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I LOVE YOU “... Like someone …?” The person asked, eyes snapping up towards him as they desperately tried to appear as though they were not hanging off of his each and every word. They listened with such intent to the slight figure before them, their mind quivering on the precipice of some tremendous truth, that the faintest drop of poison entered their perception and everything soured. Soon they found themselves listening in rapt to the memory of the words of a deceiver, and their thoughts recoiled at the theory. “If vy’re messing with me- ea need vy to tell me right now.” They found their lips breathlessly speaking, although their rationality could not appreciate the concept; he has never made a joke once in his life, I am being ridiculous. “He is being respectful, da?” Enquired the voice of the Grand Lady, sitting with the person in counsel, although she cast a threatening glance to the dagger concealed upon her hip beneath layers of coats. “AI, OF COURSE HE IS - !” They replied in despair, “He spooked me- ea-” They sighed dramatically as their muffled voice emanated from where they had concealed their face within the folds of their gown; knees raised to rest their feet on the comfortable tavern chair they were seated upon. “Mari, what am ea meant to do? Ea can’t keep avoiding him forever.” They implored of their patient cousin. The Grand Lady, for her part, hugged the recently matured person before her closer as a poorly concealed chuckle escaped her. “It can be soh very scary.” She began, gently placing her head upon the person’s own, “But if vy like him, and he likes vy …” Marian Weiss herself grew faint even as she continued to speak, for the memory drifted away from the person’s recollection. The colours of the scene grew murky and obscure, tinged layers of each object in their vision beginning to separate out as sleepy darkness encroached, ultimately enveloping their sight as though they were falling asleep once again. The boy stares at the person with founded confusion, “Eam … Niet joking.” He rightly murmurs, advancing on them but furrowing his brows in in concentration as he strains himself to focus his gaze upon their eyes. He appears to examine them for a moment before being forced to avert his gaze and look away, “Ea like vyr eyes …” He murmurs, “They … Have a comfortable warmth within them.” The person meets his gaze for a few seconds; their own eyes wide as their breath catches in their throat. They glance down to his feet as he proceeds unerringly towards them, and they step back in turn as their heart continues to thump upon their chest like a ferrum-soled boot. “That’s-” They glance about for a moment. “Vy’re-” They stutter, their breathing quickening as their mind races with anxiety. “Spas-” Beads of sweat begin to seep from their pores, even in the Haeseni winter chill with flakes of snow falling around them. “That’s- that’s real nice of vy,” As the memory flickers in their unconscious mind, they recall speaking the boy’s name, but can extract neither his name nor his face, despite being able to remember the sincerity of his gaze with precision. They remember the stumbling thud of their boots upon the snow-laden ground as they mumbled their jittery apologies and begin to retreat. With the recollection and reality of her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Elena Viorica Kortrevich awakes with a start in the midst of a wintry nocturnal disturbance. Even in the intense cold, the room’s fire withered where its hearth once blazed, perspiration again dots her forehead as she reorients herself and begins to relax. She whispers quiet reassurances and prayers, though among her consolations are the hopes that “Ea though ea had outgrown nightmares …” Once comforted, she begins to note her memory of the vivid dream shrinking away from her clear recollection, and thinks again on her resolution after discussing the matter with Marian. The rises slowly from bed and lights a lamp, careful to restrict her gentle movements to avoid waking anyone sleeping in the rooms beside her own, and fetches her miniature pocketbook and Koravian poetry volume from her effects. Her face illuminated by oiled lamplight, Elena begins to whisper rhymes and jot down the lines and stanzas of her next poem. Her efforts proceed through the hours of howling winds until the ambient light accompanying the sun’s majesty begins to bleed through the shut up windows of the poet’s bedroom. She glances up, only now noticing the sad misery of her burnt-out oil lamp, and fatigue encroaches in. She returns her exhausted gaze to the poem before her, as yet Untitled, and she glances over the brief notes she had made before the dream dissipated in her mind. With her persistent heart once again beating with insistence, she feels as though an anvil were sitting upon her heart, and only one phrase echoing through her groggy mind. Elena extends her quill forth towards the header of the poem’s page, and scrawls three simple words embodying her entire feeling and being in that moment. “I Love You” The following piece of poetry is published, in homage of I Hate You by VKML Borris Kortrevich: “I LOVE YOU” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 509 E.S. The pain of loving you, Watching you drift away I knew, Everything between us two, Would one day be through, But oh, how I love you. My strain is no fault of yours, But all I seek is sweet assures, To supply my heart its cures, For the endless pain it endures, In service of me loving you. As I await your arrival, My beating heart enduring trial, I recall your gaze’s spirited revival, And suddenly I feel I’m going viral, Because of my love for you. Yet standing before you all naive, My voice lost; all it can achieve, A quiet utterance as I leave, Since all I can do is disbelieve, That you chance to love me? Each word you speak enters like an axe, But a boy unaware the agony he exacts, Asks just how can I make up my lacks? For all my heart does is crack, And with what worthiness can I Love You?

