Broken Crown [IC, Reboot]

[Holy Tedalonia]

OCC | [here] |Geography Map | Political Map | County Map | Vassal Map |Economy Map

"Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live." - Norman Cousins

---

---

Prince Phillip II, December 7, Tuesday, 607 GL
Phillip sat on his seat in the council room as the councillors roared. One hand lying comfortably in its arm, and the other a balled up fist against his cheek. His eyes glazed out to the window. He always wanted the throne, but not like this- not at the cost of his father. He wanted to return to the comfortable life with the scholars, and books he was so fond of connecting and learning from, rather deal with trivial politics. However it was not his calling, and Phillip knew that no matter how hard he hoped to avoid the truth. He mourned silently in his chair.

The room was ordained with marble floor, and pillars much like the rest of the palace. It was once the seat of power for the Entrusil Empire and no expense was cut in its construction. It was covered with paintings of the Gallic dynasty, Phillip's dynasty. And for the council room, it had large windows on the out walls. They were mostly covered, with fancy would covering masking the outside from the councillors, yet allowing sunlight in to brighten the room.

Phillip was of course dressed in fine garbs fit for a prince, however that's where his noble aspect of his appearance ends. He had messy brown hair, and a beard that gets shaven time by time. Pale as the ghost of Luaric himself, and purple coloring below the eyes- a sign of many sleepless nights. Phillip carried a dour expression, no doubt a ailment of his father's passing.

Phillip glances back at the councillors who he had been ignoring for quite some while. Who were still keen on arguing. "Why? Why do you keep insisting we cut corners on the coronation, Prince Phillip deserves as much as his father did when he was coronated!" This was his father's best friend, Eric Valev, a noble of the Valev dynasty in the east. Phillip had always known Eric to be the honest type, an invaluable person to any king. Phillip glances at the other perpetrator.

This individual was older, and a pious individual. Ordained in both robes of a priest, and a staff with a lion on the tip. Phillip knew him to well, it was Cardinal George. Phillip loved books, but they were so rare even for nobility, but the church kept many scrolls and books for the safety and security of knowledge. It was Cardinal George, who was kind enough to allow Phillip to borrow such books. "It is for the good of the church, and of the Lutholic people! These are times of struggle, and the people need a pious individual taking the throne," George shouts only to cough moments after, "with the Entrusil turning to witchcraft, many proper Lutholic's are concerned for the faiths future, we best put them to ease."

Phillip adjusts himself, sitting upright and removing the hand that was sitting against his face. "Its ok, Sir Eric, the church needs a pious king in the time that many kings and emperors stray away from the church," Phillip says softly, "if anything it should be a honor that the church has looked at me to fulfill that role would it not?"

"No- apologies my prince, I spoke to rashly," said Eric dismissively.

Phillip didn't believe much of what he said, sure the Emperor turned to witchcraft, but no-one else has turned their eyes away from the church really. However with the many kings in Osharia and to far to play a major influence on mainland Auga politics, it really becomes three major kings and Emperors that the church needs to keep in line. The church wasn't looking for a pious king really, more like the church was seeking an ally to play against the Entrusil Emperor, and with Phillip being the one of the few relatives standing between Emperor Henry and the Galeic throne, what better ally would be suited for the church. If the Emperor was a witch dabbler than Phillip was a saint.

"Are the preparations for the coronation set?" Phillip asked.

"No, we are still waiting for the bones of Saint Jacob to arrive," said Cardinal George, "it should be here any day, at the very least next saturday."

"Very well, Thank you Cardinal. Make sure the rest of the coronation is near completion, we will have the coronation a week from now. In case, you have some setbacks. We want me crowned as fast as Luaric himself could teach the gospel, however I won't have my coronation cancelled. Now with that aside could you familiarize me with my vassals, and their titles?"

Phillip knew most of them by now, but he wanted to know the people themselves, he heard of the duchy of Rayhaven and its seafaring peoples, and the rich mountain city of Wyster, but he didn't know who held them. To him and his youthful childhood they were, but blank faces who met the King time to time. This was mostly due to most of his time reading books. However he now needed to know them more on a personable level. They might know him, but he knows little of them. Concern for the future, was at the forefront of Phillips mind.

[The Frozen Forest]

County of Willowshire | Duchy of Weslingwood | Kingdom of Galeacia

The crowd roared as yet another pair of knights raced towards one another on horseback, lances drawn to strike. Smash! The bigger knight from House Gelderland tumbled to the ground after a vicious strike to the head. His retinue rushing over to ensure he was alive and well, drug the unconsious man off the field as James von Colbert grasped the reigns of his new steed. The rouncey was originally bred from a champion line in the County of Byrn in the far south, a worthy prize for a young knight who knew how to handle a lance. Moving aside to collect a bit of money that was the actual prize, the young James made his way off to the stables with a victorious smile spread across his face. As he passed through a small gate he was accosted by a young man bearing the colors of Duke Oliver Drakon, ruler of Weslingwood.

Young James was given a scroll with the Dukes Seal and upon opening the parchment, would find that he was being offered a job. Thus far 22 Fiefs, two short of the maximum amount of fiefs one could grant with two counties, had been given away to the surviving hedgeknights who had arrived with the Duke from the Osharian Isles. That left precisely two fiefs to be granted, and one of those fiefs was being offered to James of House Colbert. James was not a hedgeknight though it would be incorrect to say he pledged himself to any one lord, nor did he own any land of his own. Naturally the young man accepted the offer from the squire, he would pledge his life and loyalty to a new man, a bastard from across the Isles.

The Joust continued with as much merriment as it began. Men smashed each other off of their horses with wooden lances, causing shards to spring wildly into the air. It was good fun for peasants and Nobility alike, it was paid for by none other than the Duke. Officially it was to celebrate his ascension to the place of Duke, to boost morale in the province and as an excuse to let loose for the realms Knights and men of high standing. The actual reason that the joust was being held was so that six more knights could be selected for military service. The first, James von Colbert had already been selected. There were still five more knights, these ones would be receiving gold in the form of 0.20 Geld each, a basic wage for a knight just starting out.

Another tilt began as a man bearing colors of red and yellow with a griffon emblazoned on his chest rode forwards upon a destrier of great strength and speed. His opponent, bearing the colors of a purple and white raven, charged forth with an equally impressive steed. The Tournament was coming to a close and people were eager to see whom would be victorious. The wearing the griffon was a substitute however, as Lord Farwik had been injured previously. The two beasts raced forth at incredible speeds, the men atop them lowered their lances just as the gap between them closed. Crack! The man wearing the raven sigil collapsed from a well placed shot to the chest. He fell to the ground, hauling off his helmet he vomited the vile contents of his stomach on the tournament ground.

The winner did not remove his helmet, as was customary. He received his prize money and headed off around the corner to the stables, where he was met with a smiling boy bearing the colors of Duke Oliver. Naturally he was shocked when the man lifted his helm to reveal that he was himself, the Duke. "Just wanted to make sure you were doing your work." He chuckled before racing off. Later that day the men who had been selected returned home with a fair bit of coin in their pockets.

Oliver sat on his throne the following day, listening to the boring drudgery that was Dukeship. Did he not have people to handle this sort of secretarial task for him? He couldn't complain, this was what he had signed up for when he crossed the Channel. "You will both split the piglets, the owner of the sow gets to choose which three she wants and you will take the others, that is all." He closed up the last meeting as the farmers grudgingly bowed and offered a simultaneous, gruff "Yes your grace." With that business concluded he stood, stretching out his young bones.

A man with silvery eyes and hair the color of a snow owl burst into the room armed with nothing but a scroll. He stood taller than the duke and wore clothing typically associated with the Dukes of Weslingwood. He was immediately recognizable as Athelwulf Phillip Louis Drakon, Olivers elder half brother. He was abundantly loyal, in fact he had been the one to greet him at the gates of the Drakon estate following the battle with Karl Drakon, he recalled the dashing smile that Athelwulf had given him. He was a charming fellow-more Galeacian and Osharian surely. His urgency drew the immediate caution of the guards, who stepped before him to block his path to the Duke.

"Your Grace, i-" he began as though unsure of himself, stopping and taking a step back. A fearful expression spread across his face for a flash of time before he began again. "I must declare something to you, i have written you this scroll to inform you of my feelings." Suddenly looking as though he were more determined, he pushed passed the guards who understood now that the young man did not have an intent for blood. Marching up to Oliver he stopped and fell to one knee, his gaze falling to the ground below as he offered a rather expensive scroll to him, bearing the seal of the House. Oliver was unable to hide his boyish curiosity for the moment. Finally something that didn't involve petty disputes between merchant and farmers! He popped the seal open and unfurled the scroll, his eyes scanning the page quickly before he began to read it allowed.

"Most Gracious Duke Oliver, brother, though we have known each other only a short time. You have treated me with the utmost respect as befitting my status as a member of our house and for that i am incredibly grateful. As i watch you go day to day with such vigor, such enthusiasm for life i have come to realize my own unhappiness in this world. Though you have treated me well, though my plate is never empty and my home always filled with fresh kindling wood, i have yet a woman to which i can share my bed with at night. Though i love you as one loves family, i have to confess that i desire nothing more than to begin a family of my own. I would like your permission as my protector, my Duke and my family to allow me to summon Miss Olivia Arlette de Runate, sister of the soon to be coronated King Philip, within the capital. I intend to profess my love to her and to make her my wife.

Signed Athelwulf Phillip Louis of House Drakon

Oliver closed the scroll slowly, frowning. "Whats the meaning of this? Do you not understand my already tenuous position as a newly minted Duke? What makes you think i could allow you to make such an affront to the Royal Family!" He screamed, his composure suddenly blown apart as he unleashed immediate frustration onto Athelwulf. Such a bad time for a request like that, especially since he had plans of marching east following his next birthday. Surely Athelwulf was jesting?

Athelwulf had sprung to his feet, his demeanor as aggressive as a wild animal. "I have loved her since i was a boy! You have no idea how beautiful she is to me, Duke Karl thought it right that that i feel the way i do, do you not understand that such a marriage would also benefit you as Duke? Converging our blood with that of the Royal Line will bring us the favor of the crown!" He changed tact, Oliver would simply say that Athelwulf's flesh was weak if he made the demand based on emotions. He presented a more logical reason, the converging of two bloodlines. Marriage was done mainly to get in-laws, was it not? Damn the Osharian bastard for everything, if he had stayed where he was born then Karl would have continued with the plans and he would be halfway to the capital by now.

"Listen here you, i am your du-" Another voice intruded in on the conversation. He had long, sandy hair that could shade his eyes if he so chose it. Burke Drakon made his way into the room, pushing past the guards who knew better than stop him. He wore his standard courtier garb, but despite his common appearance his eyes scanned the room thoroughly for something the others didn't see. Perhaps it was a knife-wielding assassin, or an escape route for himself in case he upset Oliver. He took steps forwards, words slithering from his throat in a distinctly serpentine manner. "Is the prince not to be coronated next week? Surely there would be no harm in allowing Athelwulf to come along and make his proposal. If nothing else it would flatter the new King, perhaps he'll be more lenient towards us if he understands that we are on the side of his dynasty?" He took a step to the left, coming alongside the throne smoothly. "Athelwulf has been desiring this for a long time, i implore you to at least consider his request. He will surely be thankful for the opportunity." Burke offered a gracious smile to Athelwulf. The man now owed him a favor, he would be sure to remind him of it when the time came.

Oliver fumed for a moment as he considered what Burke had said. "I suppose there is no harm in letting him try. The Princess wouldn't marry a courtier anyways." He stretched again, his pride retained after Burke's intervention. "Very well, Athelwulf, you will accompany me to the capital in one weeks time, for the coronation. You can try your hand at being a suitor only for the duration of our visit. Afterwards i expect you to return and begin thinking of a more suitable wife for your station." Clap! He slammed his hands together to signal the end of the meeting and a hard days work. Athelwulf and Oliver returned to their rooms as Burke went to town. There was unattended to business regarding his highwaymen, they had encountered a problem with a sheriff that had to be dealt with. He disappeared into the night as suddenly as he had entered the throne room.

[Auphelia]

Duchess Sarangerel Pallas, The Aerial Palace, The City of Wyster, December 1st, 604 GL

The Duchess looked out upon her city from the ornate balcony of her palace, smiling at the raucous festival going on below. It was the Day of High Winds, one of the many festivals that the great city celebrated each year. Most were to celebrate religious festivals but many saw it as an occasion to have fun and relax, a right everyone from peasant to king, had the right to enjoy. As the sun fell behind the mountain peaks and the pass below fell into darkness, thousands of lanterns lit up Wyster as festival goers danced through the streets, celebrating the wind spirits. The floating lights took quickly to the air and blew out over the city, whirling about in frenzied bursts and lazy eddies as the unique winds of the high mountains swirled about their large valley. Unlike many cities on the continent, Wyster was so high in the mountains, far removed from traditional places, that the Church held little sway here, and even spiritism and other more popular religions were more or less "followed" to be fashionable. For many, there didn't seem to be any higher power. After all, what could possibly be higher than Wyster? Missionaries had tried and failed for centuries to convert the lands of House Pallas, but few could even survive long enough in these mountains to have the breath to explain their faith. Those who did survive were always laughed out of town, the Church not having the highest standing among her citizens. She was just about to head down into the festival herself when she heard the doors of her private chambers open and several light footsteps approach her on the balcony. Turning to see a small boy in the colours of House Pallas, silver and sky blue, she recognised him to be one of her servants. She glided back indoors and over to her formal seating area, carefully arranging her own silver robes before signalling the boy to speak. He appeared nervous, and she realised he had never addressed her directly before, though this was quite the auspicious day to be granted such a great duty.

"My Lady, a messenger has arrived from the King's Court. The old King, or rather, the new old King, is dead and you have been invited to the coronation of the new new king, his son, Phillip the Second. A date has yet to be set, but it will surely happen soon, as the rider who brought this message took nearly a week to get here. Minister Lan says that with the appropriate entourage and procession, it could take nearly twice that to get there. He also says that as the Duchess of Wyster and Purse of the King, it is important that you attend the coronation to show your support of the monarchy. In these um . . . these . . . troublesome - troubling! - times, the support of all border vassals, much less the financial backbone of the kingdom not cast aspersions on themselves as to where their loyalties lie." The boy took a deep breath, obviously nervous about his mistake in relaying the message. While a bit sloppy, it was an admirable effort from one so young.

"Is that all?"

"Yes, My Lady."

"Very well. Send for Ministers Lin, Gibson, and Kgabu as well as the Mistress of Ceremonies. We will need to begin preparations for my departure at once."

"Yes, My Lady." The young servant bowed and exited the chambers, closing the door behind him.

A new king could be troubling. She had not been down from her lands for several years, not since the death of the old king, but she vaguely remembered the boy. Had he been rambunctious and troublesome? No, he was more bookish. Yes, that seemed right. Still, he was a young man in the prime of his youth. Young blood ran hot, as the Duchess knew herself. After all, how many times had she begged her mother to let her head out to the Eastern Lands, to see her people on the other side of the Great Divide. She had dreamed of seeing the world, and when she went to be proclaimed Khatun it was the best moment of her life, thousands of cheering people proclaiming her to be their next ruler. But even childhood fantasies had to end and she knew that her responsibilities lay here in Wyster, not to the east. However, she knew that the new king was still young, certainly too young to rule alone. What if he were to seek to take advantage of the religious conflicts between Galeacia and that of the Empire? She could already imagine, and indeed had many times in her nightmares. Armies marching through, soldiers demanding housing and food, battles fought in the valley below, her beloved city conquered rubble . . . it was terrifying. Even with these dire predictions popping up like moon-lace in he would have to wait and see how the young man had grown since she last saw him.

