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  1. Reverence of War To the masses who endorse and take respite in the artistry of words, herein lies the thoughts and passings of what is otherwise a lost soul. Although the time of war has since passed, it readily consumed the innocence of my childhood - or, perhaps, that was left to some wayside long ago. Regardless of such ideals and musings, here is published my two finished war-works - Covenant versus the scourge of Veletz and Stassion - to make of what you will. Now these times, my thoughts, inner self and emotions have moved to linger upon another topic that I shall see drawn to its conclusion by one course of action or another. Our Peace has No Sorrow What do you do with a lecherous rat, Lusting and grasping and pulling for more, All is comfy until it sees the cat, Down then comes the lair as all have before. Where there is one it is seldom alone, Swamped by avaricious, black-cladded souls, A dire core of corruption crumbles a throne: Retribution for the hurt to console. Lo, Death does act swift and Death can act just, Who imprints on our holy souls: embossed, Lo, Death is cruel and Death we distrust, Shall I shed false tears for all that is lost? No. Hand in hand, let us see tomorrow! To me hold tight; our peace has no sorrow. March of the Liqour’d A party of trouble o’er in Veletz, One man was tipsy on whiskey, He cried ‘Damn it - down with ‘em, Lads!’ And out they sallied for kingsey! Merry was Valdev, life founded anew, Carrion flowed as melody, Festive and lively all gleeful were they, And they danced for kingsey! Down in the desert, orcs weighted their clubs, One man cried plea, Red in the face; loud they laughed: ‘What you want, pinkie?’ Hooting his hollow, haughty howls: “What they lack is honesty: Treason and strong-arming, Nothing of ours, we truly guarantee!” TThe party of trouble was now of two, One man and one orc did cooee, ‘Come with us - down with ‘em, Lads!’ And out they marched for kingsey! Knock, knock! Was the sound of Orc, And of Man on elvish entry, ‘Open you knife-ears, we need of you now!’ The armies called their lackey. Out poked a head, pale and withdrawn, ‘Um, sorry are we, As you can see, We are clearly busy!’ Without an ally, the group waddled on, To battle their enemy, All donning their pig-iron a rattle ensues, So at Breakwater and Brasca they flee. Westmark was won with glitz and with glam, But a war ought not be showy, So Fortune was quick to turn on her heels, To those with austerity. Hippo’s Gorge was a slaughter, And stassion was erased, Drusco was taken with fervor, And Easworth was - empty! Around a table men did sit, Their homes free of debris, ‘This is our peace!’ so sang they, And safely grinned kingsey. Let old demons sleep where they lay in death, and let the future rise anew. With these publishings, I cast myself fully into my new purpose in justice. Krusae zwy kongzem; Va ve Maan
  2. The irony of momentum, looming wrothful waves crashing a top a gentle white shore: stones condemned to ensuing doom and the weeds atop their white mantles both will despair into the undertow. ~ Anonymous
  3. 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?
  4. This is creative writing, do not metagame Grief. The sister of Tar-Caraneth -the queen of Numendil-, princess of Numendil, stood quietly upon the balcony overlooking the mess hall within the Numenost keep. Not too long ago, she saw all nations united. Trapped in Savoy until the ending, the fleeing of Almaris. Time and time again, she pushed against Aevos war, seeing so many slaughtered to the Mori, to heartlessness, to their own hand, to hell high, and more. A feat within itself to have: to have a common enemy outside of pre-established nations and bloodlines, especially for humankind. Though Aevos... Aevos has proven to be a blight within itself, spreading thin the populous while the nations' grip at the reigns of power rugged terrain of alien soil, all while trying to call it home? There was no holy conquest, no divine right, in this war of spite and hearsay. Have they forgotten the undead legions which linger in the shadows, the poltergeists lapping away at descendants merriment and energy, the monsters which linger in the woods preying on a descendant's seeking refuge? She bet the liches of the land sat back with a cup of tea, to have amusement and death without lifting a boney finger. It was then she understood her birth mother's memoir. A woman of acre, who sacrificed her own livelihood to save others, fighting against those creatures of the planes and flitting between reality and oblivion. In her hand sits a paper, stained with tea. She reads her letter aloud to only the air itself. ~"The very ground beneath us breathes malevolence and the air reeks of the bitterness that has fueled the violent dance of despair. This continent births not life but the twisted progeny of malice, leaving my heart heavy with the weight of a world seemingly beyond redemption. There's no rest for the wicked, but neither is there for the weary. I am sorry my sister, for I do not support this war as its gone far enough, but if you must, I understand. " ~ It was left upon the throne, for Caraneth to read, a morsel of chocolate holding it down. And so, Princess Briar-Rethril Arthalion went to the forest and dug unmarked Graves with shovel and bare hands, all varying in size... Elf... Dwarf... Human... Orc... Halfling... For all those who are to be lost. Holes to place the bodies and burn them within. Briar supported no side. And so, she tended to the dead alone.
