she saw Klaus again, running at him and tackling him to the floor. She had gushed over him, complaining about how lonely she had been on the Haense ship without him. When they had landed in Almaris, and the years of construction began and ended, the remaining Mondblumes lived together within a manor. Hildebrand, her cousin, leading the house for the time being. Many of the years were a blur again as she had lost Klaus to whatever he was doing. She had convinced herself at one point he had died, but the next day he showed his face in the palace gardens speaking of sweet nothings before disappearing from her life once more. She had grown angry at him, removing the ring she held so close to her heart and setting it away with the rest of the gifts he had given her over their childhood. But the one gift she wouldn’t put away was a dagger that looked like a sacrificial knife, something that would be a part of some occult or another. The item would always be stashed away in her boot if she was wearing pants, or hidden under her dress if she were to wear one. To silence her anger she would go on long hunts, slicing and killing boars that roamed far behind the walls of Karosgrad. Like she would when she was younger, she took out the animal’s livers and lungs. The woman stabbed at the organs verily until it was a pile of mush and blood. Upon returning back to the walls and warmth of Karosgrad she had met an Amador. He was younger than her, but she saw just a little bit of herself in him. The two started to court, but the Amador wanted to leave Haense and his noble title for Norland, the neighboring northern nation. She had followed him but only for a short period of time before her cousin and two uncles came to speak to her about it. Even though she did have some family in Norland, all of her life was in Haense and that she had to stop loving him. But this did not stop her from seeing him, following him around in cloth and mask, calling out to him over hilltops to taunt him. She often called him a ‘bunny who had left the safe den for that of the wild storm’. Soon she had gotten bored of taunting him and went back to her life in Haense. While inside the tavern and talking to her adoptive mother, Anna, over a cup of tea at the counter, she turned to meet the eyes of someone familiar. It was a Barclay, but one she had only met ever so often. Cedric Barclay, as she came to know, blessing her mind space of pure and happy thoughts. The man was to be taking over his father’s store, forging a small kazoo for her as a present. The woman smiled at that, not having a kazoo on her since her childhood, and playing a short sweet song. Soon enough the two started to fall in love, eventually having a double date with one of her sisters and another Barclay. The woman loved Cedric’s smile, a Sun’s Smile so she called it, which brought light into her dark mind. Years had passed as the two fell more deeply in love, so far in love that she had forgotten all dark thoughts and locked them away for the happiness she had with Cedric. At last the two got married and she moved into Reinmar to live with him. Soon she had birthed twins, who she had named Reinhardt and Klaus. She loved her sons a lot, to the point she took up knitting to make little hats for their tiny heads. A few years later she had another child, Ludvig, who had been sick since his birth. No one knew how or why, but soon enough the child had grown and left on an adventure. Then once again she had another, a girl named Adrianna who was secretly her favorite. The woman always took her daughter’s side, even when she had snuck into a friend’s house and took most of his liquor, making Cedric chase Adrianna and her friend down for it. The years grew slow as her children grew up, the woman either staying within the keep to knit away blankets or going out on hunts for boars. And she had thought the next hunt would be the same as ever, oh how she was wrong. After giving a loving glance at her husband she left the keep, the last remnants of society for the next 19 years. And in the twenty years of her absence, she had fought hair, tooth and nail to not die to the things that lay within the mountains. She survived for so long she thought how she would return back to Haense, and if there was anything she could return to. In the end she found her way back, and had been blessed with her eldest son’s face, Reinhardt. Though he thought of her simply as a specter of the past, not believing that the woman in front of him was his mother. But after much explaining of her own past, and the inner workings of the Reinmar keep he broke down crying in his mother’s arms. The woman, now greying, had met her grandchildren from Reinhardt, being gentle and kind to the children around her. “So you named one Cedric after your father? Speaking of, where is he?” She asked as they all sat around the fire, the air became stiff suddenly. Reinhardt told her that he died, passed away in battle. The woman stood up and backed away, glaring at her child for the first time. She denied the truth, saying it must have been a lie, a ploy where Cedric would be around the corner. Reinhardt tried to calm her down, but she bolted out of the room running up to the roof terraces where she spent her lonely nights. Her son tackled her to that of one of the roofs, holding her down as she kicked and flailed about. The man now carried his mother from the roof into a room, holding her down as he locked her