SIEGE UPON THE SENSES Nestled away within the peaks of the frozen north, the City of Valdev lay bare its inhabitants to the Blizzard. The Blizzard and the City were at war, and the Blizzard was winning. Many of the citizens of Valdev had lost sight of how long the Blizzard had been wreaking its chaos on them; the young had grown with it, and the old had forgotten life before it. One morning the tempestuous snowfall erupted from the chalky clouds gathered above without warning; arising from magickal means. Great swaths of wintry matter carpeted the streets and houses as colossal freezing spikes of ice and niveous material erupted from the pavements alike a volcanic peak emerging from the seabed. Soon enough, the hardy Haeseni were strangling themselves in scarves, and overlaying each garment with slabs of insulating fur before venturing into the constant snowy cloudburst hovering just outside the firelit safety of each domicile. The basilica doors were shut, the taverns were boarded, and fireplaces were alight all over the city as each citizen dug in to survive the ongoing nightmare. Although the City had not caught a glimpse of the exiled sun for months, the operations of the Haeseni continued with as sunny a disposition as ever. Few lost the battle to the Blizzard, but those who did were remembered fondly and burnt; in celebration of their lives, and to remind the survivors who they died for. As the flames of the funeral pyre licked at the logs amidst the squall, they emitted a warm glow that represented, for many, Hope. Any external endeavour became more difficult than ever, and messengers soon learnt not to dawdle on their journey as they may once have. Those traversing the streets stooped, bundled in hats and scarves, with their shoulders offering counsel to the ears as they hurried furiously onwards through the tempest to a veritable galaxy of diverse destinations. Stories echoed through dimly lit taverns describing the boy whose uncovered ears came off when he arrived in Valdev, or the old man whose collapsed body in the snow became icily encased thoroughly enough to replace a broken palace step, being buried and unnoticeable under so much snow. Such myths of horror filled the imaginations of the unfortunate pilgrims hiking through the desolate cobbled avenues as the gnawing teeth of the wind bit at their skin with burnt needling pin-pricks. Nevertheless, as the furious flurries slammed against the frosted windows, a very heated battle was taking place inside one of the most prominent tavern's walls. The child felt like they had been there for weeks rather than hours; sat impatiently by the fire as muffled sounds had emanated from within a locked bedroom, strange figures had rushed about, and the Blizzard's anguished screams echoed through the streets all the while. Their anxious fingers rapped against the leg of their stool as blank figures rushed past them and out of sight once more. Enquiries were made, until a shrill voice rang out throughout the room and the fire crackled; the fiery figure's face lit by flame. “Nie one ****ing asks!” Matching them, the other person rebutted their shouts until the pair were engaged in a battle of furious wills – who would crumble first under the other's ire? The child watched all of this in horrified rapture; what had sparked this pillar of vengeful fire they saw before them? Their face grew red and hot from the intense heat of the scene of burning bloodshed before them. Only people with such fierce love between them could inflict pain of this scale on one another; is this the fate to befall all who care so deeply? The child, frightened by the display, clasps their clammy hands over their ears, burying their head to distance themselves from the fight. Their heart ached with the weight of betrayal and rejection, and they thought of the whispers about that old man. Maybe he, like them, had felt so burdened by the struggles of life that he had simply laid down for the winter storm to embrace him, a mother greeting her child once again, and felt the life drain from his husked soul. Eventually, the child's turbulent emotions washed over them and the pain they felt from watching their loved ones tear each other limb from limb became too great; they lifted their rubicund head, grief-stricken tears slipping down their rounded cheeks, and shouted: “STOP!” They cried out, “Just stop! Please stop fighting-!” And, like the child, the Blizzard's mistral roared as the tavern creaked under the strain… The following piece of poetry is published, reflecting on the ongoing blizzard: “SIEGE UPON THE SENSES” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 504 E.S. In Piov the high skies grew nebulous, Winds whistled while ground shew tremulous, And parents and progeny grieved, 'God is punishing us' they cried, As I wonder why I have not died. Pocketed in the fires crackle, As clans and cads alike collect, They fester like a beetle’s nest, Packed closely in by house arrest, While rowdy outwinds yip in jest. Through the rows the squall raced by, The cyclone shrieked a pained reply, Blankets of snow cloaked the ground, Woe betide, for those outside, Lost bearing and drowned. While the blizzard shrieks, so do I; To douse the striking sound, As ferocious rioting ‘rupts around, My fam’ly ties all but torn, As we pray for coming dawn. Its fate Haense has accepted, A solution we’ve neglected, One morn soon the day shall come, When we’ll warm by glowing sun, So death upon this snow-filled bomb!

Children of Valdev A round in two parts From the Book of Valdev Written and performed by the scribe Grisell Balfour Lyrics Round, round, round they go, Heading where? I do not know Through the town and square they flow Starring role of everyone’s show Loud, loud, loud are they For what purpose? I could not say Covered in mud, and seeds, and hay To them the world’s their personal play Quiet, quiet, quiet please There’s been enough frivolity I need fine wine and strongest cheese That I may write my books in peace.

A Land I Knew Too Little By Bo Blackwell A land I knew too little A vast and diverse crowd I sat at home and whittled Instead of living proud Twas not until I was a man That I began to stray Far from home, did I now stand Excited, scared, and away Savoy, a city growing Robust and full of life E’ryone forced to get along Because of far-spread strife I run away now, soaked in rain From a home that I’ll ne’er again dwell If I’d never left home, I wouldn’t feel this pain For a land I knew far too well [!] Tears stain the bottom of this parchment