Several minutes passed and she mused to herself, thinking of the affairs of her lands, lost in a fog of facts and figures, words intermingling with that abstract process beyond understanding. The potato crops had been particularly good this year, but she knew that wheat had suffered in other provinces, so funding allocation would best be handled by . . . hmmm . . . the coffers were still full after the recent fealty payment to the crown . . . plumbing was an interesting concept, but the implementation was expensive . . . worth hunger?

The doors to her chambers opened once more and four figures entered. Minister Lin, a middle aged man of mixed Wiquan descent, his features mildly pleasant and accentuated by a few fine lines and grey hairs at his temples. His robes were black, as her Chief Minister. Following him was Minister Gibson, the youngest daughter of a minor landowning noble along the northern coast, her red hair and piercing green eyes had not faded with age, her fifty some years suiting her well, the soft green robes of the Ministry of Diplomacy only adding to her elegance. Bringing up the rear was Minister Kgabu and the Mistress of Ceremonies, near complete opposites as Sarangerel had ever seen. Kgabu was a wizened old woman from far to the south, and though no one currently living could remember exactly where she had began her life, her skin matched the colour of the rich brown soil of Delos and her features were unique to her and her alone. Still, despite her age and having served for as long as anyone knew, her mind was as sharp as a steel trap and her silver and gold robes of the Minister of the Treasury still shone bright. Her hunched figure, clinging to a golden cane with a hulking emerald at the top was a sharp contrast to the Mistress of Ceremonies. A born citizen of Wysten, she was young and bright, sure to eventually rise to head a Ministry of her own given time. She was spry, as she must be, covered in layers of fabrics with all sorts of bells, bangles, rings, necklaces, and other flashy adornments, all of which projected her station and mission in life.

Minister Lin was the first to speak as the group bowed to her, though Minister Kgabu remained as upright as she was given her age and the Mistress of Ceremonies kneeled as suited her position. His rich voice filled the room as the group rose and ringed around the sitting Duchess.

"Your Highness, I assume you have called us here to discuss the impending coronation?"

"How clever of you to have figured that out, Minister Lin. Could that be because the news was brought to your first, as opposed to me? Are you attempting to usurp my power and take Wyster for yourself!?"

The man paled as Sarangerel struggled to control her laughter. The other Ministers and the Mistress of Ceremonies smiled along, and Lin visibly sagged in relief and embarrassment.

"I would request that Your Highness not play those pranks on me."

"Lin, you silly man, you don't always have to be so formal. I feel like we have to have this conversation every time we talk!"

"Your Highness, when discussing matters of importance, decorum and proper procedure are key."

"Just sit down so we can get started, you stick in the mud," griped Kgabu, who had already eased herself into a chair and helped herself to a cluster of grapes sitting in a bowl on the centre table. The rest of the group followed her advice, and the meeting began.

"Your Highness, given the massive undertaking a visit to the capital is, I believe it is imperative that you leave right away, tomorrow afternoon at the latest. We will need to get approval from the Minister of the Treasury -"

"I am right here."

"- and consult the Ministry of Diplomacy as to which diplomats would be best to accompany you - "

"Erm, I can tell you that now if you like."

"- as well as get the Mistress of Ceremonies to -"

"We are all right here, you imbecile!" The old woman huffed, a bit surprised at her own outburst, and tugged at a silver sash in her robes. "We don't need you to act as if we aren't here and then expect us to come forward. Right now we only have a matter of hours to plan a journey for our duchess and there is no time for your decorum nonsense. Honestly, the way you get when royalty is involved can be downright insufferable."

"Well I -"

"I agree with Minister Kgabu. Now, Lin, what will we need?"

"Given the time frame, I'd say we'll have to scale back from last year. Of course, staff will have to be significantly lighter than during a typical trip . . ."

For the next two hours the chamber became a whirlwind of planning and brainstorming as the people below revelled. In the sky, balloons both filled with fire and with wicker baskets and passengers within floated about, gently guided by the winds. As she sat back and let her staff keep talking, Sarangerel happened to peer outside and get struck with a bolt of inspiration.

"What about balloons?"

Minister Gibson and Minister Kgabu stopped their small dispute about the number of diplomatic staff that should attend and looked at their lady, while Minister Lin was shaken out of a small nap he was taking and the Mistress of Ceremonies nearly choked on a small finger cake that had been brought out as a light snack.

Minister Gibson was the first to speak. "I'm sorry, what was that, Your Highness?"

"I said 'What about balloons?". After all, they're far faster, safer, and the rest of the procession can move much faster if I and a few others travel using the sky balloons."

"Your Highness, if I may, I don't think a balloon could even make it to the capital. The fuel required, the weight . . . it wouldn't work!"

"Then let's bring in the Minister of Science!"

"The sewer man?" scoffed Lin.

"Now Lin, plumbing is going to be big! I don't understand half of it, but the way he describes it sounds amazing!"

"And expensive," Kgabu grumbles, though she seems to enjoy how uncomfortable Minister Lin is at inviting the Minister of Science to the chambers.

"While we're at it, have the Minister of War come as well. We may need to work out a new security plan to account for the balloons."

Five minutes later a dishevelled younger man in steel grey and blue robes hurries into the room, his hair in disarray and his arms covered in black writing, revealed by his robe sleeves pushed up to expose his forearms. Following him is a woman with black hair marshalled back by several pins and adorned in red robes, the colour of rust and dried blood.

"Your Majesty," they both bow, before taking the two remaining seats.

"Minister Thurmon, Minister Woods, it is a pleasure to see you both. I have summoned you here to discuss the possibility of my personal entourage taking sky balloons to the coronation, to speed up travel and provide us a bit more in the way of time."

"Of course!" cried Thurmon, obviously excited, his eyes already moving about as if trying to see how to best go about solving the problem.

"Absolutely not," Woods said, her face stern.

"But why not?" Thurmon whined, snapped out of his calculations by Woods' firm refusal. A bit out of character for the man to whine, but the mere thought of long distance air travel had delighted him.

"What if archers shoot at the balloons? What if they are blown off course? Where will the soldiers and weapons go? What if the balloons catch on fire and crash? Those are just my initial thoughts, and all lead to the same conclusion. No."

The Duchess cut in before the Minister of Science could respond. "Could an archer hit the balloons while they are, Minister Thurmon?"

"Not unless they were in the tallest tree, had perfect aim and a bow that shoots farther than any bow currently made."

"Could the balloons be steered?"

"Well . . . erm . . . not exactly."

The War Minister began to speak, obviously displeased with this response, but Thurmon continued.

"However, we could have ropes, and they could lead down to people on horseback, and, and, and they could go at full speed to keep up, and if the balloons try to go off course the riders could tow the balloons along to make sure they stay on track."

"I see. How would soldiers and weapons go along?"

"Ah, let me . . . okay, I've got it. Right now we only have fifteen balloons commissioned and completed for you, which obviously isn't large enough for an entire procession. So what if the main party, with the knights and servants and supplies went ahead, arriving to the capital even faster than if you were there, because they wouldn't have to worry about your safety on the journey!"

"Interesting. And in the case of a balloon crash, or if one catches on fire?"

"Extra balloons?"

"What is that supposed to mean!?" The Minister of War roared, obviously displeased with how well he was answering the questions. Minister Gibson tutted and Minister Lin nearly jumped out of his skin, but Thurmon was getting warmed up to the questions and too excited to bother being nervous.

"Well, if we have balloons with space to fit others, if one or two balloons catch on fire they can be detached and the people within can evacuate and get into balloons with space left in them. The journey shouldn't be more than two or three days, so any lack of comfort will be temporary."

"You seem confident in these balloons Minister."

"I am, your Highness."

"What about fuel?"

"Fuel?"

"How will you keep them aloft for several days? As far as I know, they've only been used for a few hours at a time in our mountains?"

"That'll probably . . . . more baskets of coal. We'll have to cut down on staff on the balloons, and you won't be able to return on them, but given out relative altitude we should be able to save on fuel with our need to descend during the entire journey slowly, so as not to give air sickness to anyone on board."

Through the night the Ministers worked, with messengers going to and fro to give facts and relay messages and bring food and drink. By the morning they had a plan. Without the usual security checks or need to keep such a slow and steady pace, the entourage would be able to travel much faster, shaving three days off of their travel time, and would arrive with five days before the coronation. The balloons would leave after the main procession, accompanied only by a small group of twenty soldiers, lightly supplied, that would be able to quickly keep pace with the balloons. The Duchess herself wasn't sure how it was supposed to work, but apparently the balloons would be tied to several large boats, which would keep them on course. There was some debate as to whether she couldn't just go on the boats, if this was to be done with a light staff that their minuscule fleet could handle, but in the end spectacle won, with the Minister of Science and the Mistress of Ceremonies heading the pro-balloon arguments and the Minister of Diplomacy and Minister of War pointing out how it might look like the Duchess was trying to be above the Church and King. It was ultimately up to Sarangerel, who chose to ride among the clouds, a symbol of how her people lived above everything else below.

The main procession left two days later.

---

Holy Mother Morgana Popaal, Falling Waters, The Dukedom of Astua, December 5th, 604 GL

She sat at her writing desk, staring out into the misty gardens of her estate. The name, Falling Waters, did not refer to any water feature, but rather the constant fog that seemed to permeate the shallow valley that comprised the manor and surrounding gardens and fields. Contrary to popular belief, she had not claimed her dozen or so estates by claiming them in the name of the papacy. In fact, Falling Waters had been hers for decades, when her son was a new Pope and the schism was still discussed daily. She had gotten lucky, her having just petitioned the King for a land grant when the lord, lady, children, and near relatives of the estate all happened to die within the same week of disease. It was an awful business, and surely just a stroke of bad luck for them, but it had ensured she had a sizeable estate upon which to base her operations as Holy Mother, and provided a fine income, perfect for bribes and shady deals where her position wouldn't be sufficient to seize something in the name of the Church. Not to say that she is inclined to any of those behaviours, of course not. Anyone who dared cast aspersions on her rarely lived long, the number of living and outspoken enemies could be counted on one hand, even if a few were lost to frostbite. That silly pretend king from those llama lands, for one, though she has made sure that he is shut out of all truly high powered discussion and set the stage for many of the faithful Church-abiding nobles to snub him whenever he dares step outside of his lands. He writes essays that are scathing reviews, but even if anyone listens, none have dared vocally agree. She finds the man annoying, but of little threat outside of his own little echo chamber of empty power.

Ah yes, power. She begins to write again, hoping to keep her mind from wandering once more into the past and far away lands that had no present impact on her. A letter, right. Another one, a piece of her master plan in the works. Swaying the High Priests to her side, putting her son in position, the poisoning, the diplomats, the raids in the Vudal Empire, the letters to minor nobles across the kingdom, the cultivation of her reputation, and thousands of other little plots have all been leading to the months after this coronation. She was once chased out of her own lands due to political strife and an ignorant king who didn't see how an arbitrary change of rule would shake two nations to their core, sparking years of chaos and decades of pointless animosity. She would not let it ever happen again, not while she is still alive and well, and not while she had the power to make a difference.

---

Pope George Papaar, The Grand Cathedral, The Dukedom of Astua, December 7th, 604 GL

He woke up with a start, covered in a thin sheen of sweat, not surprising given his heavy robes and the gentle warmth of the Grand Cathedral, but it was most likely caused by his latest dream. In the smoky main cathedral he peered to the altar at the front, wondering why he was dreaming like this, why thoughts of war must constantly be on his mind, even in sleep. Was it his own anxiety over conflict, or was the divine spirit trying to enter him and reveal something to him. The heat of battle pressing down, the coppery scent of blood everywhere, the roar of the victors and the screams of the dying echoing out among the clanging of steel. He remembered those days, the clashes between the two sides as the Empire fell into disarray. But this was different, so much worse. It was always somewhat different, faces and weapons and even armour changing with each dream, but the place was always the same. The thin mountain air burning his lungs, a shining city on a mountain above raining arrows down, and three dragons flying above, screeching, lusting for blood. This was his tenth dream, and he knew he would have to consult with the High Priests soon. But for now, perhaps he would sleep. After all, he was an old man and needed his rest. He let the gentle popping of the fires and smoke of the incense lull him back into slumber, this time cloaked in the comforting blackness of oblivion.

[Kelmet]

Sabastion "Bass" Monroe, Duke of Rayhaven, The City of Rayhaven December 7th, 604 GL

"My God, I am sorry for my sins with all my heart.
In choosing to do wrong and failing to do good,
I have sinned against you whom I should love above all things.
I firmly intend, with your help, to do penance, to sin no more,
and to avoid whatever leads me to sin.
Our Savior Luaric Lionsoar suffered and died for us.
In His name. My God have mercy.

Amen."

It seemed I spent every morning in the chapel since the day my father passed, few months ago when I was more concerned with fighting drinking and whoreing than being a good son or heir. In the end with his dying breath he announced his love for my mother and I. I took comfort in that as I stood up from in front of the alter and proceeded out towards the main hall as the day of being a lord began in Ernest. Outside quite literally running into the small council, my small council still made up of those that served my father for decades and had know me since I was a child. Meeting me at the chapel has become an unofficial goal for them as it gave them a few extra minutes to catch me up on the days events.

The days now reminded me of the schooling I revised when I was a child. Lord Gottfried teaching and advising me of the relations between lords in Galeacia, how to keep my own lords happy content and loyal. My most recent mission for him was to send a representative to the Diter Leon Grossman as they were our friendly neighbors with an unhampered border between our two lands. So inviting him to a feast or at least insuring good relations is very important to Rayhaven. On a more personal note as a long term friend of my father it would more appropriate to call Lord Grossman an uncle with out a blood connection. I had hoped that our two houses would continue our friendship.

Lord William was my unabashed most welcome hours of the day. As Rayhavens Marshal our teaching sessions happened during sparring practice as he insisted I continue my knightly skills. He also kept a tight bond with lesser lords that would be in a command position should our Banners be called to war, with the death of our king and tensions growing across the Stonehollow mountains was was not outside the realm of possibilities. His most recent task was taking a catalog of all the military forces Rayhaven could possibly produce, what naval assets we had and what manpower we could spare.

Steward Otto while not born noble was raised to favor by my father on merit alone. He was the one I spent the most time with, with him introducing me to merchant guilds and tradesmen in Rayhaven. His teachings showing how the port ran on time to how a pound of stone mined in a quarry in the north could help build a house in the south. His recent assignment was codifying and lowering the trade tariffs in the duchy of rayhaven so when a merchant or tradesmen did business in my realm he not only paid consistently but consistently paid less. His advice on keeping not only the noble but the common folk happy was a growing economy.

Samson was our court spymaster, he was instrumental in establishing my rule in the wake of my fathers death keeping me well informed of anyone potential less than honorable intentions. Keeping tabs on news and events threw out the kingdom was his primary responsibility. It was Spymaster Samson who brought me the news of the kings death before the other nobles in my Duchy.

Then there was Bishop Michel my court Champlain. Before my fathers death him and I had a very hostile relationship as he disapproved of many of my activities, but since then with my new course on life he knew I was trying and it showed. He constantly advised me on how to better my standing in the eyes of the church, to be fair he did kind of owe me that since it was his words threw out my youth that course such a disapproval in the eyes of the church towards myself.