  5. 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!
  6. Seas of Time and Valleys of Memory By: Faelion Arather In the realm where statues cast their silent tales, Two sentinels, ancient rivals, unveil, Their stories etched in stone, a timeless duel, As the sun and sea their witness, ever cruel. Statue of Zha'Ero, weathered and worn, Stands tall against the sea, where waves are born, A single eye, jet black, with secrets untold, In grime and rust, its history unfolds. A mighty spear, once forged from iron's might, Now rusted and broken, in eternal fight, Against the ocean's relentless, ceaseless sway, Zha'Ero's guardian, undefeated, holds its sway. Across the expanse, The Last Defender's grace, In silent valley, where memories embrace, A serpentine guardian, in silver cast, Defying time's passage, its legacy vast. A trident raised high, in defiant stand, Tarnished by years, yet it guards the land, In echoes of ancient memories, it is draped, A sentinel unwavering, in defiance shaped. Miles apart, their rivalry unfolds, Legends in stone, as the story of old, Zha'Ero and The Last Defender, side by side, In poetic defiance, their destinies tied. Two statues, timeless in their silent stare, In a world of tales, they both declare, The enduring spirit of guardians of yore, Their rivalry's beauty, forever they'll explore.
  7. A FROZEN DREAM CRACK! A colossal sound echoes throughout the river valley surrounding Valdev as the thin wintry river ice cracks, spiderwebbing from the pressure of the forms bundled down and shivering on the ice. As the sheet of ice begins to splinter, miniature icebergs becoming embroiled in water and beginning to float away, the increasingly large hole created in the centre of the cracking ice sheet is conspicuously absent of its prior occupant… Quiet. The child feels … Cold. An immense feeling of pressure and intense frigidity fills their bones; it had been all at once, and their limbs were frozen. They cannot move. Weakly, they open their pale eyes and peer upwards towards the light emanating from the hole in the ice. They feel weightless suspended in water, sinking down towards the riverbed all the same. They can hear the panicking shouts of their companions crying out, but nothing can spur them to fight it; fight against the growing chill biting their flesh. Their lungs were compounding under the pressure; they couldn’t possibly breath, but yet they needed air. As their mouth gapes open to gasp, begging for the sweet release of air, their throat only fills with cool rushing water as bubbles rise to the surface. Several bubbles break the surface of the open pool with a quiet, understated popping sound. The other children fighting for their lives scrabble, scratching against the ice, onto the sheet breaking apart. One among them, however, soaked and sodden as his hands become covered in dirt from grasping the grassy riverbank, peers out over the ice hole with terrified reddened eyes. “SESTRA!” He cries out in fear. Although their mind fills with recollections of their lifetime and an all-consuming terror as they face their death in the eyes, there is a strange peace found in the stillness and silence. Their mouth and throat feels numb from the effects of the ice water filling them, and they gasp frightfully for air. They peer up at the light from above and for a moment their lids make out the unmistakable piercing gaze of another set of eyes bathed and glowing with light. It is only the eyes’ evocation of wonder that fills their mind in their final moments as tiredness overtakes, and their eyes begin to close. However, a crashing sound arrives in their ears, spurring them to gaze upwards once more. Bubbles float upwards as their frozen skin feels the warmth of another’s hands grasping at them. The form of a familiar boy swims down to the child with fitful determination. The brother grabs them by the elbow, dragging them up from their resting place on the riverbed. Unable to move as the coldness