Never Relent Within this world, there are often things that are so devastating that it makes us wish to give up. But we must keep going, we must push through. We are the men of this world, and the sins of this world shall not keep us down. There is nothing that will hold us back from being who we want to be. Therefore, something must be written to show, just as you should never give up on the world, I shall never give up on you. We're no strangers to love You know the rules and so do I A full commitment's what I'm thinking of You wouldn't get this from any other guy I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling Gotta make you understand Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you We've known each other for so long Your heart's been aching, but You're too shy to say it Inside, we both know what's been going on We know the game and we're gonna play it And if you ask me how I'm feeling Don't tell me you're too blind to see Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you (Ooh, give you up) (Ooh, give you up) Never gonna give, never gonna give (Give you up) Never gonna give, never gonna give (Give you up) We've known each other for so long Your heart's been aching, but You're too shy to say it Inside, we both know what's been going on We know the game and we're gonna play it I just wanna tell you how I'm feeling Gotta make you understand Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you Never gonna give you up Never gonna let you down Never gonna run around and desert you Never gonna make you cry Never gonna say goodbye Never gonna tell a lie and hurt you HIS LORDSHIP, Richard Paul Astley, Duke of Dichord, Count of Cadence, Viscount of Vibes, Baron of Bars, Lord of the Memelands, and Protector of the Rick Roll.

I write this whilst laying in bed, half-delirious so forgive me of my errors, and forgive me of my wish to lead another life through story. I love my husband and daughter but all the death that surrounds me while I sleep suspended in time by sickness wearies me of life. I want to get better, I do, to finally be a part of my family again before more people leave me. I miss the years when I ran through the woods, searching for nothing at all, simply enjoying the freedom and burn of my lungs. I miss returning home to the Morovar family’s loving embrace, finding my mamej at the center of it all, leading the chaos steadily. I miss my papej, who was always running the house, dealing with court shenanigans, and yet found the energy to love each and every one of us. I miss my eldest borsa Wilhelm and the many fond times we had together, from jumping off roofs into his arms to the day he got my first puppy, Iris. Then there's my borsa Arjen, always up for some mischief and adventure, who was the first to sneak me alcohol in my younger years, and went hunting for goblins in the woods with me. I miss my whole family, together, like those nights in my childhood that I thought would never end. I miss myself as well, and mourn for my loss of strength, the energy I have lost in my battle against sickness that has disallowed me from making the changes I wish to see happen. Even so, I am thankful towards my husband who has stood by me every step of the way- since my very first outing alone to Karosgrad all those years ago. You have been my dearest and best friend and I cherish every moment I spend with you, even while I lay here, writing in our bed. It started during Lifstala, when what I thought was merely a bad season of colds took away my experiences, robbed me of my debut along with many other events I wished to enjoy. I was then given a grace period, though that time was filled with arguments between my favorite borsa Wilhelm and my love Lorence. They both feared losing me and thus could only see the other as the enemy. I was unable salvage their relationship as I fell sick shortly after my marriage to Lorence, and I was rendered unable to tell my borsa about the wedding because his duties had taken him elsewhere. I thank all those who did show up for our union, it being the last time I saw both of my parents, Leopold and Maeve Morovar. Though my mamej still lives Leopold was murdered shortly after I fell ill, his death occurring at the height of my sickness and rendering me blindsided upon hearing the news when I was finally better. At that point all I wanted, and all I still want, was to reconcile with the family I have left, raise my little Laila who came into this world shortly after my papej died, and be a good wife. I started the process of mending the ties between my love and Wilhelm, but sickness once again rendered me useless despite new attempts at finding out the source of the problem, and I was unable to finish my work. I fell ill once again and this time I woke up with the news of my borsa’s death on my husband’s lips. I cannot describe to anyone the pure madness that moment brought me, nor the grief that tore through me, but I am sure those who have lost their most important confidants can imagine. I write and finish this a saint’s day after his death reaches my ears, unable to get up from my bed and comfort those he held dearest in his later life. I apologize for my absence yet again. So in my grief I am picking up my ink and quill to write as I did in my younger years, to write and write and write until I can figure out this puzzle. Now, however, I write not only for entertainment but to bring meaning to the world around me which seems to get darker by the day, as I lay here suspended in time by my illness. I write to reach someone else who may be in pain, who may need an escape, who may need a reason to live and fight just as I do. I write just in case I die tomorrow, so that all those I know in life are sure of my love for them, and to get them through what could be a tumultuous time. I write so if I do get better I understand the thoughts going through my head in this feverish time, and to explain to my daughter why her mamej was so absent for her first steps, words, and all the other firsts 1st’s I've missed. Dedicated to: Lorence Colborn, my husband and best friend Wilhelm Morovar, my beloved borsa and role-model Maeve Morovar, my mamej who encouraged me through everything And Little Laila Colborn, my daughter who gives me the courage to live. Beauty Incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, insanity in which my life lies tattered and broken. To find my dearest husband besides me, looking handsome as he sleeps With rays of early morning sunshine lighting upon his skin. His eyes flutter open and I am met by an alluring ocean Filled to the brim with love and happiness. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which my dearest borsa is dead. I am left giggling however as he sits up at the same time I do and our heads clatter together. We had fallen asleep together underneath the apple tree at Ghastenwald, After playing together forever in our home. We both jump up together, and run off to have more adventures, hand-in-hand. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which my mamej is nowhere to be found. Only to delight upon the sound of her voice ringing out downstairs, traveling towards me. She opens the door and the breath is taken from my lungs upon realizing just how similar we are. My mamej, the most dazzling, intelligent, and loving woman I will ever know. I get up from my desk to embrace her, telling her about all the ways I am trying to live up to her. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which I left my little Laila all alone. Only to hear her screeches of excitement as my husband plays with her in the other room. My little bundle of mischief, I will someday delight upon how far you’ve come. But for now I join them, playing simple little games you seem to never grow tired of. Oh how happy we are together. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which my papej was murdered. But I flash my toothy grin at him as he gently shakes me, for I had fallen asleep at dinner. I then pretend to sleep, and even though he knows I am awake, he carries me to bed, Night after long night. My diligent, hard working papej, forever looking after us. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which I hadn’t talked to my brother Arjen for years. Only to hear him getting yelled at for his mischief in Karosgrad. She promises our parents will hear about this, but I am able to charm his way out. And we walk off to fight goblins in the woods, makeshift swords in hand. My mischievous, trouble causing, lovely, fun borsa, who always has my back. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which I am unsure of what my sister Juliya is up to. Only to find her scrapping with another kid over the Morovar house honor. I laugh, and cheer her on, and of course she wins. And I help her up, bringing her to the medics. She is strong, beautiful, prideful, and on her way to become the best knight in Karosgrad. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which the Barony of Ghastenwald is dissolved. To hear the laughter of my family around me at a family dinner. We are joyous, and proud, and mad in the best way. Most importantly though we are together. And we know as long as that’s true, nothing else matters. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which I have nothing to do with my new family, the Colborns. To around the fireplace, hearty conversation filling the room along with laughter, A sense of belonging in the air, kinship. I know I will be right at home, serving as the bridge between the Colborns and Morovars A giant family who all love me. Beauty incarnate. I awaken from a nightmare, in which I am no longer myself. Finding my face smeared with ink, having knocked it over in my sleep. I get up and clean it up, staring in the mirror for a moment at my healthy complexion, Before going off to do everything I love, from writing, to adventuring around the forest And bonding with each and every person I love. Beauty incarnate I awaken from a dream, into the nightmare my life has become. As I look at the broken pieces, and every place I have messed up I realize I still have a chance. Wilhelm and Leopold may be dead, but there are so many others to love So many chances I hope not to waste, and to do so I have to fight. Fight to get better, and reach a place where I can be happy again. I will never forgive myself for being lulled to sleep, never forget those I have lost, As I look in the mirror at my sallow skin, I find strength. Beauty incarnate. While I may not have the opportunity to live through most of what is above, I still have a chance to live a happy, full life.