The interesting point in my day was when I was walking the Battlements after dinner clearing my head so I could get some sleep I was approached by Samson. He proceeded to tell me of a plan he and my father had concocted back before his death. I had always new my father was an ambitious man but the plan Samson claimed was his was kingly levels of ambition. To Rayhavens south was the Duchy of D'liscay, The Asnyan descended house of Narváez and a long time rival in the bay of rahaven. Samson and my fathers plan revolved around distrust and misinformation regarding House Narváez to proclaim in secret that there Luaric faith was just a front and that the entire house were secretly Faozorian and agents of The Emirate of Asnya waiting for their southern masters to sweep north and destroy Galeacia.

The thought of destroying another house to advance my own sickened me, but the way Samson put it there was a shred of truth to these accusations and would make sense in D'liscays rivalry with house Monroe.
If there were any truth the these claims I thought, then my home's very existence was under threat and the crown's underbelly was in danger of being pierced by heretical invaders of a faith not our own. Before my trip tribe to the capital to swear fealty to the new king I gave Samson my permission to move foreword, perhaps my fathers dream of a Grand Dutchy would be a reality.

-Freinds of Samson
My friends, the time has come yet again to do the work we hold dear.

These foreign interlopers of the house Narváez must be eliminated if our true goal is to be realized.

God is with us.

-S.

[White Bluff]

Princess Juliana, December 7, Tuesday, 607 GL

Juliana looked out of her tent at the small camp around her, it was much colder here then what she, her handmaids, and some other courtiers are used too, the guards, however, looks much more used to it, then again they were descended from the barbaric Nors men.

She wrapped herself in furs as she walked out of the tent, the guards straightened, one of the courtiers bowed, "Your Imperial Highness." She smiles lightly, "stand please, I don't need you to bow everytime," her accent sweet and exotic. He looks up and nods, "we are about a days ride from the capital of Galeacia." Her eyes lit up she could see the tops of the towers and spires of the city over the trees, "Excellent, thanks you for the news, please dispatch a messenger to the palace at once to tell them of our imitate arrival." He nods quickly, "I'll go myself, your Imperial Highness," with that he gives a short head bow and runs off to the horses. She smiles as he rides off, though as much as she was excited to be here travelling, she rather missed her home land and the Imperial city. The smell of the spice market in the forefront of it all, the warm air, and the sound of the sea.

At that point another young girl came of the deep purple tent, which was embroidered with the symbol of the Vudal Empire. The girl looked much like the Princess, having the same olive skin and curly brown hair, "Your Highness, come back inside to far to cold for you to be out here alone, come inside where it's warm."

Juliana rolled her eyes and smirked, then in quick motion she grabbed some snow off the ground and balled it up then threw it at the other girl, giggling she called out as the other huffed after she squealed when the cold snow hit her, "if it is to cold to be alone join me out here, Aelia," she threw another snow ball at her. Aelia, fed up then grabbed snow herself and threw it back at the Princess as she laughed, the two spent an hour or two running and throwing snow at each other.

When they reentered the tent they both sighed in relief as the warm air hit them both, Aelia quickly grabbed the furs off of Juliana and herself and hung them to dry and joined the Princess by a brazer, that was the first time either of them had played in the snow, as in the Imperial city snow was not common place. "You will get to play in the snow much more now, your Highness, since your future husband awaits you somewhere here in the kingdom," Aelia spoke up with a smile. Juliana smiles at the fact, "so will you, I'm not staying here alone, I will want someone from home to stay by my side, that will be you Aelia, plus who knows maybe you'll find a husband as well. And you may call me Juliana, we're friends after all."

Aelia blushed at the thought of her finding a husband too, "maybe if you marry someone powerful, you could pulls some strings to get me one, your," she stopped herself, "Juliana." "Maybe I will," Juliana responded.

[The Vekta-Helghast Empire]

Duke William de Pascay,
St. Pompay Chapel,
Tuesday the 7th of December, 607 GL.

For hours, he’d sat in silence - lingering in the dull light of a foggy northern dawn. Listening with absolute devotion to the preachings of the local bishop, within a chapel by the coast - he never much liked the urban lifestyle, and - whenever possible, sought out his more wild retreat, here - in St. Pompay, a small fishing village a mere forty miles from his seat of power, and the place where he was first baptised as a child; though he’d been baptized again since, as per his familial tradition. A Pascay who is to rule, wields two names - his birth name, which few shall ever utter to them, and his anointed name. At birth, he was Alexandre. In anointment, William the first. The memory of that faithful eve, upon which he received his Ducal name, lingered ever prominently in the front of his mind, he can still remember the cold, nervous sweat - trickling down his brow as he planted his lips to the cross-guard of his family’s ceremonial sword. Made of near solid-gold, making it rather useless in combat, and encrusted with the finest gemstones. Surrounded in myth and legend.

But this evening, was far more humble than that. He saw in his padding, mail and tabard - gazing up at the stained glass windows of the small chapel, quietly reflecting on the occurrences since then. And considering the fragile future of the Kingdom. When he’d taken his seat, the King was another, elder man - and even then, the realm risked Civil War, both due to religion and succession. Now, a boy - about the same age as he sat upon the throne. Was this to be the rebirthing of a nation? The pivotal moment where a new generation took up power and wiped aside the old Guard that had lead their people to such a frightful point? Or would this mark the beginning of the end? A generation of the inexperienced, doomed to drive the final nail into the coffin of their once marvellous kingdom? William was the kind of man, who liked to think of himself as optimistic - but in such times, he couldn’t help but allow darker thoughts and doubt to beset him.

”I thought I’d find you here.” A feminine and gentle voice spoke out, shattering his most beloved silence. Driving him to finally raise his head from private prayer and to part his hands as he arose from his knees - the dusty cobbles beneath him marking his tabard. A most unregal appearance, for a man of his class - particularly when out in public, many would remark. And with most, he’d at least make an effort to dust himself down, prior to turning to address them. But this wasn’t most people who’d called to him - but his twin-sister, and his last true relation by blood, Adelade.

”I wasn’t aware I’d become to predictable.” He responded in an almost retaliatory fashion, fingers interlocking at his front as he slowly made his way to meet her in the center of the chapel. The duo stopping but a step apart, a certain - knowing look upon both their faces. It’s one thing they certainly had in common, their love of the silence and time for reflection. They weren’t an overly zealous duo, it had to be said - but they both found a certain solace in places of faith such as these. A calm would overcome them and help clear their minds of shadows. Perhaps it was a call back to simpler times, when their mother would take them to the chapel as children - to teach them of the faith and its many intricacies. Or perhaps, it was just because these were the few places in the realm, free of the hussle and bussle of the modern world.

”Predictably dull, mayhaps.” The retort came quick and snappy, and allowed for an uneasy silence to linger for a few moments - before giving way to the two’s mutual chuckle. A bright smile lingering on both their lips before closing the step gap, and indulging in a loving embrace. The young Duke whispering softly into her ear, ”It’s good to see you again, Addy.”

The young woman had been staying with distant family - and friends of their father in Fenbardy, fourth cousins or some-such nonsense. Just for a brief while, as to ‘soak up some culture’ as she’d put it prior to her departing - but William wasn’t entirely ignorant to his dear sister’s feelings, and he knew deep within, that the reality was a need for escape. The death of their parents had weighed heavily on them both, and they both coped in their different ways. He with his need to remain busy, and her - with a need for brief adventure. What had been but a few months, had certainly felt like a lifetime to the Duke - without his mother and father, she was all he could truly rely on and one of the few real allies he had. With the exception of his vassals and close advisors. Though few of them would ever see the more timid and intimate side of his character.

The two, however - despite sentiment, didn’t linger for too long within the chapel’s dour halls. And within the hour, they set-off to regroup with the Duke and Lady’s household guards. The ride to Calailles was no brisk stroll, after all - and it would take them the better half of the morn, and perhaps afternoon to make it there. Though, that’s not to say the journey wasn’t pleasant - in fact, it was among the better journeys one could make in the realm. As the coastal region was home to some of the most beautiful scenic routes in all the Kingdom, and in some opinions, all the continent. Home to many a mysterious ruin, rolling hills and gentle rivers. To grand monuments of faith, subtle and aesthetic riverside villages, and finally, the gem of the Duchy - the Grand City of Calailles itself. It had, in centuries long since passed - been connected to the mainland by a narrow peninsula but since, much of the land had been claimed by the sea, leaving what was once a mountain, isolated - with but a single highway to connect it to the land. It made the fortress perfect for defending the most northern frontiers of the realm, for if Etrusil was to ever secure a foothold in the region - it would need to siege the ancient city, as to preserve their forces’ flank. A task, which - according to legend, has never been taken on successfully.

Although many cities in the duchy would, at times - compete with Calailles in terms of revenue, none could ever compete with it in strategic importance, or in sheer marvel. Nor, could they ever compete with the atmosphere - once you’d passed the Lion’s gate, into the city’s depths. The lively calls and hallers of the market, which engulfed the entire royal mile - which stretched from the gates to the keep. The crashing and creaking of the vast port that took up its flank. With ships from as far as the Eastern Lands settling in for trade or to resupply. With the port sitting at one of the most northern points of the entire Kingdom, making it exceptionally lucrative.

Many here, were still trying to come to terms with the new reality of their situation - not only was their Duke young, and inexperienced, but so was their new king. An aura of change, of excitement and in many cases fear - lingered in the air. The uncertainty allowed dreamers to think big, the ambitious to feel driven and the inevitable worriers to, well - worry. It was a new age and only time could tell, if it’d be a great one, or a dark one.

The traversing of the city itself, took little more than thirty minutes - from the moment they set hoof on the lengthy highway leading to it, to reaching the brass gates of the keep itself. Reinforced with some of the finest hardwood of Dasconny, which was where much of the lumber for the shipwrights came from in the region. It’s natural dark form, easily identifiable by those who knew their woods.

---

Duke William de Pascay,
Calailles Keep,
Tuesday the 7th of December, 607 GL.

From the second he stepped through the doors of his hall, he was bombarded with various voices - mostly just greetings or menial requests which could be answered with a simple yes or no and a brushing off. But one drowned out all others, the pigeon keeper, the man responsible for handling letters from various foreign and domestic dignitaries, ”Your grace, a letter from the Capital - it’s from the royal scribes themselves, it’s most urgent.”

Immediately, the young Duke dismissed his courtiers, leaving on the his Household Guard, Sister and the Pigeon Master himself present in the vast, and pristine hall, a hand extending to received the bound scroll, sealed with the royal mark itself. Such deliveries were rare occurrence and since he was a little boy he’d collected the wax markings in his chambers. A habit of his, if nothing else. He always liked collecting the different marks of the various houses of the continent and he’d garnered quite the rainbow of wax, it had to be said. He broke the binding with ease, thumb tucking tidily behind it before snapping upwards. His eyes scanning over it briefly before allowing a faint sigh to escape his parted lips.

”The King is to be coronated in the coming week. Adelade, go ensure that adequate preparations are made for a caravan to the Capital - I’d leave tomorrow morning, if possible. Only bring the essentials, I don’t want us being bogged down with excess. No doubt the King will be expecting the lords to renew their oaths of fealty to the crown at the event - it’s a lot harder to raise your banner in revolt if you’ve sworn an oath before God, after all.” The words were left to linger for a moment, before a confirming nod allowed his sister permission to leave, and assured her he’d concluded his brief spiel towards her.

”Pigeon Master - Write to the royal secretary and confirm our attendance. And-.. Give the King my most sincere condolences for his loss. I know the burden he now wields, all too well. Alas, I’m sure I’ll have the opportunity to reinforce the point when I get there - but I’d like him to know my position beforehand.” He continued softly, finally dismissing the remaining courtiers - in the knowledge that they’d no doubt have preparations to make before the following morning’s journey.

With naught but himself for company now - he slowly approached his ‘throne’, placing a hand softly atop the arm-rest as he gazed aimlessly out at the hall. His mind once again ablaze with thoughts. The silence deafening.

[The Twelve Isles]

Pres Andregh, home of House Willun
Tuesday, 7th of December 607GL

Duke Tyrus Edmund Willun

Tyrus huddled further under his furs, hugging his cloak around him like it was an armor. The cold was biting this day, and the wind whipped him and the stone of Pres Andregh with equal measure. It had not been a good winter, his first winter as Duke, though he couldn't really blame it on anyone. It had simply been a bad year for crops, and so now there was less food high in the mountains to be eaten. Still, often knights and hunters would go out and kill the goats and sheep, bringing them back to feed those in the castle. It was a lean winter, but one that they would survive intact and strong. But that was not a pressing concern for Tyrus. A pressing concern for Tyrus was what waited for him below, in the main courtyard. He could see soldiers, lined up ceremonially. Outside of them, there were the other denizens of Pres Andregh, the house staff, their families, and others from below the mountain. They had all come to see their new Duke give trial to a man, and likely execute him.

Tyrus shuddered at the thought of it, and clenched his eyes closed. He had killed before, but he had always killed honorably, in combat. He knew the man was a murderer, but he was defenseless and alone among a crowd of strangers. Tyrus felt pity for the man, not anger or a desire for vengeance. But justice was justice, and when the person murdered was a knight, it was the Dukes right to decide the punishment. And the punishment was likely to be death.

Tyrus sighed, looking down into the courtyard, squinting at the sun reflected off of pale stone, and spun on his heel to make his way down. Two soldiers straightened to attention as he made his way by them, each of them looking at each other from over their scarves and under their helmets. This new Duke was certainly a different breed, they had never seen the last one look remorseful. Tyrus made his way down the stairs that slid along the side of the courtyards, taking a person from one to the other with ease and cutting the distance having to go inside and around by half. At the bottom of the stairs, more soldiers stiffened at his arrival, and the peasants bowed their head in respect. Tyrus didn't like that, he was a man just as they were.

In the center of the courtyard there was the headsman's block, and two knights, Kennan and Howel. In In Kennans hands was a long, gleaming sword, curved and waved along its blade. A heavy two hander, a great sword by the very definition of the word. It was named blood taker, and it had taken blood for as long as the Willuns had existed. Along with Pres Andregh, it was their right and their pride, a representation of all that made the Willuns who they were. "Why are you here before me," said Tyrus as he came to a halt in front of the murderer.

The man did not speak, but simply shivered in the cold. He glanced up, then down again under the stare of Tyrus.

"I asked you a question, and I expect you to answer," said Tyrus.

"Because I have killed my Lord," said the man.

"Why did you kill?" said Tyrus. He knelt down to the mans level, and his black cloaks pooled around him like water.

"Because my Lord, it was the right thing to do, as strange as it may seem.

Tyrus didn't speak, but studied the man. He was thin, but wiry. Clearly used to work in either the mines or the fields. He was a worker, and had the look to his face of an honest man. When he looked up, Tyrus nodded in a 'go on' gesture.

"He, well, he raped my wife my Lord," said the man.

"He was a knight under my ruler ship, a statement like that I would take as an insult to myself if I found it to be untrue. I take care to have only honorable men under me," said Tyrus. He scrunched his brow, trying to decide weather he believed the man or not.

"Its true my Lord, I know you are just and I would never say such a thing against those you call your knights unless I knew it was true."

"And how do you know it was true?"

"Because I saw it happen my Lord." The man shuddered, and Tyrus thought that it was not the cold. "I came home from the fields I work, and there were soldiers out front of my house. I ran to the door, and they wouldn't let me passed, but I could see him inside, laying with my wife."

Tyrus rocked on his heels, and put his hands over his mouth and nose, warming them with his breath. "Can anyone else attest to this?"