of the river water implants weakness into their muscles, they are passively pulled towards the surface of the water and the ice hole – landing upon the brother’s back. The siblings rocket towards the surface of the water under the brother’s tremendous power, their heads about to breach and supply the child with the air they so craved– Elena Viorica Kortrevich awakes with a gasp for air in a pool of sweat. She looks about the room in worry, before relaxing somewhat as she realizes that she finds herself in the Clinic of Valdev. “It was just a dream …” She whispers to herself, wiping her brow that is sopping with sweat. “Just a bad dream,” She murmurs breathlessly, recalling the events of the day prior. As the fleeting memories of her nightmare begin to fade away, her tired eyes find rest on her exhausted brother, Dimitri, sleeping in a chair at the bedside. Having noticed that one of her cousins had awoken, Marian wanders over towards Elena to check her over. “Ah, vy are too hot, petite,” She whispers in an effort to not wake the other sleeping children, her hand on the girl’s forehead as she removes one or two of the young Kortrevich’s blankets and supplies her with a cup of water. "Ea had a very bad dream …" She whispers to her caring cousin, who nods dotingly. Marian strokes some of the girl’s hair, brushing it out of her face. “Ea see that,” She remarks gently, “Donniet fash; just go back to sleep, da?” In response to which the child nods her head obediently, attempting to settle back down and close her eyes. As her mind reflects on the events of the past 12 hours, she begins to drift off into the endless bob and dip of a slumbering suspension… A few weeks later, the following piece of poetry is published: “A FROZEN DREAM” BY ELENA VIORICA KORTREVICH 495 E.S. As I sleep in the depths I think, Of the weightlessness of water, How my body sways with the tide; There can no more peace be tried. Yet my heart it feels burdened, As each gasp buries me further, The anchor of my grief binds me, To these watery depths for eternity. I lament those sorry sailors, Tears synonymous with sea, Their daughters knew their fate not; Woe ‘placed for fear they’d been forgot. Shall I surface once again, Naught but my debris remaining, The carrion feast themselves while I, Rejuvenate with kin and God on high.
  8. Chronicles of the Silver Flower: The Ballad of Morgana Anarion By: Faelion Arather In the realm of Lurin, where legends take flight, A tale of valor, in shadows and light, Morgana Anarion's saga we share, A High-Elf's heart, beyond compare. With moonlight's grace, a silver stream, She led her people, a luminous dream, Brave, kind, and a vision to behold, A beacon of hope, forever untold. In Lurin's expanse, where perils entwine, Morgana's helm adorned, a symbol divine, Captain of the Silver Centurion's might, A guardian staunch, in day and night. She stood once unarmored, axe gleaming bright, Against the tempest's relentless might, A valiant soul amid the storm's dance, A testament to her warrior's stance. Her leadership, a radiant guide, Through night's abyss and daylight's tide, Roles myriad, like a tapestry spun, Duties woven together, never undone. Yet more than a captain, her tale takes flight, A mage of prowess, mastering the night, From fire's fury to water's embrace, Morgana's magic, a soothing grace. With whispered incantations, low and near, She wielded arcane forces, devoid of fear, Binding realms, weaving destiny's thread, A sorceress wise, as sunsets bled. Amid gardens where silver petals bloom, Darkness fled, replaced by hope's perfume, A leader whose heart beats true and strong, In her, Lurin found courage to belong. So let the bards, in verses spun, Tell of Morgana, beneath the sun, High-Elf of courage, beauty's embrace, Her legacy, an everlasting grace. The Silver Flower, a name rightfully earned, Through challenges met, and lessons learned, Morgana Anarion, in memory's store, In Lurin's heart, an eternal lore.