One morning, Garedyn The Green carried a stack of freshly purchased books from the market to the Grand Library, for them to be stored and preserved so that the Lore Master Ogradhad could guard them for the future generations of dwarves. As he went his way to librarian's office, everything was eerily still and quiet. He simply thought the librarian was out for a meal, so he continued inside. As he entered it, the sight of the office caused him to drop the books from his hand with his jaw agape. The office was empty, all bookshelves, chests were devoid of tomes. The original publications of books had gone missing. The decades, if not millenia, of effort in restoring, gathering and protecting the original books in the name of the Brathmordkin Ogradhad had vanished in an instant. The hours and days he spent consulting the books for his studies of medicine and his faith remained, but their original, primary sources had disappeared. Those original works written by and for dwedmar were no longer within the protection of Ogradhad. A fury welled up in him, before the cool breeze in the empty library turned his fury into grief. He took some parchment and ink, and began to write. A Scholar's Lament -By Garedyn The Green (Written by VerminHunter) A drought, A drought from the stream that nourishes the dwed. A Land, A land once rich land upon which light can't be shed. The knowledge is gone, The black swans crow songs, The dawn wanes withdrawn The nights growing long. A plauge, A plauge from which the true is now unclear. A void, A void that is now filled with copied smears. The Lore Master weeps, The sown can't be reaped, The throas will ring deep, The wise fall asleep.

A Call to Crusade 6th of Horen's Calling, 1891 Take up your swords, Take up your cross, Take up the words Of the Holy Lord above. March with a passion, A might only Godan provides. Seek out the ashen, Those who lack his goodness. Cut down this evil, For it shall corrupt this world, And this darkness shall grow, Consuming everyone’s soul. So take up your pike, Your shield or your bow. Take up scythes, Pitchforks or stones. Take up the holy weapon, The blessed aurum dagger, For it’s blade has been baptized In the waters of the Lord. Find this crusade, A march to glory. Rush to canonist’s aid, It is your call. Do not simply fall, Landing upon your knees. For prayer gains much strength, But GOD is with our blade. Strike down the unholy, Those that uproot God’s name. They shall not persist, They shall not see the light of day. Take up your swords, Take up your cross, Take up the words Of the Holy Lord above. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich, KML Battle-Bard of the BSK, Knight's Bard, and Court Poet of Hanseti-Ruska

Royal Poetry Volume 3 - Katerina Foreword Upon closer correspondence with Haeseni Royalty and the people within Haense, Felyx becomes inspired to write yet another addition to the Poetry Series. This hobby of his has been expanding, and may be something serious simply by handing these works to their respective muses, who hold great power. Nevertheless, as the young Colborn sits down to put quill and ink to paper, he is reminded by the semblance that the name "Katerina" holds against his first poem's "Karenina", thus silently vowing to match his previous standards to fit at least a single aspect of the many diamond fractals of an equally incredible individual. 'Katerina' Waves and waves of light are shimmering Into which, no man may see. For the pond of life within this vessel As a fiery summer's breeze grow free. The eyes of the maelstrom The onion layers of sun will capture - Out of melted icy footprints The mind shall drift to what entraptures. Allusions of flame dancing on a red wall Bring forth slender fingers around gold to linger. Yet as men stand tormented in transparent halls, A graceful figure here shall make its stand. Age has a number that ripes like fine wine Which, as poured, pours into many souls in time, To form a web of fine gold strands - And band us together lest we fall from our climb. The slender hand arches up, to clutch her Lorraine For belief alone may keep us all sane - So our trust placed in her to guide us the way, By the mercy of God we shall not astray. Blunt as a mace, her protection can kill Those who threaten her kin of the Land. In snow-capped red dress, and golden necklace Her temper comes forth like winter's fury unmanned. In time the laughter-lines grow, A temper subsides and a gold heart does show, With firm slender hands she holds her Lorraine, Within her still waves, to lap up her pain. As strong as a comet, a will resolute Within you'll find diamonds before it is spent For within us she sees just who we are Through countless ages and not just one scar, So let yourself be healed by the Lady; "Katerina Ceciliya Barbanov-Bihar" Afterword There is only one copy of this poem in circulation (IRPLY) and it is the original, signed by Felyx Colborn himself. What has been writ cannot be undone, and more royal poems are sure to come... Signed,