"My wife sir, though I dont want to make her speak of it if she doesn't want to," said the man.

"Anyone else?"

"Well, there are others in my village who have had this same thing happen my Lord. Im sure you could speak with them."

Tyrus paused again, thinking over his next words carefully. This man had killed a landed knight, under the Willun banner. If it weren't for his reasoning, the mans crime would have warranted him a swift and quick death. But now, that was in question. He would have to be punished, but Tyrus would not kill him unless he was able to prove that the killing had been done without justice. He stood, and said to the man, "I will not kill you. You may return to you village, and bring with you the others in your village back here before me to testify on your behalf. If they say you are lying, then I will kill you. If not, then you may continue to live. If you try to run, my men will track you down, and I will kill you. Do you understand what I am saying to you?"

The man looked up at Tyrus in wonder, his eyes wide. "Yes, my Lord. I do."

"Good," said Tyrus. "Please don't disappoint me sir, I would hate to have to kill anyone, but I will do it."

Tyrus watched as the man was taken away by the guards, and as the crowd dissipated back down the mountains, grumbling as they went. He imagined most had come from the towns directly below Pres Andregh, the miners. But many must have come from the same village as the man, and had followed him up the mountain to see his execution. The disappointment was palpable. Tyrus sighed as he watched the people go, wondering if he made the right choice. He hoped he did.

Kennan and Howel watched him, Kennan handling Blood Taker carefully in his hands, as if it was a child. "Give me the sword," said Tyrus, turning around to face his confidants. Kennan handed it over, and Tyrus rested it casually on his shoulder, both hands on the hilt. It was heavy, and yet perfectly weighted. He wrapped his furs and cloaks around himself again with one hand, and began to make his way back inside Pres Andregh, kicking up little drifts of snow with his boots. Kennan and Howel followed, the three of them making their way inside and up row upon row of winding stairs. They at last came to the throne room, where Tyrus brought the sword and rested it on its pegs, so that it hung from the wall over his throne.

The rest of the day went quickly, and all other matters were much more trivial. There were questions of what was to be done about the food shortage, and which food stuffs were in the most dire supply. The preserved fruits and vegetables were determined to be in the shortest supply, and there was much paper work and planning to be done to rectify it. But in the end, it was far from a serious issue. A mine had collapsed, and the people of the village called for aid, for which they received a few engineers to help them dig it out. But as Tyrus prepared to go to bed at the end of the night, the real message finally arrived.

A messenger knocked on the door, and Tyrus answered it. "A letter for you my Lord," he said, holding out a rolled paper.

"Thank you. You may go," he responded, sending the messenger on his way and closing the door.

"What is it," said Gwyneth, Tyrus's wife from the bed. She propped herself up on one elbow, peering out at him from tired eyes and mussed hair. The messenger had woken her up.

"Im not sure," said Tyrus, rolling open the letter to read, "but its got the Kings sigil on it."

Tyrus read, furrowing his brow. It was an invitation, the the kings coronation. He should have known, he was a duke now after all, but his life as a traveling knight had caused many aspects of what it meant to be an aristocrat to slip his mind. He hadn't been an aristocrat since he was thirteen, and had really only been winging it in the last year of his rule.

"We are invited to the Kings coronation," said Tyrus, climbing into bed next to his wife and putting his arm around her. She snuggled closer, resting her head on his chest, both of their hair spread out together, down after the day. It created a mixture of orange and brown that would have been a painters dream to paint.

"Thats probably the fanciest thing I will have ever bee to," said Gwyneth. "And I was excited just to come here, the big old castle nestled deep in the mountains."

"Its the fanciest thing I will have ever been to as well," said Tyrus. "I was still a knight when the last king was coronated, but my mother and sisters tell me it was like something out of a fairly tale."

"Do you think it will be like a fairy tale?" asked Gwyneth, tilting her head up to look Tyrus in the eye. His voice must have let something slip, and Gwyneth, ever observant as she was, had picked it up.

Tyrus thought about that. He feared this new king. Or rather, he feared what this new kings presence would mean for the Kingdom. There was already rumblings about replacing him, and there was increasing conflict concerning the church. Tyrus didnt like what he was seeing, and he worried that the coronation would instead of being a moment of solemn patriotism and the likes would instead become a moment for the dukes to take sides. And as far as Tyrus was concerned, the only side for him was his people and his family, and he would fight to protect them if he had to. There were already whispers from the peasants in his land, calling him the King on the Mountain for his fiercely independent streak, and it was known throughout the kingdom that he was making moves to distance his territory from the rest.

"I dont know what I think," said Tyrus, "other than that I dont believe it will be at all like a fairy tale for those of us in positions of power."

"What do you mean?" said Gwyneth.

"I mean I think there is a conflict coming, what kind I dont know, and I think that this coronation will be little more than an excuse for people to take sides."

Gwyneth quieted, and Tyrus could practically hear the gears turning in her head. Finally, she spoke. "If there is a conflict, what will we do?"

"Well, if there is a conflict, I intend to stay out of it. I believe that Stonehollow is already a little separate form the rest of the Kingdom, and if war is what is coming, it may be in our best interests to simply leave altogether. Consolidate out forces and power, and simply protect what is ours."

"Who can we rely on for that?"

"Morr Grimm," said Tyrus. He didn't even hesitate. "The man is a brute, but he can fight like nothing Ive ever seen. And the soldiers love him. And besides, he's already taken it upon himself to keep bandits from the roads, how different can it be for him to patrol against hostile soldiers. And with Howel as second in command, we could protect the mountains as well. Both men are perfect for where they are and for what they know how to do."

There was a second pause before Gwyneth spoke again, and Tyrus used that moment to study her. He ran a hand up and down her arm, and she pressed herself closer to him. Tyrus wanted to smile, but for the first time in a long time found it hard. "Will you go to the coronation, or will you hole up here in the mountain?" said Gwyneth.

"Ill go, as is my duty. And I would be honored if you would attend with me," said Tyrus.

"It would be my pleasure to attend such an event with a handsome knight such as yourself, Lord Tyrus of House Willun," replied Gwyneth, before kissing Tyrus on the cheek. He blushed like he was the blacksmiths boy meeting the farmers daughter out in the woods.

"Im glad," he said.

"Who will you leave in charge here at Pres Andregh?" said Gwyneth.

"Howel of course. I would trust that man with both Blood Taker and my own child at the same time."

[Brendislav]

Count Diter Leon Grossman, December 8, Wednesday, 607 GL

Diter Philip Grossman strode about the market streets of Old-Trees with an air of authority, despite 38 year old man with a larger stomach who looked too soft to have been in any real battle, but his elegant attire radiated wealth and his company was that of large strong men. Lord Grossman was never renowned as a warrior, but he promised coin wherever he stepped. His strength was not that of sheer force, but of diplomacy, stewardship, and intrigue, that was how he was taught. He looked around the stalls, merchants and men of exotic origins filled the streets. While not a massive trading hub, Lord Grossman’s lands provided a safe passage for traders, and they tended to stop in town for business. They sold goods to the townsfolk and lumberjacks of Bryn, they exchanged items between other merchants, and they bought lumber, grains, cattle, and the occasional horse. Lord Grossman felt pride in how he had turned what used to be a forest full of savagery into a bustling hub of civilization.

“Lord Grossman! Lord Grossman!” Tripping over market stalls, a messenger was shouting. Lord Grossman sighed, he was planning on confronting some merchants about some missing tariffs, “Go on ahead bailiff,” he grumbled, “it seems as if I have some more pressing issues as the moment.” As Lord Grossman broke of from his enterauge of burly men, he took the small letter and threw two small coins for the messenger. He made his way towards his small castle in the city, he heard some commotion coming from some market stalls. Lord Grossman made his way through a small crowd, he saw a few merchants and their guards gathered in a small circle, watching a teenage boy arm wrestle another merchant. Despite the man’s large frame, the boy seemed to be winning, coins traded hands as bets moved around. All seemed to be going well until the boy saw Lord Grossman, and with a slam, the man had won. Some cheers mixed in with grumbling erupted, “I see you are mingling with the common folk well,” Lord Grossman chuckled, “come with me to the castle boy. We got work to do.” The teenager was dressed in luxurious garb, yet most of it was dirty and worn out, with a few rips and tears. While the damage was not due to negligence, Lord Grossman’s son, Lord Janek, had a tendency to display all of his misadventures on his clothes. “Very well father,” he mumbled, “off we go to fill out more paperwork.”

“Ah, this time we might be up to something exciting!” Lord Grossman waved the letter in the air, “We have been summoned, I’m assuming to the coronation.”

“Still not very exciting father, but at least we’ll get out of this forrest.” Janek sounded a bit optimistic, but Lord Grossman knew the boy thirsted to prove himself. He was much more of a warrior than his father, and much like a warrior he felt out of place when he wasn’t out adventuring or on a battlefield.

When they got to the castle Lord Grossman began to read the letter. He was mildly surprised when he saw it was a letter from Duke Monroe. Lord Grossman had been long time friends with his father, they had often practiced falconry together and whenever the old duke planned any big project he would have Lord Grossman advise him. Now the Duchy of Rayhaven was under the rule of Monroe, a fantastic warrior, yet a poor statesman. He had invited Lord Grossman to a feast, Lord Grossman presumed it would both serve as a way to improve relations as well as a means of discussing the young Dukes ambitions in the near future. Helping the Duke would give the two counties a powerful ally, and potential of obtaining Lord Grossman’s own ambitions. But he also hoped the feast and festivities would not go on for too long, he would not want to miss the new king’s coronation. Lord Grossman drafted a letter.

To Duke Monroe of Rayhaven

A feast is a wonderful idea! The good relations of both our domains is in the best interests of all our peoples. It would also be nice to visit the grave of your father, god rest his soul, and properly mourn. I as well as my wife and children will depart post haste! We will see you soon.

Afterwards he started making preparations to leave, gathering his family, sending the letter by messenger, as well as leaving the realm in the hands of his brother, Lord Gerard. Lord Grossman mounted up and headed for the Duchy of Rayhaven.

[Union Princes]

Beelgrade, estate of House Grimm

Tuesday, 7th of December 607 GL

Morr Grimm

Victory or Death...thought Crispin, a peasant boy no older than 16, House words of Grimm... He, among many others, were peasants volunteering for justice against bandits under the leadership of Morr Grimm, a humorless man with a humorless sword. They were promised bounty and share of the spoils for their efforts in subduing bandits but this was a particularly large bandit camp.

The boy lie breathing on his back as he was still in shock of his first kill. Crispin had slain a bandit that was twice his age with a dagger though his throat. Poor boy was about to faint from the blood on his cheek and hands when a familiar voice called him to action.

"Is everyone still a live?!" the rough, nonsensical voice of Morr Grimm demanded as he took off his helmet.

"Out of the 36 men in our party, I count 4 bodies dead and 12 wounded." answered Sir Bart, one of the four hedge knights knights that also volunteered to join Grimm out of thanks for his hospitality in sheltering them for a night. "Get up boy, we have won this road."

Crispin was helped to his feet and for the first time surveyed the battlefield. This was a large bandit camp and Grimm's party was nearly outnumbered 3-1 but thanks to Grimm's leadership and the skill of the four hedge knights, the party have captured 30 prisoners and an abundance of food, weapons, and stolen money. They simply caught the bandits with their pants down as they were scattered around their camp lingering about while Grimm made sure they the peasants stayed in formation.

"Only take what speaks to you!" Morr ordered to the peasants and hedge knights, "Share the food and money among yourselves. I expect no arguing unless you want my Judgment!"

Crispin gulped hard at the mention of Judgment, House Grimm's ancestral sword. With a skull pommel and a handle forged to assemble a bone, Judgment was a two-handed sword that seem to suck the very soul of a person being beheaded. Indeed, Judgment was called "the Sword that Sliced 1000 necks." by the Stanners, a family of majordomos who served House Grimm ever since they lived in their estate.

While the peasants and Hedge Knights bartered and plundered the stolen goods, Morr Grimm turned his full attention at the line of bandits now prisoners. They were scared, very scared and they couldn't tell if Grimm was secretly enjoying their fear or despising their cowardice with the death stare he was giving.

"Close your eyes." Grimm advise to the bandits, "You don't want to see my sword above your heads."

By the time the party was done sorting out their plunder and putting it on wagons and horses, Morr beheaded every single one of the bandits both the prisoners and the corpses and stacked the heads on top of each other to form a tower next to the road. It was to serve as the marker for the raid that happened here as well as a reminder to travelers and bandits alike that the roads are well protected.

'I assume you took everything." Grimm said as he looked to his party as they gave their wounded comrades some medical treatment.

"Well, not everything." smirked Sir Bart, cheerfully handing Grimm a heavy purse full of coin. "Most of the lads figured that you should get the share of the gold. Their village is now safe knowing that one more bandit hideout was destroyed."

The moon was shining bright by the time Morr Grimm was riding home on his stead. The Hedge Knights thanked him for his kindness while the peasants praised him for his sense of duty as the party split up to go back home. In his mind, Grimm wonder if he is ever gonna meet the Hedge Knights again or come across a different band of them.

Majordomo Conin Stanner was standing dutifully near the stables when Morr got off his horse.

"Sir," Conin address respectfully, "If you haven't heard the news yet, but King Charles is dead and his son Prince Philip II de Runate will be crowned King."

"So it seems," Morr replied gruffly as he proceeded to to his house with Conin following behind. "Well, good night, Stanner. Maybe then we'll see if our wine makes it to his coronation."

[Holy Tedalonia]

December 9, 604 GL
Word would spread across the southern realms of the D'Liscay's treachery to the crown, them secretly being conniving and traitorous Faozorics. It has not spread further up in Galeacia, but it is certain that the story will be heard in great length along with the neighboring dukes eventual invasions of D'Liscay lands. Safe to say, the D'Liscays may not reach Prince Phillips coronation.

[Kelmet]

To Duke Monroe of Rayhaven

A feast is a wonderful idea! The good relations of both our domains is in the best interests of all our peoples. It would also be nice to visit the grave of your father, god rest his soul, and properly mourn. I as well as my wife and children will depart post haste! We will see you soon.

To: Lord (Uncle) Grossman

Excellent news! I look forward to the opportunity to deepen the ties between our two houses.

Signed, Lord Monroe

December 9, 604 GL
Word would spread across the southern realms of the D'Liscay's treachery to the crown, them secretly being conniving and traitorous Faozorics. It has not spread further up in Galeacia, but it is certain that the story will be heard in great length along with the neighboring dukes eventual invasions of D'Liscay lands. Safe to say, the D'Liscays may not reach Prince Phillips coronation.

Lord Marshal William has slowly began to mobilize troops from across the duchy and moving them in small groups to staging points north of the Duchy of D'liscay (Counties 59 and 60) While Samson continued his campaign to destroy House Narváez reputation and claim to legitimacy to their lands while fabricating evidence proving House Monroes legitimacy over the lands to Rayhavens south.

Even now, small skirmishes ranging from bar fights and brawls in border towns to low level fighting between troops of the two houses.

[The Frozen Forest]

County of Willowshire | Duchy of Weslingwoods | Kingdom of Galeicia

The cargo was still being loaded onto the caravan when Duke Oliver emerged from his room, yawning. The previous day had been a complete wash, rain in Willowshire was much the same as it was in the Osharian Isles, in that it was constant and annoying but familiar at least. He happened to be wearing very little apart from a single linen cloth shirt. Before long however, a squire about the age o'ten bounded down the hallway with a fresh pair of garments. He sprinted up to Oliver and promptly dropped to his knee, presenting the clothes to him, panting hard from an obviously quick dash through the castle halls. Oliver promptly lifted his foot and drove it into the squires face. He had no sympathy for the boy, if he let this go without punishment then the boy would become lazy and would always be making these sort of mad dashes. He himself had been kicked in the face once by his master for a similar mistake.