hands behind her back in irons. The woman shot a sarcastic comment at her son, about how he could lock an old woman in irons. The woman soon calmed down and he led her to an empty room, save for furniture, letting her out there. Reinhardt muttered about her sanity and left her to rest, but his child stayed behind and talked with her. The now grandmother talked about the pranks she had done on her own siblings to the child, and promised to teach them how each worked. The young girl nodded and soon left for bed, saying a quick goodnight to her Oma. The woman sighed as she herself went to rest, planning to clean herself in the morning. And the next morning she cleaned herself, and went into the capital’s walls. She reveled in the unchanged looks of all the buildings, how each loomed over her the same way they did years before. As she stepped to the bank to check what money she did have left in her account, stopping as she caught sight of a very familiar girl. She leaned against one of the terracotta pillars as she just smiled happily at her child, soon cooing out to her. The woman who was Adrianna, turned around and ran towards her mother, enveloping her into a tight hug of love and tears. The woman hushed her and wiped away her tears, claiming all will be fine. She then looked at the man standing a few paces off to her right, who smoked a cigar. All she gave him was a proud nod, herself being a big smoker. The next few months were solem, the woman looking over her empty bed every time she walked back into her new room. “If only you were here Cedric, I know you would be so proud of all our children.” As she laid down, she thought of where she would land after she died. Would it be in the seven skies, or somewhere worse? The years passed by quickly, barely registering the time as she had spent most of it on a hillside or looking into the lake near Karosgrad. After a long walk she had come across a gathering of Barclay and friends, walking closer to the huddle to listen in. What she heard was upsetting to say the least, so she called for everyone to come to the keep for dinner. They all moved to Reinmar, and into the feast hall. The woman had left to go begin making a stew for everyone, letting them talk amongst themselves. While she was cooking a cough past her lips, nothing uncommon for the old woman. So she kept cooking until she brought it all to the table, filling everyone’s bowls with pork stew. They talked more about how to proceed with the issues at hand. Another cough racked her lungs, making her stuff her face into her arm. When she pulled back she glared at the red stain on her white shirt. Adrianna, one of her children that were there at the table looked up at her in concern, voicing that concern but the elderly woman just waved her off. She pulled out a cigar, and lit it before taking a deep inhale of it. Her other son, Reinhardt, had spoke up about her smoking habits. The woman shrugged his words off, looking at the child who had come in. The child was upset, that much was clear, though he spoke unclearly. Adrianna had helped the child out, and calmed him down. As she did this another set of coughs came over the elderly woman. Reinhardt and her son-in-law Charles helped her to sit at one of the banquet tables. Adrianna had soon returned to her side, pulling out some herbs and asking her brother to boil them into a tea. The woman still had her cigar in her hand, taking another deep breath of the intoxicating smoke. She blew the cloud into the air and let it settle down back to the floorboards. She was about to quip some sarcastic joke when another fit of coughs attacked her, this one worse than the last and having her doubled over onto the floor. Blood and a few chunks were on the floor, her eyes fogging up with water making her unable to see. A soft voice called from the other end of the room, a child, asking what was wrong. At that moment she spoke one sentence, “Get the child out of here- she does not need to see this.” A few minutes had passed before the woman was able to breathe somewhat easily again, using a napkin to wipe away what blood had stuck to her chin. As Adrianna and Charles seemed to fret over the woman, she got up and followed the sound of her son’s voice. At the top of the stairs she saw Reinhardt with a little girl, who held a very familiar teddy bear. Knocking on the wall she introduced herself to the child, going to ruffle the small girl’s hair. Reinhardt had gone to help his mother, worried over her slowly worsening form. She thanked him, standing on the edge of the fireplace with her almost used up cigar. The woman spoke some comforting words before taking what was left of the cigar and draining it to ash. The world seemed to stop for Aeira Barclay, a wild mondblume who fought hair tooth and nail to get back to where she was now. But all she could feel was a burning in her throat as she fell to the floor, a pile of blood, bile and some tears mixing on the carpet below her. Things happened all too quickly yet all so slowly, her daughter at her side begging her to stay awake and the voice of a little girl asking what was wrong. Through Aeira’s tears and blood, she spoke one thing, “Tell Klaus I always loved him, and that he deserved a better mother.” The blood choked her, her own body turned against her as her life slipped out of eyes. Aeira had died to herself, and seemingly with her last cigar.
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