  9. Beautiful Lurin By: Faelion Arather In Lurin's peaceful harbor bay, Where gentle waves in calmness play, A city of beauty, oh so grand, With flowers blooming, hand in hand. Surrounded by a tranquil sea, Where seagulls dance and spirits free, Lurin stands with open arms, Welcoming all with its gentle charms. Within the heart of Lurin's embrace, A city square of tranquil grace, An iconic tree, tall and wise, Reflecting in a pond's clear skies. Its branches spread in graceful bow, A haven for birds to sing and show, A symbol of strength and unity, In Lurin's peaceful, joyful community. Around the square, flowers bloom, In vibrant colors, they chase away gloom, Roses, daisies, and tulips fair, A fragrant garden beyond compare. Each petal whispers a tale untold, Of love and dreams, in stories bold, The beauty of Lurin's garden so sweet, Where hearts find solace, love's heartbeat. So come, dear children, gather near, In Lurin's haven, have no fear, A city of peace, where dreams take flight, A haven of love, in day and night.
  10. The Flowers of Lurin By: Faelion Arather In Lurin's realm, where blossoms bloom, Their secrets whispered, hope consumes, A world adorned in vibrant hue, A tapestry of dreams anew. But lurking shadows play their part, To tear the dreams and souls apart, Their wicked hands, they steal with glee, From beauty born of majesty. Yet, 'midst the darkness, courage gleams, A spark of strength, like moonlit beams, In trembling fear, hope's nearly dead, But whispers rise and dreams are fed. Each bloom, defying fate's cruel hand, An act of courage, bold and grand, With every petal, dreams arise, Their battle cry amidst the lies. Though shadows dance and fear's embrace, In Lurin's soil, dreams find their space, For like a phoenix from the pyre, In fiery trials, dreams inspire. So let us sing of Lurin's grace, The flowers' fight, a fierce embrace, In every petal, valor gleams, Their beauty braves the darkest schemes. And when the shadows dare return, To quench the dreams, to watch them burn, The flowers of Lurin shall stand tall, In their defiance, they enthrall. For in their blooms, a tale unfolds, Of hope rekindled, strong and bold, And as they rise from depths of woe, Lurin's dreams will forever grow. With every bloom, a promise made, To rise above the darkest shade, Through pain and sorrow, they endure, In Lurin's realm, dreams are secure. So cherish every flower's might, Their radiant hues, a stunning sight, For in their dance, we learn to cope, And find in dreams, the greatest hope.
  11. The First Villainess by Madeline of the River(1933) Penned by Ada Bel Halcourt af Brasca Synopsis: This is an artist's response, through poetry, to condemn the unholy action which has been committed by the inquisition. This playwright and poet publicly condemns the actions committed by an order, an inquisition, which calls themselves Holy. As how can one listen to words spoken by an inquisition who only sees death as the solution for an unborn child? The ones who punishes those who sin when they are filled with blood on their hands. As a devoted follower of the Canonist Church, one has to question such. This story is a tale from the perspective of a young mother while being sentenced to death for her sin, a punishment for her betrayal against God and all of his teachings. Question is, will this mother be able to save her unborn child from the sins of her own? PART ONE LIFE Please listen to when spoken to. Saint Julia with joyful prospects and news. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Please bless the one unborn with bliss and patience. Life of innocence is grown at home under dawn. I worry with a tainted mind, an unkind soul. My child be eyed with disgusted lies. Savages in palaces show shadows of doubt. They be exposed and loathed, then disposed. Saint Julia with joyful prospects and news. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Please guarantee the one unborn be here with cheer. Defend and secure the one who is unborn. Almighty God bless thou. Amen. PART TWO SIN Please listen to when spoken to. Saint Julia in a breath of horror and fear with dread. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Harm be declared upon the unprepared and scared. Madness be spread by the sadness of plagues. Last eve some achieved in burning those who sinned. Last eve some achieved in harming those who are unarmed. Last eve some achieved in spreading ferocity through atrocities. Last eve someone achieved in condemning me to death. Saint Julia in a breath of horror and fear with dread. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Death with a cold grip comes for me soon, please. Protect the unborn with the grip of God. Almighty God bless thou. Amen. PART THREE DEATH Please listen to when spoken to. Saint Julia in a breath of distress and regret. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Dammed am I for sins, dammed is my unborn child. Sins begin in darkness and ends in darkness. Today will weigh with sin on some. Today will spread regret to all. Today I accept the effect of my neglect. But please spare the unborn first-born. Saint Julia in a breath of distress and regret. Matron of humanity, Patron of humility. Please spear the unborn first-born. As ones below shall not spare any air. Sins of a mother they say it is. Too late they say it is, too late. Today the unborn first-born dies. Tomorrow they grieve with guilt. Almighty God bless thou. Amen.