Royal Poetry Volume 1 - Karenina Foreword One day, when Felyx Colborn was attending a Royal Birthday, he happened to chance on the longest-reigning Queen of Haense; Emma Karenina Barbanov-Bihar. Inspired by the singular name: "Karenina", a poem enters the mind of the Colborn, itching to be written down. So, with the goodwill of the Prior-Queen, he sets to work... 'Karenina' Graced beauty kills the beholden. She is more deadly the longer she lasts. She is the Northern wind that tugs your clothes like an insistent lover. Her soul, a vast landscape with rays of sun illuminating the fractals of a thousand crystals. Ageing and Ageless her temporal eyes stare unflinchingly into the past. Her beauty is a curse that sinks wayward souls deep into an icy abyss. Her beauty is a blessing that keeps those who manage to endure afloat to marvel at her bliss. Yet those who stare deep into her soul have the bone hand of Death tugging them onwards. She has many children, to which she grants her good looks fatally as her icy kiss. Beneath the surface of her kin lie the currents of eternal layers. A heart locked within flesh and bone, its key locked deep within the crevice of the soul. Where the realm of intellect begins, names command her power. She knows; kin to the icy lady who resides in the halls of the onion towers. Her being, her spirit, her soul an onion of layers - invaluable to the support of the perennial Kings. Of which she is bound, a curse, a "God bless" to the golden marriage rings. A rosy smile behind a crimson scarf, as red as blood flashes by. Her own kin is the Land on which the wheels of her carriage roll smoothly, and her people whose spirits fill the entire sky. Her name, on the tip of your tongue as if from a childhood dream long gone by. "Emma Karenina" Afterword There is only one copy of this poem in circulation (IRPLY) and it is the original, signed by Felyx Colborn himself. What has been writ cannot be undone, and more royal poems are sure to come... Signed,

DIVINITY For my son, Andrei Sigismund. Oh, how silence breathes, And how the gentle snow falls. Oh, how fair moonlight breaches, Through each and every wall. Watch as mist rolls across, The sweetest smelling blooms. And peek beneath the swaying stalks, To find what cannot be easily viewed. Oh, how the beauty blinds, And how Man tears through the earth. Oh, how the songbird cries, As we tread past divinity’s birth. Time slips through fingers, And worlds turn to dust. But may the divine always remain, To grace the moments of forever. Oh, my dearest love, How our world has changed. Oh, can you tell me if this is the closest, I will ever be to divinity? Together we have stood, And together we will fall. But look at what we have created, Look at what we have made. Oh, look at this blessing, Nestled close and safe. Oh, look how this tiny babe, Is rippling through our lives. See the world, my darling son, How it flickers and dances. The beauty which surrounds you, And the strength buried deep within. Oh, how silence breathes, And how the gentle snow falls. Oh, how fair moonlight breaches, Through each and every wall. Sweetest and fairest son, May you ever only know joy. May the wind always aid you, And the world rejoice with your birth. SIGNED, Her Royal Highness, Klara Elizaveta, Duchess of Baranya

The Dawning of a New Day 5th of Vyzmey ag Hyff, 427 E.S. [!] Depiction of the coronation of His Royal Majesty, Koeng Karl III and his consort, Her Royal Majesty, Koenas Amadea of Susa. No sun hath been known to stay in the sky forever. No man hath been known to see an eternity pass. No wee babe hath ever been known to stay tiny. No king hath been known to rule till the end of time. So death comes to those who stray near the end of the thread. And it came to the one who we had so admired. An endless circling loop, an endless looping cycle. Yet no sun hath ever been known to stay hidden forever. As it peaks over the horizon there is beauty. Thou art the man to take up thine father’s throne. A responsibility so vast, and a burden so great. Thou art to be called majesty, the hope to those who have little. Thou art to be called protector, the shield to the defenseless Thou art to be called king, the light to the entire nation. So take up thy throne of glory and honor, For the morning hath come and darkness shall not prevail. In the name of Godan above, shall take thine oath, And fulfill the duties that weigh on thy shoulders. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich, KML, Battle-Bard of the BSK and Court Poet

My Child 5th of Tov ag Yermey, 426 E.S. Oh how tiny your hands and feet are. How pale are those fatty cheeks of yours. Oh how light the color of your hair How soft and plush your legs feel. Oh how you latch onto my finger, How tender your grasp is. Oh how you squirm around in my arms, How your arms flail when you are uncomfortable. Oh how those eyes watch the world with wonder And how your loud cries break my heart. Oh how you crave our attention, how could I not give you such. And how soft and genuine your laughs are. Oh how you are the light of my life, How you bring so much joy to me. Oh how you will be forever mine. How I wouldn’t do anything for you. Oh how much you look like your parents, How well mirrored our features are on you. Oh how could anyone not love a person such as you. How precious is my little one. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich KML