"Next time don't be late." He demanded as the squire picked up the spilt clothes and presented them for a second time to his Duke, a tiny it of blood trickling from his nose. Oliver took the clothes and retreated back into his bedroom. Once dressed he left and made his way to the throneroom. Oliver looked over the retinue of people joining him on the journey to Astua. Harlow Fallowrock, his mentor and Marshall of the Duchy of Weslingwood, was busy rounding up men to help load the wagons. Alfred Tallowfield, his Commander of the Guard and around six of his best men were gathered near the door which led to the throne room. He offered a bow as Oliver entered the room. Athelwulf approached from the other side of the room, seeming to have finished preparing just as Oliver had came in. "Are you prepared?" Athelwulf came to a rest before him, bowing just as Alfred had done moments earlier. "Yes my liege, i believe i'm prepared." He nodded and turned to see Burke against a pillar, looking as shady as he typically did. He offered something between a nod and a bow but offered no further eye contact. Shifty one, eh?

There were two more people who he had yet to view. His cousins, Richard and Beth. "My Liege" they offered in turn as he made his way over to embrace them. "What brings you to my home, cousins?" He smiled brightly despite the fact that he'd only met them earlier that year after taking power. Both proved to be incredibly helpful in holding power in Weslingwood, they knew the inner-workings of managing such places, they were invaluable. Richard as bold as he was, answered first. "We heard that you were traveling to the Princes Coronation, we were wondering if we could join you?" Oliver nodded naturally, of course they could join the group. They would be safer with him anyways, highwaymen knew better than to attack someone like a Duke.

They looked grateful and beth offered him a girlish thank you. "Merci cousin. J'espère que tu vas bien?" He was at a loss, the second sentence was too much for someone who spent their childhood in the Osharian Isles. "She said that she hopes you are doing well." Richard quickly stepped in to translate for her. "Tell her i am fine, thank you." Richard turned and translated his words. "Il a dit qu'il allait bien." She seemed pleased with that response. "C'est une bonne nouvelle. Êtes-vous impatient de voir la capitale?" Richard nodded and turned to Oliver. "She said that it is good news your doing well, she asks if you are excited to see the capital?" He nodded, becoming tired of this translating game. "No, i'm pleased that i have the opportunity to meet the soon to be King in person." Richard translated and Oliver, his attention needed elsewhere, offered a polite hand-wave. "Please tell her thank you, but that i must attend to the carriage." He smiled and was off before she could reply.

He did not in fact go to where the carriage was, but to where the driver was standing. "How long do you think the trip will be?" His sudden appearance caused the wizened old man to drop suddenly and bow, a small blue linen hat following off his balding head. "Mine own liege! i didn't realizeth yond thee w're going to meeteth me h're on the dock. I believeth yond t'll about three days as longeth as the weath'r stays passable. How art thee this m'rning?" If there was one thing Oliver did enjoy about his driver, it was that he was one of the most respectful men he had ever met towards him, and that he came from the Osharian Isles, just as Oliver did. "I'm well, thank you as always Allard." The man smiled to reveal a row of broken and rotten teeth. "Aye sir, fain to heareth't."

The two men talked for a short hour before a squire, a different one from the one that Oliver had kicked earlier, rushe over and bowed to the men. "The w'rk beest done masst'r!" He announced in a high-pitched Osharian voice. Without another word Oliver made his way inside, evidently Alfred had already gathered everyone up to leave when he saw that the boy was finished. He sat with Alfred, Beth, Richard and one of his Knights. In the carriage behind them was Athelwulf and Burke and two other Knights. There was one final carriage behind that, carrying two three more knights and one of his ladies in waiting.

"So who do you plan on meeting in the Astua? Surely your not just attending to swear your fealty to Philip?" Oliver nodded at Richards question. "Your right, i'm not just attending to swear fealty. I intend to speak with the Duke of Larranna, William de Pascay. Well, him and Tyrus Willun of...i believe it was a place known as Stonehallow? Is that right?" He questioned Richard, who tended to know the answer to such questions. "Yes, his people know him as The Black Knight. Nasty Fellow, i heard he married a peasant girl! Can you imagine such a thing?" Richard visibly trembled. Oliver himself thought it was a bit unusual to marry someone of such low station, he couldn't imagine doing so himself. "I should mention that i'll be looking for an alliance. Does Tyrus Willun have any daughters?" Richard looked shocked that he would even consider the notion, Oliver was sure that in Richards mind that the Willun family would have a tainted bloodline even if the answer was yes.

"Well, no. But he does have three sisters that i have heard about. I'm unsure of their marital status though. I am also unaware of whether House Willun has any other women of age, though i feel if they did, i would know about it." Oliver nodded, noting that there were indeed three sisters and that there was a possibility that all three were of age to be wed. "And William de Pascay, does he have any daughters? Any sisters?" Richard nodded as though to encourage Oliver. "He has no daughters of age, but he does have a sister. I do not recall her exact age, but she's starting to become a woman. Many other Nobles will have lost interest, but she will still surely be a fine wife is you chose to court her." Oliver was satisfied with that answer.

"What about...S-Surengerl Paellas?" Beth spoke up in weak Osharian. She preferred to speak in her native language, being much more fluent with it. Osharian was a second language for her, he could forgive the screwing up of Duchess Sarangerel Pallas's name. Richard quickly corrected her before speaking to Oliver. "Well, as far as i know she is unmarried. She is also a powerful woman, being a Duchess. However she is far past the typical age of marriage. I believe she is in her late thirties, once she passes her forties she will no longer be able to bear children." Oliver was unconcerned. He had no intention of marrying the woman anyways, she was far away so it would be a impractical arrangement. "Perhaps if i meet her there i could arrange for some sort of agreement to encourage trade." These discussions continued as the carriages moved along the road. In a few days time they would be in the Capital, earlier than most vassals, with time to see the city. Half an hour along he learned that Beth had wanted to go with them to seek out a husband of her own, he promptly agreed to arrange it if anyone of status were to court her.

[Benuty]

Grand Hall of Laierpo, Lamist Territories.
Eastern Territories Company Office & Warehouse
December 7th, Tuesday, 607 G

The Governors Caravan under direction of his wife had been busy all day packing up goods belonging to the company and preparing them for the journey to the princes ducal territories. Per various treaties, the company was expected to give a flat 30% of its profits to the Governor once yearly. The King was entitled to ten percent yearly, but coronations got him another ten percent. If it were a wedding it would be five percent of the profits, but out of all this, the E.T.C managed to keep a majority of its profits. The various provincial leaders of the territories invested heavily in the company in order to gain better access to foreign goods, and for the less morally intact information.

The E.T.C reportedly had spies everywhere, but no one could truly prove this to be the case given their warm relations with the royal family, and ultimately the various Governors here. Profits could range from the finest silks, clothes, jewelry, and exotic foods not available in the kingdoms to things such as pets, maps, and weapons of war. The E.T.C answered to its shareholders first, and foremost keeping many dark secrets within their office. No doubt some agents of the E.T.C have in fact killed people to maintain the company line, but they don't commit such crimes out of malice, but merely to keep their employers intact. The loss of the E.T.C would send the economy into freefall, but that isn't to say the realm wouldn't ultimately recover as scavengers picked up the pieces.

This, of course, is a reality the board in charge of the E.T.C don't want to come to pass, and therefore if it takes a few deaths a year to preserve the realm so be it in the minds of some higher-ups.

Grand Hall of Laierpo, Lamist Territories
Governors Private Study
December 7th, Tuesday, 607 GL

The Governor would be in near darkness were in not for the candle he had lit much earlier. The silence in the room was broken only by the sound of a quill, and the smell of incense permeated it. Audwin in respect for dissenter tradition had just left a prayer in memorial for the dead. Unlike the mainstream, prayers were intensively private, and intensely quiet often bringing about meditative states. With Audwin the sound of a quill could break him out of the trances, and as such his loyal servant of ten years was tasked with doing this to ensure he left the trance. There were those who reportedly could stay entranced in prayer for days, and even weeks if left completely unattended.

In prayer one communes with the light, the very spark of the natural world known as God ie the one who reigns above all else. "For God is everything, everywhere, and everyone" Audwin whispered in parting ending the prayer. The Dissenters have a highly universalistic view of life itself viewing it not just to be a part of gods creation, but also part of God itself. The material world of touch, sight, sound, smell, and taste were all extensions of this material order of light over the curse of death brought by the rebellious darkness. Dissenters have often been accused of calling themselves God, but ultimately it is a misunderstanding of the fact that Dissenters believe that souls are the immortal piece of the divine light.

This means everyone ultimately carries a piece of God within them waiting to be unleashed the moment someone becomes perfectly complete with existence. To live in pursuit of the virtues is to attain perfection and the ultimate peace against the darkness, and its curse of death. Audwin motioned for the servant to help him back into the chair, and after a moment of work managed to do it. Audwin's status as a cripple was the result of an accident with a horse in a tournament, but to Audwin his crippling was a test from the divine to seek a path of humility. Audwin rarely left the territories save to journey for diplomatic reasons and negotiations.

Like the prophet before him, and the many dissenters who died for their faith he must now make the great journey of his life. Within several hours once the caravan loaded Audwin, and his chosen court would traverse the lands of the realm, and come before a lion's den of political intrigue, schemes, potential war, and potential murder in the making as well. To preserve the land as well as the rights of the dissenter faithful was his duty, but if the realm were to go into civil war, and bleed perhaps some meaningful reform could be enacted? Audwin looked to a large scroll containing various actions, and reforms for a grand scale measure known as "the royal confederacy". If the right strings were pulled, and the right outcomes assured then beleaguered lords in need to a times peace would sign it for anything including his ideas.

Audwin looked up and heard men shouting that the caravan was complete, and they would be ready within a few hours time. The candle was blown out, and the servant helped Audwin back to his chambers. Before leaving in the morning however judgment first had to be rendered on an escapee from the prince's territory. The territories forbid the practice of execution as an affront to the true judge of all, and as such many have fled here seeking refuge. This case would be particularly sensitive since a prospective bride was brutally raped, and murdered by the accused. To hand him over would surely mean his death, but to not hand him over would continue to encourage fleeing here.

Audwin, as he was helped into the bed, couldn't help, but wonder for an answer, and perhaps his dreams could provide him with one. If not there then perhaps his wife once she was back from overseeing the caravan.

[Ruskland-Preuben]

Seastone Hall, Seat of House Crossman, rightful Lord Reavers of Barren Coast|Kingdom of Galeacia

“Bring him in!” Warwyck II shouted, and his vassal, Lord Quenton Graygrace of the Grays, brought in a ragged man with many bruises, and he was screaming and shouting at them, a knight of Astua he said, but his recent actions were anything but knightly, and here he was, to be judged. Stripped of his armor and weapons beforehand, he was brought to a kneeling position before the Seastone Chair.

He walked up to the knight with a proud stride, “Ser Narveaz, you are here before me to answer for your crimes,” he began, “Plead guilty and you will simply be tortured and let-“ he was interrupted by a gob of spit hitting his face.

“Fuck you and your fish gods, seaman.” was the knight’s reply to him, and the reply of Warwyck was hitting him in the groin and in the stomach, both sensitive spots as the Lord Reaver had noticed, Lord Quenton added up to that by hitting him hard on the head, dazing the dishonorable man.

“You will talk to the Lord Reaver with respect, knave.” Graygrace spoke with such venom that if words could kill, Narveaz would be nothing but a smoldering spot of soot on the floor.

“Indeed,” Lord Reaver Warwyck II replied, “Now, do you plead guilty or not? My patience is running thin, so you better answer accordingly Ser.” he wiped off the spit from his face, and proceeded to spit upon the already dazed knight, who replied by headbutting the Lord Reaver, well, tried to, he was too dazed to land it.

“Fhucck, yuuo asssh... Phelliep wil saev- urg.” Ser Narveaz was interrupted for the last time by a knee to the chin.

“Alright, you pleaded not guilty...” a dramatic pause as Warwyck’s expression darkened, and a smile grew on his face, “Wrong answer it seems. GUARDS! Bring me a heated sword, as hot as possible.” he ordered, and a few minutes later, after the Lord Reaver had worn a glove and a gauntlet and beat the knight with it, it arrived. Without any hesitation he grabbed it and quickly thrusted at the manhood of the knight, his screams complimented by sizzling flesh, and Warwyck quickly retracted it, “Looks like-“ a thurst to the stomach, “You won't be-“ a overhead strike to the sword arm meant to sever muscle, “Raping and killing, anytime soon.” elbow to the head. The knight was still conscious, but barely, and was weeping uncontrollably.

“Ser Garth Narveaz, for the crimes of rape and murder, and near my capital county nonetheless,” he took a deep breath and blew into the blade, cooling it somewhat to prevent any cauterization, “I hereby sentence you to die by beheading, any last words?” then he laughed at the brutalized man.

“That’s right, none! You can’t talk at all!” he laughed some more before abruptly cutting it, “Die.”. The head flew cleanly off the body, and rolled to the floor.

“Clean this mess up.” he ordered nobody in particular, but Quenton and the guards quickly picked up the body and head, to be dumped somewhere and be placed on a spike respectively. It was when everything was sorted out that a messenger arrived, holding two letters, “Lord Reaver, messages bearing the king’s seal.” the man spoke with respect, he saw the bloodstain on the floor and knew what had occurred. “Bring them in, then leave me.” he told the man, who did as such, gave them up, and left without another word. Warwyck II sat on his chair once more, and slumped in his seat.

The dark, beady eyes of Warwyck II Crossman had a their usual calculating glint to them, but these had a hint of cold this time around. “Traitors in our midst, how our new king will respond will be rather obvious.” the Lord Reaver thought to himself as he read of the letter sent to him detailing the betrayal of the D’Liscay realms, “Never could trust those shady Faozorics, cowards, the lot of them.” concluded the young man as he put down the piece of parchment.

He took another parchment, one detailing the coronation, and the summons, “They got my title wrong once more! When will this discrimination end!” he had noticed that one glaringly annoying problem tended to occur every time a letter was sent to him from anyone not his vassals, and that he was called Duke, “I’m a damned Lord Reaver you fool greenlanders!”. He thought to himself once more, Word errors aside, perhaps I shall attend this coronation, and perhaps I shall find people to support me...” he concluded, stating his opinions on the letter, and he placed it with the other one. “Heh, looks like the new king is your friend Garth, unfortunately, he still won’t save you.”

He then stood up and took a bottle of wine from a nearby table, pouring it in a silver goblet that he had with him since he began ruling in Barren Beach, and then proceeding to down the drink, it was tangy, a bit bitter, but still good, “Just how I like it, and this hit the spot.” he mentally spoke, pouring another cup and downing it, along with the stress from the earlier execution. His twin sons would arrive after he placed the goblet back on the table with his wine.

“Ah, Oswyck,” Oswyck was his eldest son out of the twins, “Randyll.” Randyll was younger by a few minutes. Both sons had the same amount of potential young Warwyck had when he was but a young child, and the older Warwyck seeked to extract this potential and turn his twin sons into men that would be remembered in the annals of history.