  12. Tears Upon a Rose’s Petal A collection of poetry by Dame Emelya Eloise “The Temperate” Kortrevich Edited and published posthumously by Laurissa Eliza A portrait of Dame Emelya Eloise Kortrevich kneeling before an unknown lover, artist unknown Her Amber Locks Blooming like marigolds atop her head I run my hand against each amber thread Your eyes a storm striking my heart alight O’ to my tempered restraint, I must fight Passion burning within my very soul To deny would take too great of a toll A love forbidden by those way on high But as my oath demands, I shall not lie O’ goddess of love you twist my heart so That eternal dreaded curse: lovesick woe Binding my soul with her fire-red hair The only pain which I cannot just bear Beauty, elegance, strength, heart, and kindness She bears each of these in greater excess Than even you, holy goddess of love Grant me to be with my amber haired dove Struck You bring me to my knees you villainess With unadulterated blissfulness No armor, no shield, can whether your blows Upon sight of you, with terror I froze I knew before your might I could not stand I have witnessed your greater strength firsthand A woman like me, she should be immune But this dame, with fright she can’t help but swoon With all foes have faced, I should know better But a look in your eyes, souls you fetter Women and men, they all fall in great droves Fields full of soldiers, you could raze those groves Upon my knees, upwards to you I face Your smile strikes me greater than a mace Your hand in my hair, your kiss never tart I know your target, a blow to my heart Sacrilege I question why this is called sacrilege A hate which I must defy with courage A love so pure which I know to be true I cannot fathom the hate which they spew Against such a pure thing as my amour Why those like me you decide to immure A crime you created to persecute In attempt to render our people mute Why oh why sanction this grand deception Crusade on evil yet this exception No, this evil must be propagated By your bigoted hands its dictated And everyone remains in compliance Ignoring any who spark defiance You share that burden upon your vile hands Clean thyself of evil and make demands This wide web of bigotry must be stopped And a culture of love we must adopt Break out of acceptance towards evil And bring about a kindly upheaval Tears Upon a Rose’s Petal By your bedside I kneel, like times before But this time sorrow has crept to my core I see it now, the black beneath your skin A dark rot, destroying you it had been My pouring tears, they stain your soft bed sheets Our pure happiness, this sorrow defeats We speak of the times we had together As I watch her life fade into aether True love, between women, have I felt it To her, life I decided to commit In her fleeting love, the sole reveler To lose you is great pain, my Jennifer
  13. 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
  14. POETRY COMPOSITION CLASS II Issued by the MORRIVI PRIKAZ COURTS On this 1st day of Msitza and Dargund of 476 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG EDLERVIK, In a time of great turmoil and strife, it is important for the hearts of the people to be eased with the beauty of poetry. For emotions to be expressed, for the sentiments of the people to be recorded within history and literature, and for the preservation of our rich literary to endure, a second poetry composition class will be held in the Library the following Saint's day after this