“Union of House Carrion” [!] A depiction of the betrothed pair shortly after Amadea’s return 7th of Vyzmey ag Hyff, 424 E.S Behold, a long awaited union. Behold the ones who will be seated upon the throne in time. Their marriage shall signify the glorious continuation of a prosperous nation. A sign to all those who may see it, that we shall thrive, just as they shall thrive. Behold our next king. Woe to those who do not know the might of House Barbanov, Their leadership has kept Haeseni-Ruska together. Their lineage has been the one which we all strive to protect. Behold our next queen. Unfortunate is the one who does not know the history of House Basrid, For it is by their own hard work that they have gained their position and title. Their lineage have served many a king and empire, and served in their own right.. Behold, the long awaited return, Two descendants of kings and queens long past, from the same lines they have Come, and to the same line they shall now return. Two beans, Born of the same plant, yet of different stems. They now are intertwined. Behold, a long awaited reunion, The separation of a house Carrion now finds refuge together. Royal lines have split, yet their diligence and work is not to be forgotten. So we find ourselves together in their wake for this long awaited union. Signed, Sir Borris Iver Kortrevich, Battle-Bard of the BSK and Court Poet of Haense

"I Hate You" [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich 11th of Wzuvar und Byvca, 420 E.S. Knife in my back, All eventually goes black, Crippled from the final smack, I hate you, I hate you. Pain derived from a simple blow, The breaking of a tightly strung bow. Stress and hurt is all you sow. I hate you, I hate you. Give me the salt, a rush of gloom Give me salt, I’ll pour it on the wound. It is only yourself which brings doom. I hate you, I hate you. Nothing you say will ever change such a thing, I am sick of the destruction in which you bring. Forced to move on, yet I still feel the sting, I hate you, I hate you. You are Iblees in a humanite form. Cutting up the veil that was already torn. Something that was already deteriorated and worn I hate you, I hate you. You spurn me, wench. You insult me, wretch. You will suffer, watch. I will always hate you.

“Death at Eastfleet” [!] A portrait of an adult Borris Iver Kortrevich 12th of Msitza and Dargund, 419 E.S. So let loose thine arrows, send them hurtling toward the enemy. With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky. And with a single thunderous clap, the wrenched return with their own volley. Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. With a single word, thousands of bolts blot out the sun as they streak across the sky. They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything they touch. Death appears to take the brave, status or none, death seeks to unify. Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body’s blush. They strike flesh and stone, cracking and splintering everything they touch. “Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin. Impaled upon the shafts of wood and iron, the pale body’s blush. “Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind. “Run forth, thine brethren.” I heard thee scream out, sword raised with wide grin. And so we did. Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. “Run forth. Kill the Bastards.” The man cried out, then crumpled in the wind. Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor. Man, orc, and dwarf charged forth with such enraged vigor. Blessed iron met with heathen steel, as both forces collided midway. Push through the nerve, release thine adrenaline, and maintain thine rigor. Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day. Blessed iron met with heathen steel, as both forces collided midway. My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others. Slashing and bashing and cutting and slicing, fighting lasts through the day. Fighting lasts through the day, till each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers. My clothes are drenched with my sweat, my armor with the blood of others. I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary. Each foe is struck down by Godan’s ushers. Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary. I dare not ponder if it is that of mine friend or adversary. I hear the calls of those who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. Forever from this moment shall they remain sedentary. Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood. I hear the calls of our brethren who lay battered upon the dirt and blood. Doomed souls, longing for the release of death, something to relieve their strife. Their pitiful cries ring out in the thin silence, a broken dam to flood. Godan strike us down lest we forget their sacrifice. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich

VICTORY For the beloved brothers and sisters in arms who fell at the Skirmish of Stone Tower, and for the victory of the faithful. The waves lap at bloodstained stone, And I listen quietly to muffled cries. The cries of the dying and the damned, The cries for mercy. No mercy shall come, For those that betray their faith find no refuge. They find that the silken whispers of Iblees, Mistaken for GODAN, most high, Turn to knives against them evermore. For where I stand beside the faithful, The broken, the beaten, the UNDEFEATED, I can only hear the sweet song of Godan’s aenguls, Guiding my noble brothers and sisters to heaven. For as darkness falls over bloodsoaked ground, And the eerie silence post-battle wanes, I see the glorious light shining upon tomorrow. And may sacrifice usher in a new age of light, A new age of peace and beauty. And as we travel into this new ‘morrow, May our resolve never falter and our faith never waver. Let the joyous cries of the pious and the good, Ring out through this new tomorrow. And let the fallen rest in blissful sleep, Knowing that they have been avenged, And remain unforgotten among the living. May they rest peacefully, bathed in eternal light, Forevermore knowing that we shall remember. SIGNED, Her Royal Highness, Klara Elizaveta, Duchess of Baranya Klara Elizaveta finished her work with a flourish of her pen before climbing the ladder in her room at the Nikirala Prikaz to gaze out at the sky. “Are vy proud of us, Sigmar?”