“Greetings father,” Randyll began speaking, there was a pause as he observed his father’s expression, “So, something has happened?” he asked him.

“Indeed my son, there has been treachery in the southern regions,” he took a breath, “Those damned Faozorics, behind it all.” another cup of wine was taken, and he drank it with gusto. “And that’s not all-“ he was interrupted politely.

“We know of the other, Father,” Oswyck spoke to him in a soft tone, “The King is dead, long live the King, as they say.” the elder son spoke, a slight smirk on his face as he said those words, the blood on the floor seemed to have prevented a full blown smile.

The father countered by wearing a faint smile upon his face, “Well, it looks like both of my sons still have their sharpened minds,” he spoke, turning himself to face them, “Well, if you’re asking to be excused, you are, and make sure your minds stay sharp!” he ordered them, and the two left.

His faint smile grew into a predatory one, and he chuckled slightly, “Philip de Runate, what actions will you take, hmm?” he asked nobody in particular.

[Holy Tedalonia]

Prince Phillip II, December 12, Tuesday, 607 GL
Phillip stood in the throne room, gazing at his soon to inherit throne. It was made of the best quality wood in the realm, and two decorative pillows supporting the back and the bottom, comforting whoever sat. It wasn't anything like the stone throne in the Entrusil Empire, but it served the crown well. Even King Charles sat there when he ruled the Entrusil Empire, so it was fit for both emperors and kings alike.

He quietly contemplated how his reign would be like. A tyrant sitting on his throne demanding heads? Or perhaps a man to bring peace to the realms of Auclus? Regardless is ascension to the throne would be two days from now, and he would become King of Galeacia. The thought disturbed him, now the days of endless research and reading were gone, replaced with a never-ending cycle of rule. The thought saddened him, but he knew the day would eventually come.

"Brooding brother? Seems like old habits die hard," said a voice from the throne room entrance. Phillip didn't turn to face the voice, for he knew who it belonged to already. That sweet voice came from his only sister Olivia. "You know me to well, sister. Dangerous to have someone like you alongside a king," Phillip joked, "How was your trip?"

"Boring, staying with our mother's relatives was boring. Jared grew a bit older, but was a bore like always, and besides the timing couldn't be worse," Olivia said murmuring.

"Couldn't say it better myself," Phillip said, "I wish he were truly still around, but with me being the crown prince. I can't allow wishes to get in the way or prevent me from doing my god-given duty. A curse of a monarch is it not?"

"Truly so brother, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now," Olivia agreed, "I'll see you tomorrow. On my way here, Cardinal George told me to inform you that your dukes should be here, or almost here by now. They may desire to see meet you in person to garner favor."

Phillip nods in silent agreement as Olivia departs. He wanted as much silence as he could get, before the last of it would be taken from in as his ability to read his books and notes has also been striped from him with the coming of new responsibilities and a entire realm to manage. How he missed his father, both for his selfish reasons and for his sister sake. He knew she loved him very much. None of that though could change the tide of fate.

[Kelmet]

Prince Phillip II, December 12, Tuesday, 607 GL
Phillip stood in the throne room, gazing at his soon to inherit throne. It was made of the best quality wood in the realm, and two decorative pillows supporting the back and the bottom, comforting whoever sat. It wasn't anything like the stone throne in the Entrusil Empire, but it served the crown well. Even King Charles sat there when he ruled the Entrusil Empire, so it was fit for both emperors and kings alike.

He quietly contemplated how his reign would be like. A tyrant sitting on his throne demanding heads? Or perhaps a man to bring peace to the realms of Auclus? Regardless is ascension to the throne would be two days from now, and he would become King of Galeacia. The thought disturbed him, now the days of endless research and reading were gone, replaced with a never-ending cycle of rule. The thought saddened him, but he knew the day would eventually come.

"Brooding brother? Seems like old habits die hard," said a voice from the throne room entrance. Phillip didn't turn to face the voice, for he knew who it belonged to already. That sweet voice came from his only sister Olivia. "You know me to well, sister. Dangerous to have someone like you alongside a king," Phillip joked, "How was your trip?"

"Boring, staying with our mother's relatives was boring. Jared grew a bit older, but was a bore like always, and besides the timing couldn't be worse," Olivia said murmuring.

"Couldn't say it better myself," Phillip said, "I wish he were truly still around, but with me being the crown prince. I can't allow wishes to get in the way or prevent me from doing my god-given duty. A curse of a monarch is it not?"

"Truly so brother, I wouldn't want to be in your shoes right now," Olivia agreed, "I'll see you tomorrow. On my way here, Cardinal George told me to inform you that your dukes should be here, or almost here by now. They may desire to see meet you in person to garner favor."

Phillip nods in silent agreement as Olivia departs. He wanted as much silence as he could get, before the last of it would be taken from in as his ability to read his books and notes has also been striped from him with the coming of new responsibilities and a entire realm to manage. How he missed his father, both for his selfish reasons and for his sister sake. He knew she loved him very much. None of that though could change the tide of fate.

Duke Monroe, December 12, Tuesday, 607 GL
It had been years since I had been to the capital, the last time I did so I was accompanied by my father as he was lobbing the king for his endorsement and funding of a royal navy under house Monroe's leadership.
Tho the memory of my father saddened me I did miss it, the very seat of our nations power was enough to make any lord jealous of these lands. Accompanied by a small group of guards and my spymaster Samson, who was disguised as a common servant for this trip I headed to meet the prince.

(Border or County 59 and 63) The Village of Silver Cove.
Another small skirmish between the Forced of Rayhaven and D'Liscay.

[Bentus]

Emelyn Rouselle
The King’s Court, Long Live the King
December 12, 607 GL

---

Emelyn sat at the table with her brow furrowed, the warmth of the Sun landing refreshingly on her shoulders as she looked over the letters and notes that lay before her. A few birds chirped in the afternoon air as she felt her lungs clear in the calming quiet of the royal gardens. She liked to take her chores and work outside the palace whenever possible, the green hedges and colourful flowers of the gardens helping to freshen her mind as she went about her duties. All too often, Emelyn felt restricted within the walls of the palace, trapped within the confines of the mind numbing routines of Courtly life. Half the time she wondered if they were any better off than the steeds maintained by the stablehands, treated kindly until they were ignorant of their own imprisonment while retaining no true freedom of their own. It was true that there was influence to be gained within the Court of one’s liege, and the connections and intrigue could offer opportunities to the ambitious, but at what cost?

A satisfied sigh drew Emelyn from her reverie as the woman seated on the bench across from her set aside her needles. She didn’t seem to be any older than the red-haired courtier, but the other woman’s expression seemed less contained and more outgoing, as if she exuded a friendly innocence that Emelyn had lost somewhere along the path of her life.

“Emelyn, what do you think?”

Beatrice lifted the dress that she had been working on, allowing its fronds to drop so that her friend could look at it in its entirety. The woman was beaming with pride, clearly satisfied with her work and hoping to receive vindication from the other courtier. Putting down her quill, Emelyn forced her attention away from her own task and surveyed her friend’s dress with a critical eye.

“It looks amazing, Bea. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.” The courtier took the praise in her stride, brushing it aside with a wave of her hand. Emelyn smirked, amused at the woman’s faux-modesty. “Although you don’t think that you’re getting a bit over-excited?”

The words were like a stab through Beatrice’s chest, and she recoiled in shock at the accusation. “What? No!” Shaking her head, Beatrice couldn’t help but pity her friend. “All of the King’s vassals will be visiting for his coronation, can you imagine it? There’ll be dances and balls, feasts and galas - how could I not put in all my effort to at least look nice for such an occasion!”

Emelyn rolled her eyes in amusement, shifting to return her attention to the letters and guest lists that lay scattered before her. She had been trained to read and write during her youth, a skill which she hadn’t truly appreciated at the time but meant that she was often tasked with helping to organise visits and events at court. “If I didn’t know you any better, I would say that you’re trying to impress someone.”

That brought a hint of colour to Beatrice’s face, and she clutched the dress closer to her chest defensively. “So, what if there is? Come on Emelyn, you can’t possibly think that it’s not going to be at least a little bit romantic. There’ll be knights in shining armour from across the land, counts and duchesses in their finest dresses while the best musicians of the Kingdom perform for them all. It’s going to be a real celebration.”

Emelyn sighed in amusement, already engrossing herself increasingly in her work. “Romance is for children Bea. Everyone will be coming here to try and curry the new King’s favour while trying to stab each other in the back. Hardly the best environment for a week of enjoyable festivities.”

Pouting, Beatrice shook her head at her friend’s negativity, winking playfully. “Says you. You’re just jealous that you don’t have a pretty dress for the dance.” Both women laughed at that, although quiet returned as they both returned to their respective tasks. But, Emelyn’s words continued to roll around within Beatrice’s mind until eventually she spoke up once more. “You can’t keep thinking about everything so suspiciously, Emelyn. This is a time to celebrate and be jovial, especially after the funeral. If you go into it as a pessimist then of course you’ll have an awful time.”

Emelyn grunted in response, but didn’t look up from her work. Beatrice bit her lip, wondering if it was worth prodding her friend further before eventually deciding against it. Emelyn was a good friend and was popular among the courtiers for her diligent and hardworking attitude, but she seemed so devoid of ambition or excitement! It was such a shame, really.

[Benuty]

Governor Audwin Richter, Kingsroad
The Mount of White, and Black
December 9th, Wednesday, 607 GL

The governor's caravan had made a journey along the extensive king's road before stopping shortly within the boundaries of the princely territory. The mount of white, and black got its name for having served two functions within the dissenter faith. It served as the site of several battles following a massacre of the dissenter faithful when they had gathered for service in secret atop the mount. The king's forces from a time long ago slaughtered them all within a night and sparked one of the worst phases of the first war. Lord Ashbury one of the members of the seven great houses of the southlanders personally led an expedition renowned for its brutality reportedly because one of the worshippers was his daughter.

Lord Ashbury's campaign of terror resulted in farms burning, villages utterly wiped off the face of the earth, and thousands dead. Ultimately when a throng of refugees was heading to the capital they were cut off by Ashbury's forces. The throng was told simply to wait upon the top of the mount, and wait they did. Lord Ashbury ordered the mountain pathways collapsed stranding thousands atop the mountain where winter took many of them. Others chose to end it by jumping off the mount, but one soul strived to keep the peace amongst the scared remnants.

The queen at the time had come back from a pilgrimage only to be redirected onto the mount, and wait alongside all the others. She kept who she could calm, and simply waited for the time to come. As the food ran out people under her guidance simply chose to die honorably, and starve rather than consume the flesh of others by the time help did in fact come several weeks later. Lord Teddon another of the great houses furious at Ashbury's campaign ordered the mountain passes unblocked, and found the queen dead amongst everyone else who remained there. Lord Tedden risked his own life, and personally brought the queen while unarmed (in order to show good faith) back to the capital and was allowed to leave unmolested by the grieving king, and his forces.

A statue to Lord Tedden remains for his actions in giving proper burials to all who died here instead of lumping them into a mass grave. Witnesses report the man personally assisted in every single grave, and despite the protests of some priests ensured those who died by suicide were given proper burials as well. Lord Tedden insisted that it was not suicide, but murder, and as such these former refugees were guaranteed proper burials. History has come to view him in the right since after a year's worth of investigation not a single person escaped the mount alive at all. As the first war came to an end Lord Tedden would bring delegates from both sides to the mount to show the cost and folly of war ensuring peace if only for the time being.

Rumor has it Lord Tedden is personally buried here having sustained injuries during the second war trying to aid refugees fleeing the violence. Sitting by his carriage the governor sighed motioning forth a servant holding an exotic blue rose "lay it by the memorial please" Audwin said to the servant. Tradition is that the exotic blue roses from his families manor bloom easily in any land attaching to any foreign soil and spreading like wildfire come summer. To dissenters, it is a sign of respect to the man who gave everything for the faith in its darkest days. Audwin's head servant carefully brought him to the memorial, and he got down on his knees to pray.

The assembled party out of tradition turned the other way in order to allow Audwin to pray in silence and respect. After some time the caravan would move again before nightfall heading towards the capital, and hopefully, the realm wouldn't tear itself to pieces before he arrived.

Governor Audwin Richter, The Capital
The Kings Palace
December 11th, Friday, 607 GL

It was the early morning when the last stretch of the kingsroad had been tamed. To Audwin the people of the capital were exotic as they came if only because he himself was exotic to them. This had not been the first visit to the capital, but in the years reigning as governor, it has indeed been the first. Never was the realm so fragile as before with so many kings coming to the throne, and passing within a relatively short span. The more superstitiously minded could argue it the work of a curse or perhaps some grand scheme afoot, but sometimes it was just plain bad luck.

Getting to the capital was easy, but getting through the capital proved to be hard especially as a caravan this size had to go through the proper areas deemed safe, and the procedure alone could take days. To add to it all was the fact the capital swelled with people waiting for the Prince to be inaugurated, and give some grand speech about his reigns before the crowds. "Hopefully this speech will be a decent one," Audwin thought to himself as he looked out the carriage window when the palace came into view. By the time all was said and done it was several hours later when the kings palace or rather soon to be kings palace was approached by the massive caravan. Waiting at the gates all that was left now was to be brought into the palace, go through the courtly system, and meet with the prince however long that took was of no concern in the grand scheme of things.

[Auphelia]

Prince Phillip II, December 12, Tuesday, 607 GL
Phillip stood in the throne room, gazing at his soon to inherit throne. It was made of the best quality wood in the realm, and two decorative pillows supporting the back and the bottom, comforting whoever sat. It wasn't anything like the stone throne in the Entrusil Empire, but it served the crown well. Even King Charles sat there when he ruled the Entrusil Empire, so it was fit for both emperors and kings alike.

Duchess Sarangerel Pallas, The Skies Above The Palace, The Duchy of Astua, December 12th, 607 GL

As the prince stared down the fate of his kingdom, Sarangerel stared down into the courtyards of the palace. In the end her Ministers had managed to buy and re-purpose seventeen additional balloons, bringing her procession up to 32 balloons and 40 staff. Ministers Gibson and Kgabu had joined her, though throughout the trip Kgabu had been wracked with altitude sickness, given her age and the speed of the descent while Gibson had been suddenly hit with a previously unknown fear of heights on the first day out of the mountains and had been asleep from a strong medicinal draught ever since. It had been terribly boring once the wonder of quite literally being in the skies wore off, given that her personal staff were all terrified of speaking to her unprofessionally. Minister Lin had obviously gotten to them. As much as she loved and respected him, it was a constant source of annoyance that he always had to be formal with her, as if she would break under the least bit of offence. Just when her mind began to wander again into the realm of her boredom, a strong upward jolt rocked the basket back and forth, and she saw a great shimmer of silver float down into the city below. Finally!

Despite Minister Thurmon's calculations, no one had realised that the thicker air in the lowlands would be far better for hot air balloons, speeding up the journey and conserving even more coal than anticipated. Instead of arriving a day after the main procession they had arrived several hours in advance and had been forced to circle the city and eventually managed to settle right over the palace courthouse. It had been a mad scramble on the part of those on the ground as they secured the silvery chains that would tether and eventually reel in the balloons, made even more difficult by the large mass of curious spectators who had gathered around the castle walls to see the amazing sight in the sky. Large silvery balloons with swaths of light blue silk draped around the bodies of the balloons floating above like heavenly spirits, slowly circling around their city. Soon they would watch as the forms descended in a burst of silver glitter, precious metals raining from the skies. But first, the silver bags had to be released. It had been a grand idea on the part of Minister Kamin, the Minister of Infrastructure. To endear yourself to the people is to endear yourself to their king, and what better way to garner favour than to shower the people with money. Not actual currency, because that would be deadly from such a height, but rather silver shavings that would rain upon the palace and surrounding area, coating them in the wealth of Wyster. So instead of the usual rocks, they had filled the weight bags with silver. As she watched all of the bags release, she saw that the sudden jolt had indeed been her balloon straining against the chains as the bags of silver were released. The heard the faint cheers of the peasant crowd as they began to realise that the falling items were silver. Music to her ears, and a wonderful entrance to boot. As the balloons began to be pulled into one of the exterior courtyards where her Court had arranged lodgings for the duration of the coronation festivities, she made sure to savour every last second of this view, despite her earlier boredom. Such sights did not come often, perhaps only once in a lifetime.