missive. POEMS The lesson shall cover the following poetry types: Villanelle Petrarchan Sonnet These poems are longer compared to the Limericks and Haikus that were covered in the previous composition class, however their structure remains simple and intuitive. Examples and instruction on how to write such a poem will be taught at this class. THEME The theme of the poems written shall be TRIUMPH, this is to invoke a sense of hope as our great kingdom, and the entire realm, continues to clash against the forces of the Mori. However TRIUMPH doesn't simply refer to militaristic accomplishments, participants in this class are encouraged to think of moments in which they triumphed in life, or ponder the meaning of the word when framed in different situations. LOCATION & DATE Morrivi Library in the Palace at Karosograd E.S 476, Joma and Umund (OOC: Tuesday 9th May, 3PM EST) IV JOVEO MAAN Her Royal Majesty, Sofia of Hyspia, Queen-Consort of Hanseti and Ruska, Princess of Hyspia, Princess-Consort of Bihar, Dules, Lahy, Muldav, Solvesborg, Slesvik and Ulgaard, Duchess-Consort of Carnatia and Vanaheim, Margravine-Consort of Korstadt, Rothswald and Vasiland, Countess-Consort of Alban, Siegrad, Werdenburg, Alimar, Baranya, Graiswald, Karikhov, Karovia, Kaunas, Kavat, Kovachgrad, Kvasz, Markev, Nenzing, Torun, and Toruv, Viscountess-Consort of Varna, Baroness-Consort of Esenstadt, Kraken’s Watch, Kralta, Krepost, Lorentz, Rytsburg, Buck, Thurant and Astfield, Lady of the Westfolk, Protector and Lady of the Highlanders, etcetera. His Excellency, Fabian Otto Kortrevich, Grand Lord of Hanseti-Ruska Ser Sterling Percy Amador, Vice Emissar, Knight of the Realm
  15. 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.
  16. Black Swan's Poems Volume I All poems are authored by Sterling Percy Amador Published by Blue Orchid Publishing Arrival Through rain, I came by cart to see the land, With me, a blade, the cross and book I had. A fresh new start, to serve the lord’s command, With men and knights, in arms with plate and plaid. The land was wet with sweat and full of gourd, A scent of earth and fate hangs strong above. My hand took up the sword to strike fear’s cord I stood alone with dread filling my gloves. The gates soon shook, to grant me way inside. I turn my head to see my house, a hut. My bile turned grey, but I will keep my pride I plant myself, a tree, an oak from nut. Here, bravery will be my spouse. I cannot fear, I’m not a mouse Ode to Jousting The boom of hooves rung in the air Full rows of people cheering with glee Knights mounted on their steeds with flair. One must lack fear and keep their creed. The weight of arms bears honour and word. A horse’s speed is not a joke, A flowing mane of grace that’s blurred. Your lance will miss and shall be broke. One falls to the list field in pain Men yell, bells ring, dogs bark, ladies sing. Get up and train till night again Stand tall with pride, try more with wings. Drunkard There once was a man with a frown With drink, his sorrows he drowned. He took a big swig, Killed the priest’s pig, He’s now been made a clown Axe From dusk till dawn I swing my axe till fatigue, My muscles and bones ache but it is worth it. I will rise in strength, in faith, in skill and league, With axe raised, I smite ye, till thine shield is split. After a day of training, it’s time to rest, Tomorrow I’ll wear proudly my house’s crest. The axe rests by my side at night like a guard, After I’m awake, I’ll pray in the churchyard.