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 7 [!] A portrait of teenage Borris Iver Kortrevich 17th of Msitza and Dargund, 418 E.S. “Sunflower” As golden the afternoon sun, you outstretched Yourself high into the air. Tall and beautiful, you Tower above everything and everyone. Green Leaves topped with a yellow brimmed hat. “Friend Lost” The wilting of a flower, ever doomed. Sprouted from seeds of a ignorance And morphed into a beautiful bloom. Yet deep inside lies the insolence. Taken from thin air, this wisp of rose Stands before the rest in glorious display Yet approached, only further does it expose The glinting of hurt under, chaos and disarray. Molded despair which has been wrought, Agonizing venom seeps through veins, Seeping, grasping, clawing its way out. Then spews around in deadly rains. Unintentionality reeps the same bitter seed, Arising from such meager beginning to this, Inevitable destructuction, choking weed. Harvest sown greets only with an abyss. Everything has been broken, bits and Pieces scattered about across the dirt floor. “From Cracked to Shattered” Below the stars, before the window pane, I long for you but you just break my heart. So why oh why do I hold in this pain. A delicate piece of glass, work of art. Sculptured with care, encased by the rampart Brittle in nature, when dropped it shatters I try to keep it safe, out of harm’s sight Grasping it for dear life, holding it tight. “Hands of Healing” I was nothing, sunk into by fangs Yet you took me from that Terrible disposition, melding Everything back into a whole. You lead me away from such darkness and back towards light. A hand guiding me from afar. One I despised turned to greet me. When I was at my lowest This hand carefully brought Me back from my depths and Sprouting within me hope again. Friend! Friend! I will call you. I see you standing at the gates And so a move to meet you again I shall always do that now. Talked for hours, catching Up on every little detail. We laugh, we cry, we rant, yell, and share our lives. You show me how to dance, Though I step on your toes. We spin, again and again, Nervousness turns to enjoyment. There is a warmth felt inside, Different from a romantic fire. A care is exchanged, a mutual Understanding of each other. Signed, Borris Iver Kortrevich

"Simple Joy" A Poem by Borris Iver Kortrevich [!] A portrait of teenage Borris Iver Kortrevich 13th of Joma and Umund, 417 E.S. For in the meadow, one wonders through Brush and flower, pollen tainting the cloth Yellow while thorns and bristles continuously Stab the soft skin below the clothed exterior. Yet they continue as if they feel nothing, Spinning wildly as they take in the beauty Of such fields. Dress of blue and yellow twirling About, speckles of fabric glistening in the sunlight. Regardless of its continual smacking upon the stalks, the figure never relents its dancing. Laughs resound from them, breaking the Thin silence that seemed draped upon this place. A beacon of light emits from their face, teeth In full view as they hold an ever, widening smile. Eyes wonder, noting a piece of hazy color Around, most blending into one greenish-yellow fuzz. They pause, breathless in their state of perfect bliss. Complete dizziness washes over the body, forcing the Head to still twist as the body stands still. They closely Their eyes, letting the light-headed feeling numb everything. Arms feel out to the side to balance this teetering person From falling. Expulsion of a light sigh before sight returns, focusing on the flower before it. A smile turns to a giggle, And a giggle turns to a movement. A movement leads to a run. And once again, one runs through the wildflowers.

Selection of Poetry - Vol. 6 [!] A portrait of teenage Borris Iver Kortrevich 14th of Tov and Yermey, 417 E.S. Haiku Lilacs in the wind, Shimmering beauty beheld, Fields, purple and green. - A boat lost at sea, I can't see, but home calls me, It pulls me to shore. - Flutter of the wing, Sound is gone within seconds, Returned without words. - Gift upon the words, Flowers of the golden bloom, Never withering. - Death upon the air, Ingrained in a soldier’s mind, The stench of old blood. - The waters consume, Entrapped in their dark deepness, Never to see day. - Droplets of water, I flinch as they hit my face, Numbing sensation. - I long in silence, Terrified that if I spoke, You would slip away. - Endless void of space, Illuminated by stars, Twinkling at night. - Aedypapej, A leader among all men, Standing tall for us. - Snow is a gesture, It’s arms outstretched towards the ground, Sleep on white meadows. - Shame crawled through the door, Wearing nothing but wore clothes, It shrieked, then toppled. - A faint cry sounded, Pain enwrapped entirely, Only misery. - Cave built on wonder, Moonlit sky peaking through cracks, Dissolving within. “Nervous” A nervous chuckle escapes from My mouth every time I talk to you. An awkward tic, rarely ever caught And stopped, only after I came to. Thumbs round each other in circles, The soft scraping of skin calms my nerves. It soothes me, allowing me to continue Talking without stuttering or stopping. Pale cheeks lose themselves within the An ever expanding rose garden, Blazing fires cover them entirely, Burning a delicate hand’s gently touch. It is an endless cycle, the longing To talk with you despite the fright I Feel when we meet face to face. Anxious joy on a continuous loop. Even through this, I wish to be at Your side constantly, never departing.