A few short minutes later she was carefully helped out of her basket by several of her handmaids and confronted by Lady Meryl Streep of House Streep, one of the more powerful noble houses under her rule who had a rather large estate in Tauris and had been the ambassador to the capital for several years now. She was followed by her own staff of twelve, a very respectable number considering the somewhat limited space in the royal castle. On her arm was a rather handsome man, fitted in a suit that looked to be made of pure gold, with extremely tan skin, tawny eyes, and a blinding smile.

"Your Highness, Duchess Pallas of House Pallas, I welcome you to the royal castle," spoke Meryl in a soothing and soft voice, obviously experienced at greeting powerful nobles.

"Lady Streep, it is good to see you after so long. How much time has passed since you began this post?"

"Rounding on a decade, I believe, though I came back some two years ago for the Feast of the Ancestors."

"Ah yes, I believe I saw you at my table. And who is this by your side?"

"This is Oscar," she said, smiling impishly and leaning in to whisper. She had obviously been able to sense that the Duchess did not have the same strict standards of decorum many insisted on keeping. "Large handsome men named Oscar kept throwing themselves at me, so eventually I had to pick one . . .or three." She nods over at two other men who look identical to the one on her arm. "A town named Los Angeles to the west keeps pumping them out like clockwork. Absolutely marvellous! But enough about me, we've got to get you ready!"

"I'm sorry, what?"

I saw one of the prince's staff this morning, and he said that the prince will be out of a meeting in what is currently an hour from now. I happen to know for a fact that the prince has taken to spending much of his free time moping about like a fool, bemoaning the fact he gets to be the king. It's nonsense, if you ask me, but what can you do?" she asked with a shrug. "Young men tend to have a flair for the dramatic. Now, we have an hour to get you ready to go and meet the king!"

"I thought I didn't have an audience until Thursday."

"Your Highness, I know you are my liege, but you know absolutely nothing about politics in the capital. If you wait until you have an audience, your enemies have already won! It may seem odd, but informal meetings and personal relationships move the gears of society here, not what is actually best for everyone."

"Well, I knew it was more ruthless here, but surely there is -"

"No. To whatever you were about to say, no. This is an arena, and you're about to be late to your first fight. Now come along, we've got work to do. Don't worry about your ministers, they'll be along too."

Sarangerel looked back at the balloons and caravan unpacking as she was escorted into the castle by Lady Streep's handmaids. She could see the large carts that held her coronation gifts amidst the hubbub. Her staff of nearly 130 bustled about like ants, and the last thing she saw before the heavy oak door of the castle swung shut was one of the magnificent silver balloons slowly deflate to the ground.

On the inside of the castle she was escorted up and down a series of staircases and hallways until she eventually found herself being led through a rather large doorway and into a somewhat large room ringed with four doorways, with a fireplace and several chairs and tables scattered about. Several fresh pots hung about the room and on the far side of the room she saw doors made of glass lead out onto a balcony that gave a wondrous view of the city outside. It was nowhere near as spectacular as Wyster, but it was surely a prime room in the castle.

"These are your rooms, Your Highness. The last one on the right is your room with an adjacent sitting room, the first and second one's on the left are servant's rooms fit for five apiece, and the last door on the left has a wash room. I apologise for the size, but there was a lot of competition for castle suites, and you know that eastern border vassals are not the most popular."

"I see. And where are the Ministers to sleep?"

"I have arranged a room for them and their servants as well, though of course yours is the better room."

Sarangerel made a slight noise, a mixture between a sigh and a mutter, though even she didn't know what it meant.

"Now then, Your Highness, it's time for you to be washed up."

Then began a whirlwind of scrubbing, perfuming, primping, plumping, squeezing and dozens of other verbs she was sure must be synonyms with torture. By the time she was done washing, her clothes and jewels had begun to arrive in the suite, and she was dressed up in her finest dress, an ethereal wave of silk, blue and silver in colour, that draped around her in a way most pleasing to the eye. When she moved it trailed around her like an afterimage, and the length and fit made her beauty even greater. Pearls, diamonds, sapphires, and silver thread were wrapped around her neck, adorned her fingers, and were pinned into her hair. The full glory and wealth of Wyster was on show on her body.

Meryl, who had been observing the entire event and barking orders at various servants for the past hour, clapped her hands with glee. "Your Highness, you look stunning! Absolutely gorgeous! Now, follow me and we'll get you to the throne room."

Once more she found herself travelling the halls of the castle, being surrounded by servants who were fussing about her, brushing the halls in front of her, speaking amongst themselves in obviously fake words about how amazing she looks, and generally being annoying. These travel staff didn't know what she liked, how she wanted things done. They were mostly provided from lesser noble houses who wished to gain favour with her, instructed to be as pleasing as possible to her. Bah. Regardless of her feelings, she would put on a pleasant face and get through it. She knew how nasty rumours could swirl, and had seen the correlation between nasty nobles and the relative number of insects in their soups.

"The princess! The princess!" Half-whispered exclamations began to fill the hall in front of the Duchess, and the procession stopped. Before she knew it Meryl Streep was at her side again, speaking to her in that soothing voice. "The princess just came out of the same hallway the throne room is on."

"That's nice."

"Don't you see how important that is!?"

"Not particularly. If the prince is there, then she was obviously visiting him, as they are family. I don't see what the fuss is about."

"Well, it's because they were talking."

"Are the people in the capital so starved for intellectual challenged that they resort to gossiping about the slightest thing?"

"Well . . . yes. You see, the main residents of the castle are unlanded nobles lined up to gain favour in case a landed family falls or ambassadors and staff from powerful noble houses like your own who can afford to set up households here in order to deal with their lands and cultivate influence in the capital. There isn't much to do besides socialise, so we gossip. It's the currency of the realm."

"No, silver and gold are the currencies of the realm, which Wyster provides. Gossip is pointless and often cruel. Unless, of course, it can provide valuable information . . . " she trailed off, looking subtly at Lady Streep.

"We'll talk after you meet with the prince."

Lady Streep slowed down and fell behind into the mass of the rear entourage, and after turning down the hallway to the throne room and walking for a short while, Lady Sarangerel Pallas found herself staring at the tall, wooden doors of the throne room. Seeing the wooden doors and remembering the wooden throne the king sat upon. She began to remember why she didn't come down more often, aside from her duties to Wyster. There was always a pervasive feeling of poverty in the lowlands, even though she knew it wasn't true. A fine wooden throne and thriving merchant town were signs of wealth and very respectable, but everything paled in comparison to the Stonehollow Mountains. Her own towering doors of ornately worked silver, the throne carved out of solid sapphire, the large circular dais on which a map of the world was created from precious metals and jewels, the silk curtains and banners that lined the white marble walls . . . the material wealth of Wyster was endless. But power, the control of a nation, it was all from here. It was difficult to reconcile the fact that wealth and power did not always correlate linearly as nearly every Wysterian is told from birth. The lowlands didn't make sense, and yet the power was here.

Wait.

No.

She caught herself doing it again, trying to muse on something and say vaguely deep sounding sentences instead of doing something she doesn't want to do. Before she could stop herself she pushed open the door to the throne room and saw the prince. She carefully made her way in, taking extra precaution not to have her dress get caught in the door. She tried to arrange her silken dress around her, which kept swirling around on its own from some draft that made her look like some kind of sorceress, which would not exactly helping her image in these Church-dominated lands. Perhaps she would wear a more traditional dress the next time she went out of her rooms. Realising the prince hadn't noticed she was here and that the she was just creepily standing behind him, she tried to find a way to get his attention without scaring him.

"Ahem."

She bowed her head slightly, which she remembered from the hasty lessons of capitol etiquette Minister Gibson had given her on the way to the capital. Though the Minister swore that she had taught her court etiquette the last time, and the time before, and the time before, and the time before she had gone to the capital, Sarangerel was sure she had never heard of half the things she had talked about.

However, she did happen to remember that it was the monarch who should speak first.

Did an "Ahem" count as speaking?

Stupid lowlands.

[White Bluff]

Princess Juliana
December 12, Tuesday, 607 GL

Juliana and her entourage reached the city gates, two of the guards in front of her group were holding the Imperial banner of the Vudal Empire. She rode on a white horse, her purple slips sweeping down the back of the beast, her furs keeping her skin covered from the cold winter air. Aelia rode close to her, the rest of her courtiers rode or walked a few feet behind them. As the entered the city, a crowd of its citizens drew around the group, it not being everyday you see an Imperial Princess, the guards kept the people a few feet from her. Thus began the procession to the Palace gates, Aelia quickly looked over to Juliana and spoke to her in their native tongue, "How do you think this will go, I mean we never received an answer to the announcement of our imitate arrival. Nor did we send fore warning a few weeks before the trip started."

The Princess nods, "Yes it could be an issue, if it were not for the fact his Royal Highness Prince Philip is getting coronated in the coming days, so they are expecting many visitors and foreign dignitaries. So hopefully it goes well for us."

"That is a relief to think, I get tired of the cold cots in the tents," Aelia laughs at her remark, Juliana laughs with her and adds, "as have I, am ready for an actual hot bath and a real bed myself."

It doesn't take long for the group to reach the Palace gates, a royal guard calls down at them asking, " who goes there?" One of her courtiers calls back up, "Her Imperial Highness, Juliana Maria, of House Antonius, sister to His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Hadrian Justinian Antonius of the Vudal Empire."

The gates open and the procession walks in, they unmount their horses and Juliana is prepared to meet with Prince Philip. As she is a Guard quickly goes to tell Philip of her arrival at the Palace.

[The Frozen Forest]

City of Astua | County of Astua | Duchy of Astua | Kingdom of Galeacia

"Wait! Wait, you mean to tell me that you actually celebrate a pagan festival every year on the 25th? Isn't that blasphemy?" The carriages had continued to make their way towards Astua, through dense woods and flattened farmland and were only an hours journey from the city in question. They had yet to encounter any issues on the road and had managed to talk their way into pulling out the wine bottles that were brought along in case the conversations became dull. Oliver did not drink, though the Knights as well as Richard all had. Surprisingly neither Burke nor Athelwulf wanted any of the fine drink themselves. Athelwulf surely didn't want to appear drunk in front of the Olivia, but Burke was a bit harder to figure out. Perhaps he just didn't like wine, it was sensible since drunkedness led to recklessness. He had only known Burke for a short time, but he never gave off the impression of being a reckless individual.

"No. We celebrate a Luaricist Holiday with pagan origins, did you not hear me the first time you purple-hued maw!" Oliver jeered, not realizing just how Osharian he was acting. "Krastmaes is celebrated every 25th of December back on the Isles, and we will be celebrating it in Weslingwood this year. We are going to need a evergreen conifer tree, the tallest we can fit inside the castle. We are also going to need pickled boar heads, sweet rolls, goose meat and...honey! Lots of honey!" Richard shook his head in disbelief "it sounds like a feast, are you sure this is alright with the Church? I don't even know where we could collect enough sweet rolls for such an event!" Burke spoke up from his cross-legged position beside Richard. "I can get you Sweet Rolls." He stated bluntly, earning a curious look from the blond fellow beside him. "Then its settled! Start preparations the second we arrive back in Weslingwood." Oliver was content to know that there wouldn't be an issue this year.

Athelwulf leaned back in his seat. His mind was a whirl of emotions. Soon they would be in the capital, it made his heart race. Soon he would be in her presence again. The girl with the eyes of an angel, Olivia de Runate. Ever since he had first met her she had stolen his heart. Thinking of her voice made him feel as though he were about to be set alight, his one desire was to be with her. She was the love of his life, the soul reason he had fought to survive the turbulent period his family had gone through, she was the sole reason. Marrying her was the only thought that mattered, there was no life to be had if Olivia could not be his.

"What if she isn't there..." He stated his fear loudly to the others in the carriage. They were all men, Beth had gone a carriage back so she could talk to the Knights there. Burke's expression didn't change, he merely peered out the window as though to avoid the situation. Richard naturally didn't understand what he had meant, being drunk from the wine didn't help matters. Oliver understood what he was speaking about, in fact it was likely he had known before Athelwulf had spoken what was on his mind. His icy-blue eyes carried a softness to them that the blond-haired Duke had yet to sympathize. "She will be. You'll get your opportunity Athelwulf, i assure you of that." He offered consolation the best way he could.

Athelwulf allowed his eyes to settle on the roof of the carriage, watering slightly as he was filled with emotion. Unmanly perhaps, he was a sensitive soul. He had never courted a woman before, even in his youth. Olivia was the love of his life, yet she was the sister of the soon to be King. It was daunting, surely she had many suitors. He looked at the window, coming to terms with the fact that his task wouldn't be an easy one. The sound of the wheels grinding to a halt brought him back to reality.

"Child on the path!" The drivers croaked voice rang out, the men began to jump from the carriage behind them and the four men craned their necks towards the front of the carriage. Richard threw open the door and stood to the side to see better. The road appeared normal until one came to a bump just before a slight incline. A small figure with wild dark hair was laid across the road, unflinching as it was berated by the driver. His malnourished body clearly didn't have regard for what happened next, but it was doubtful it expected a blond haired figure to scoop it up and carry it back to the carriage despite the protests of his knights. Richard brought the figure to the third and final caravan in the convoy.

His face was contorted in thought, as though he weren't entirely sure what to do with the feeble body he carried in his arms. "Get out." The knights exited the carriage and lined up alongside it. He took a step forwards and set the child against the plush seat within. "Bring me some bread and water." The knights looked between one another, their expressions showing confusion. "Now!" Richard screamed, his face flush from anger or the wine. A squire ran forwards with a hefty load of bread and a leatherskin of clean water. "Here. Eat, drink, you'll feel better." The child had sat up with arms outstretched towards the life-giving water. Twig fingers pulled the skin to the childs mouth and water disappeared down his throat. "What is your name" Richard asked as the child as it chewed through the loaf of bread. Its eyes merely shifted up to look at him as he ate. "What is your name" Richard repeated, this time more sympathetically. "Jon" the child, presumably a boy was barely able to muster the name. Richard wasn't sure if he had heard him right, they were wasting time and no doubt Oliver would become angry soon.

"I want to take him back to Weslingwood. I'll have to take some of the knights with me, but your only an hour away from Astua, you shouldn't have any problems when your so close." Richard stopped in front of Oliver to request permission to take the child home. While this was an incredibly unusual request, the peasant boy was evidently on the verge of death, Richard must have felt responsible for him. Oliver understood that and granted his permission. "I'll see you back in Weslingwood then, i expect you to have my pickled boar heads when i arrive!" He joked as the caravan started off with one less carriage.

They arrived in the Capital in little under an hour. From there they proceeded directly to the Palace of the soon to be King. Oliver intended to meet with him as soon as possible, the longer it took the less time he would have to speak with him. He would need to be sure that his rule wouldn't be threatened by his soon to be liege.