  17. “A quill is mightier than the sword.” The above statement, no matter how commonly used, rings decisively true when spoken. Through the recent conflicts and disasters that have plagued Almaris, it is imperative that we remember the persuasive effects that words can have. One use of the quill is to combine our thoughts into a gentle stream of words that form a beautiful and intriguing rhythm: a form of creative writing known as poetry. Ergo, House Ruthern of Balian invites all inhabitants of Almaris, young and old, large or small, to come to the Brown Bear’s Rest Tavern in the Kingdom of Balian and share their poetry in the coming four Saints' Days. The first part of the event will have participants share a single piece of their best poetic masterpiece to the audience, these works will NOT be judged. The second part of the event will provide a ten-minute window for participants to write a free form style of poetry which they will then share and be judged for by the audience themselves. Please bear in mind that anyone is allowed to be a participant or an audience member. However, if the participant does not wish to read their poetry, they may ask someone else to read it if they wish to remain anonymous. Complimentary Food and Drink shall be provided to the patrons and participants as well. The Honorable Baron of Marsana, Lord Gaius Rosius of House Ruthern
  18. 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
  19. Introduction: This documents aims to create an Anthology of poetry written by and created by various Forest Dwarves. However this does not mean however that works by other dwarves, or even other races will be entirely excluded. The goal of this project is to immortalize the unique culture of the Forest Dwedmar, so that future generations of dwarves can learn of their traditions, beliefs and way of life. The Poetry Collections of a Forest Dwarf is assembled by Garedyn The Mossy. ❃ Poems: 1. The Firefly Queen: -By an unknown Forest Dwarf (Written by VerminHunter) Oh, my Firefly Queen, Your subjects gather at night, They flicker, wishing to be seen, awestruck by your beauty and light. Oh, my Firefly Queen, Your shine never wanes, and sun makes the dark green. The night cannot bind with its chains. Oh, my Firefly Queen, It is now early and bright, I dearly miss your glean, But I know you will return tonight. ❃ 2. Elegy for our Kin: -By an Elder of The Mossborn Clan (Written by VerminHunter) Risen from soil, Suckled on dew, The ground you toiled, Your spirit, it flew. Wrinkles of rings, Spirit like a spring. You are not alone, though we remain, The King on his throne, wants you to join him in reign. When the orchids will bloom, Ye armoured entombed, Our love won’t be torn, When you are reborn. ❃ 3. Sunflower: -By Sir Borris Kortrevich (Written by tcs_tonsils_ (mc)) 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. ❃ 4. A Forest Poem: -By Nivndil Duskhollow (Written by unknown) Puerith’leyu. The trees they stand, A clamour of souls. Their voices born on Winds, are old. Boughs up high, Fairy halls. Roots below, Silent foot-falls. They stand and wait, For times unborn. To whisper secrets, Before words were forged. Amongst their trunks, Beneath canopy dome. To Bate in twilight, The trees my home. ❃ 5. Gold of Woods: -By Garedyn The Mossy (Written by Vermin Hunter) Hand made by countless hands. Over plains, lakes and lands. None compare to its splendour Every wants you from ages yore, Yellow, rich, golden and delicious. ❃ 6. Mushroom: -By Garedyn The Mossy (Written by Vermin Hunter) There was once a shroom on a tree, With a red cap for all to see, A dwarf took a bite. He then caught a fright, He fell, clutching his heart, to his knees. ❃ 7. Wooden Bastion: -By an admirer of trees (Written by Vermin Hunter) Your hide is amazing and so tough Rings of age showing your wisdom Standing tall, never falling Enduring all with pride Leader of the wood Strong and mighty Stoic Grove A brave Oak ❃ 8. In The Sky: -By an unknown Forest Dwarf (Written by Vermin Hunter) Night swallows fly by, So late at night in the sky, Speeding with the wind, Agile and graceful, They are boundless, like comets Unfettered, unchained. To be one of them, One has to let go of all The price of freedom ❃ 9. Omen: -By an unknown Forest Dwarf (Written by Vermin Hunter) The silence of leaves The stillness of trees We must appease the raven The lack of game No wild to tame We must appease the boar The dryness of air, No water in the lair We must appease the pike The crackling roar The burning floor We must run from our home. ❃ 10. Bloom: -By a Garedyn The Mossy (Written by Vermin Hunter) Petals The fields shift hue Their scent is lifted up How wonder full, fields of beauty Blossoms.
  20. 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
  21. 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
  22. “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
  23. "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.
  24. “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
  25. 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?”
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