STRANGER For the downtrodden. Come, stranger, and leap Across fairest skies and stone Can you learn to finally reap What you have so desperately sown? The soldier wields his mighty sword And strikes through unmatched He has learned he can’t afford To only leave his enemies scratched Oh, how once fairest skies turn dark Clouds marring the light of day The beauty which did once spark Has faded into dullest grey Tell me, fair stranger, how one such as I Can overcome the blackest night For with such ardor do I purify In attempts to return to GODAN’s light As we find ourselves ever forward And the swirl of time besieges you May we leave our regret unmeasured Such endeavors ended without review Come, dear stranger And embrace the Northern sky Find yourself without filter As time passes you by Even the minstrel forever knows With his strings and his lute That he cannot cease unstoppable flows Lest he rend himself mute Tell me, beloved stranger, tell me why Those fair harvests find themselves unknown In favor of the deathly yields, ever dry As the whole of what you have sown? Let yourself not be discouraged For even the once a gentle soul Who has erred and remains disadvantaged Let not words of others keep you from your goal Find it within yourself, darling stranger To uplift those who would see your end And do not let words blister Strengthen yourself, stranger, do not let your spirit bend SIGNED, Her Royal Highness, Klara Elizaveta, Duchess of Baranya

“Oft like a colosseum, people are built brick by brick. Oft like a colosseum, those bricks may crumble. One simple brick will cause the fall. One simple brick may not be of importance, but compared to man, it is everything. Like crows looming over the plagued, the brick awaits it’s pull. And tumble-down they go, no hurdles stopping their descent. The other bricks are deprived of support, bumbling along with no guidance. Jostled and cracked; they break.” The rough cacophonous scratching of a metal to paper was heard from unknown chambers, words freshly written in the color of deep crimson. Upon drying was the ink of a simple brown color, that of which reeked of rust. Low-lying was the writer; a woman of both secrecy yet renown. These oracular words left much to be deciphered, for their mistress shall prowl- waiting for the whispers of the curious and keen. The murmurs of those who question with no answers. The answers seeked are jailed; locked away in the prison of one’s mind. Chills wrack the white blanketed domain, that same rough scratching accompanying it. For there a Princess of Winter plagued herself with work.

Death is something we all meet at one point or another. It may be centuries away, or mere minutes. What comes after, is unknown to those of us still breathing. May it be emptiness, nothingness, or something we cannot begin to think of. Perhaps the Seven Skies, a thing I hardly understand. We simply must be ready for it, And hope- it is not a gruesome scene. One that will not scar those forced to watch, unable to do a thing. Simply hope it is peaceful, of old age. But be accepting of any end. For it cannot be predicted, what will happen. A guess, is all it is. And a guess is all it will ever be. At least, we get to live while we can. Even if some are plagued with few years, While some are plagued with far too many for one person. Let us live every day as if it is our last, though. As our death’s are inevitable, with the date unknown. But I suppose, we should be prepared for a peaceful eternal slumber. Signed, Mirabella Violet Court Poet of Haense

A new poem, a new day for Miss Mirabella. The true meaning of her words may be unknown. But there is a point to it all, be sure of that. A fire within a city is not an uncommon thing. Hearth’s blaze, and crackle with life. The problem arises when they get out of hand. Buildings burn, shops lose their stock. People lose their livelihoods. And, their lives. As men try to put out the flames. Hopefully, with success. As those who started them watch, They watch with a cruel gaze. A statement they believe they are making, Yet they only cause issues. More harm than words. For words do not take the lives of others. Scorching ardent colors do. A shame, that those who watch may only pray. Pray the troubles stop, and the culprits are caught. For it will end these flames. That are the ends of many other entities. A shame, some men have decided they hold this much power. As to casually attempt take the lives of others. Signed, Mirabella Violet, Court Poet of Haense

Kal’Darakaan A large entryway greets one, With orange and grey. Magma bubbles below as you enter, A thin bridge as the path. Stalls, shops, all one could need. The sounds of metal clashing with metal. Forging, is of course happening. And the sounds of citizens drinking. While the legionaries train from afar. And the Obsidian throne. A magnificent sight. Where meetings are held, and troubles are discussed. The city is full of heat. And is a place quite inviting. A place any visitor can seek out fine crafted wares. And perhaps seek out a new ally. Hefrumm Large trees, A town of greenery and flora. Jolly laughs heard, Those with one another, drinking carrot ale. A boar roasts, an appetizing smell. The statue of a noble boar. It oversees all. Like a protector, unable to move. As a group goes off, hunting for another. Their hunting weapons are seen about. And the Chiefs Hall, The throne of the High Chief is seen. As varying plants are around. They almost invite you, Just as an old friend would. Karinah’siol A pale capital, Similar to the citizens who reside. Kind, to those kind in return. Blue and white, strewn among the city. Large fountains flow. And flowers bloom. With a library full of books, It is a place many seek knowledge. Writings, paintings, murels, and plays. Most information one should need. A place of purity, It is deserving of its name The Silver City. A city that shines bright from afar. Malinor The true home of the elves they say. A small little city, Quaint. With colorful cloth scattered about. Making up even the tents they call home. With a tavern in the center, Made up of wood, Banners of all hues are hung. With a cozy environment. Allowing all who sit inside, A little bit of calm. And rest. Varhelm A city of snow and wood. Chilled winds blowing through the air. Tapestries of red and black, And a fiery tree, nooses hung from the branches. A humble place, the tavern full of life, And warmth. Cozy, even in a frigid land. The docks, they smell of seawater. Tides crash, making their ways. Up, and down, the boats gently rock. Calming, to those with a mind full of storm. With a faith akin to crimson, The darkest shade red can be. For all those who are not yet dead. People who survive, Thrive. For it is made of Ice. Then forged into Iron. Elysium Thatched roofs and stone roads. With maple trees, arching over the path. Mountains surround, And the city feels secure. Rangers patrol, Eyes open for any sign of danger. Protecting those who need it. The land is safe. With lively tavern nights, One can share ale with friends, And those they call family. As a cold lake is along the edges, The city is warm. For this is the home of the de Astrea’s. A family that rose from the ashes. To claim what they deserved. Signed, Mirabella Violet, Court Poet of Haense All of these are gifts! Please send a bird if you wish for me to read them out!