There were several different people arriving, one of which Burke pointed out as being Duchess Sarangerel Pallas. There would be time to talk later, for the moment they concentrated on getting inside. Burke directed them as Richard would have done, leading them to an appropriate waiting area where they were greeted by several maids. These servants led them each to their rooms in the Castle, where they could dress and clean up before the coronation.

Following a rather lengthy period of self-grooming on all the men's parts (Burke still emerged with his characteristically wild hair) the group waited until they were led by yet another legion of maids down to the throne room doors. They were joined by a freshly dressed young woman, Beth looked excited to finally have arrived in court for the first time. They arrived just as the aforementioned Duchess, Sarangerel Pallas made her way inside.

Oliver stood apart from the other men, neither chatting with the unlanded members of the court who also stood with them outside the throne room, nor any of the many women who had come to court. He was neither approached nor did he do any approaching, content to wait for his audience with Philip. Burke on the other hand was engaging in a conversation with several female debutants. He was being unusually charming, complimenting their eyes, their dresses and their smiles. Athelwulf was alone just as his liege was, though that was due to him not wanting to be seen speaking with just any of the courtiers. He was watching for one person in particular.

[The Vekta-Helghast Empire]

Duke William de Pascay,
The Duchy of Astua,
12th of December, 607 GL.

The journey to the capital had been long and arduous, many of the men and women had begun to suffer from saddle-burn, as they’d had limited time to stop along the road following their departure from Calailles five days prior. Though, there was an equal number who appeared entirely unaffected, either because they’d joined the party late or because they were simply better accustomed to long-rides. The Duke had sent riders ahead throughout his duchy, as to rally the various counts and their household guards to the party - a deep paranoia driving him to try and rally as many of his men as possible without drawing attention to himself, under the guise of them being his counts’ guard. The reality was, however - he wasn’t entirely ignorant to the situation in the realm, and wasn’t particularly sure that nothing would happen during the coronation. And as his father always said, if there’s going to be a knife-fight, make sure you’ve got the biggest knife in the room.

It’d be easy to misinterpret his intentions if you knew what he was doing, to believe he might be the one to plan a move - but he was entirely passive at heart and had no interest in causing conflict, nor partaking in it. And the vast majority of the men in their vast convoy would find housing in the lower city of Astua, rather than in the Palace, for no doubt only the noblemen themselves would be granted entry, given the exceptional size of their parade.

William had visited the city countless times, and as such - the grandeur was lost to him, his father frequently dragging him along on courtly visits. And yet, when he tried to recollect the names of the people he’d met - very few would come to mind, with the exception of the late king and the present king themselves. There was, of course a few of the councilmen of the late king too - the Spymaster, Rochforth if he recalled correctly was exceedingly clear in his mind, as he remembered the girl that always lingered in his shadow during courtly affairs. As a young boy - she was the definitely the most memorable part of that particular visit, but he’d never confess such in public.

Upon the parting of the city gates to allow them entry, it became quickly apparent that they weren’t the first to arrive - the banners of the Royal House Antonius of Vudal, of the Governor Richter, Duchess Pallas the foreigner from the south and even the Duke of Wesslingwood all on display, both in the palace and the roads leading to it - no doubt marking the residences of their guards and servants, if not the noble heads themselves. Which, admittedly was one aesthetic he’d forgotten in the preparations - the only colours his men waved were those stitched into their tabards and the triangular miniatures dangling from the Knights’ lances. His sister, admittedly - thought it was entirely intentional, as to avoid drawing anymore than necessary attention to their great retinue. But in reality, he had just simply forgotten it in the hectic preparations.

The journey through the city streets itself was rapid and marked the experience of the man at the retinue’s head. And it wasn’t long before they called out to the Palace watch and were granted access. By this point however, their numbers had dwindled significantly - with all non-noble personnel being left in the city, with the exception of a handful of more decorated marshals and Captains. None of whom appeared to be in the appropriate dress wear, and as you can imagine - were swiftly rushed off to their chambers for the evening by the numerous servants present for the function, as to ‘adequately prepare themselves’. It was perhaps this, that William found the most frustrating of all - he never felt comfortable in the capitol, all the brown-nosing and politics left a bitter taste in his mouth. Though he knew it to be a necessary period of suffering, for not only was he unwed, but he was near blind to the positions of the other houses and what topped their agendas. And if he was to adequately plan for the future, he required further insight. He needed to know who his friends were, and who he’d best need to look out for. Or whether his paranoid thoughts were entirely misplaced and he had no need to worry and make such extreme preparations.

His chamber was rather sizeable and adequately reflected his status, he thought to himself - gazing around the ancient hall that now surrounded him. And while the others in his retinue went about commanding servants and demanding pampering, he couldn’t help but find himself day-dreaming. Inspecting the various pieces of furniture and the various architectural features of the building. It amazed him, how old these halls must be - and how magnificently they’d been maintained over the years. Hundreds of cities had come and gone over the centuries, but Astua had always stood the test of time. It was perhaps even older than Calailles, which itself had stood for many a century, albeit undertaking immense changes throughout that time. After a tad too much daydreaming for many of his retinue’s liking, he finally recalled where he was and his drive. Snapping back to reality - he removed his colours and mail. Giving himself a quick wash with but a dampened cloth and salts. Allowing for what he deemed an adequate scrub.

His movements were slow, and intentional - perhaps even elegant. He knew that time was little issue, despite the artificial urgency created by his courtiers and vassals. The King would no doubt be barraged with requests for meetings, as the other lords ‘rushed to brown their noses’ as he’d earlier put it to his sister, on the journey there. But, in the end - he did prepare himself. He chose to adorn a light-weight jacket, beautifully decorated with numerous swirls and patterns - as was custom of a Duke of Pascay. A frill draping down to his thighs with a subtle white trim, providing a pleasant contrast to the rest of the black outfit - simple baggy trousers protruding from beneath, tipped with black, pointed boots.

With a quick look in the mirror and a comb of his hair, he departed his chambers - tossing the comb aside. Quickly he dismissed his party in the corridor, allowing them to socialise to their heart's’ content - whilst he, found his way to one of the numerous public balconies - gazing out over the city in thought. He knew he’d have little chances for peace once the festivities began and so, decided to take the opportunity to indulge in a bit of privacy and reflection, uttering a silent prayer. Hoping that his inexperience in such affairs, would not leave him too far out in the cold.

---

Duke William de Pascay,
The Royal Palace,
12th of December, 607 GL,
Some time later.

He didn’t exactly know how long he’d starred off mindlessly into the abyss, but it was most certainly for a good ten-twenty minutes. The silence allowing him to clear his mind of the numerous dark and paranoid thoughts that plagued him. At the end of the day, it wasn’t long ago he was but a child - stood in this very keep, tucked safely behind his father. The burden of leadership had finally weighed upon him - he knew that his life would never be the same after today, and how he acted would determine what his legacy would be. If anything.

His fingers interlocked atop the bannister, a faint and gentle sigh escaping his acutely parted lips as the voice of his sibling rang out from behind him, ”People are going to start to worry if you don’t speak with anyone, you do understand?” He tone light and jesting, though holding some truth as she found her position at his side.

”Terribly sorry, I wasn’t aware my small-talk and chitter-chatter was so exceptionally renown. I’ll be sure to crack out some of my classic jests and hollow compliments, shall I?” He sharply and sarcastically responded, offering a faint chuckle, as she gave him a teasing nudge.

”Marvellous, dear brother. Please - bestow us all with the gift of your humour, would you? Oh, and please, more of that wondrous sarcasm. It’s ever so charming.” She returned, her tone following up his previous sarcasm playfully. Before regaining her composure for more direct conversation, ”All jokes aside, though - William. You really must take the opportunity to reach out to others, whilst every man and woman of influence is in the same place at the same time. And you must try to at least appear confident - rather than hiding away on balconies in far off crevices of the palace.”

”And appear I shall. I just wished to enjoy one last moment of respite - before it all went down the tubes in a blaze of festivities and formality. I swear, if I heard ‘your grace’ or ‘milord’ one more time, I was going to burst - and we’ve not even been here a day. Allas, perhaps I do not give our company enough credit - perhaps we’ll find a common soul among the crowds yet.”

”See, that’s the confidence I was hoping for. You’ll do fine. Now, I must go find Esmarelda, she has the most magnificent gemstone and I just have to pretend like I adore it as much as she does. Enjoy your brief ‘respite’, dear brother. And try not to ‘burst’, as you so aptly put it..”

And with this final remark, he once again found himself alone - gazing out over the elder city, a warm smile now coating his lips, as he found his drive renewed and a light sense of humour in the whole ordeal.

[Revlona]

Duke Robert Strong

It had been many a years since he had traveled to the capital, not since he was 12 and he was with his father doing business. But now he had come to do homage to the new king.

His party of 20 rose quickly towards the growing walls of the city, he and his retinue of close friends and bodyguards.

He was curious how this king would turn out, would he be a just king like old Charles, or would he be a tyrant that could rip the kingdom to shreds.

Already Robert had begun making plans should things go awry, he would march on Feldnost county which was stolen from his family years ago.

But for now he would wait an watch, only making his moves when he was ready.

[Ruskland-Preuben]

Outskirts of the City of Astua, County of Astua, Duchy of Astua, Rightfully the Land of King Philip II de Runate of Galeacia

A few days ago, the Crossman caravan left Seastone Hall, a mobile group of ten riders alongside the Lord Reaver and his undoubtedly loyal bannerman Lord Quenton Graygrace. Their path and their close proximity to the capital allowed for their quick travel to the king’s court, and but a few days later they had camped upon a forested hill about five leagues or less away from the city of Astua. And with them was the head of Ser Garth Narveaz, the oh so honorable knight they had caught raping and murdering inside the territories of House Graygrace and in extension the territory of House Crossman, And summarily executed for said crimes in a brutal fashion, and yet so clean for not much blood was spilled. “Ohoho, wait for the reaction your so called savior will have, I will savor them with great delight.” he thought, a wicked caricature of a smile growing upon his face as he did so.

Rumble!

His men had been hard at work, raising an old runestone made and raised by the Crossman Emperors of old, when they raided Astua for its riches, and women, and for a few strange ones, even men! Alas, those would have to be let go of permanently if his family was to prosper in this new age and become Emperors once more. But he would respect his ancestor’s work, which was desecrated by those damned zealots by its toppling. Rumble! Thud! Ah, it seemed as if the stone was finally raised. “My Lord, the deed is done.” the leader of the horsemen working on the job I gave told me

“I know,” I smoothly replied to the man, “With all the noise your men were making I am sure zealots will be rushing at us like vultures on meat.” I japed, and the rider laughed heartily at that, ahh, me and my sense of humor.

“Oh, and while they’re at it, some eagles in the form of our loyal bannermen will too!” he japed back, and I politely smiled at that. We then both began walking to the worksite, the distinctively shaped runestone already visible from a distance, then we arrived, and I took my time marveling at the works of my forefathers, and wondered if I would be able to raise our family from the muddy ground of servitude and fly high above as Emperors once more, and in doing so, prove myself worthy of their respect once I meet them at the Great Hall at the end of my life.

“Beautiful isn’t it my lord?” the rider leader spoke to me as he too, marvelled at the sight of the stone.

“Indeed it is Harwyn,” his name I then remembered conveniently at that moment, “Indeed it is.”. I dragged my right hand across the coarse, carved rock. I noted each precipice of the runestone, and the very runes on it, as faded as they were. I then took my hand off, and noticed the faded red dust on my thumb, index, and middle fingers- faded paint without a doubt. Then I decided to do a course of action I had thought of way back to rectify this.

“Bring me the red paint Harwyn! This runestone looks like any rock to everyone else most likely,” I declared, and ordered, “Well, I think its time we show these boneless folk what it truly is, and why its here and for what reason! Let us remind them of times when they cowered behind their walls, and when they squealed like pigs when we slaughtered them to the last man.” I took a breath for effect, and to actually refill my lungs of air, “LET US REMIND THEM OF THE GLORIOUS TIMES WHEN THEY RAN LIKE CRAVEN PIGS CHASED BY THEIR MIGHTY SLAUGHTERERS! LET US REMIND THEM, THAT THE DARK CROSS, ONCE BROUGHT DARK DAYS, AND SHALL DO SO, ONCE MORE!!!” and an eruption of applause and approval occured on that little forested hill, with shouts of “Dark Cross, Dark Days!” interspersed with the joyous shouting. I smirk, knowing that it had the desired effect upon them.

Harwyn had brought out the runepaint, and had a wound, most likely him bleeding some blood into the paint, and many did too, in fact, all of them did, and so did I when the paint was passed over to me. I then renewed the coloration of the runes. What used to be a dull, piggish pink had now resembled bright blood red. There had been remains of the paint, which I poured over the stone similar to how those foppish knights did when they were first anointed, except more glorious. The mixture did not go over the face fully, weakly pouring down, and instead poured over the sides with greater force. “FOR THE SEA GODS! MAY WE ALL JOIN THEM IN THE GREAT HALL!” I shouted in the old tongue, and many joined me.

Ale was drunk on the following night, but we weren’t like those soft inlanders, and we handled our hangovers like real men. We then rode off, following the path, and strode through the city like conquerors. Many jeered at us, and some fool decided to try agitating one of my rider’s horses, said fool had his skull crushed with a mighty kick of the well-bred destrier. Suffice to say, that silenced all jeering for the duration of our passing, Just, As, PLANNED.

We quickly passed through Astua with little issue, and we were onwards to the king’s court. I wondered what the so called civilized inlanders would think of us, especially with the preserved head of a knight, an Astuan knight mind you. Oh well, probably in a negative light, but I had to project ruthless...

Some gay person might have read my mind and changed ruthless into fabulous right now... Ugh...

---

The Royal Palace, a ride later...

And here we are! The Palace of our new king and his forefathers before him! An impressive sight it is, lacks a bit of seastone though, hmm. Oh! The other guests! Let’s see what we can find... House Strong! Their banner was easy to memorize and to spot, oh well, who else is here. Ah, the House de Pascay, and a quick and shrewd minded their house head is, that Duke William, hah! Many other houses too, but I dearly need to meet and greet the new king! Make an impression on him, all that sort of thing.

The horses are dismounted and are led to the stables by some blonde stableboy, but I order my riders to stay here, “And if ever I die in these halls, try to slaughter all.” I had ordered them, a firm look on my face, and Harwyn smirked, and nodded in agreement, I had nodded back in delight, my loyal men would walk with me to the gates of hell, and would take no bribe from any scheming worm. After that did I lead me and Quenton through the Palace, a proud stride in my walk, but unlike these other fools, I could back it up with deeds.

We then strode into the throne room, a critical look on my face as I eyed the king, and a wary face, covered by a stern one, on Lord Quenton’s. This was, to be frank, going to be interesting.

[Brendislav]

The Eastern Border of Bryn, December 10

The crunching sounds of boots on light snow was accompanied by the occasional sound of trees being chopped. Hundreds of Lumberjacks where hauling and chopping trees. They normally did not work this late in the year, but the winter is expected to be harsher this year, and more wood would be needed to heat homes. Men grumbled and swore about the cold, and a steady stream of logs were being placed in a small cart.

A shout erupted, but few men looked up, shouts were common when a tree was being felled, as long as you were not close you didn’t need to stop. But what caught the attention of the men was has that shout ended in a gargle, and when a whooping war-cry emerged from the trees. Out of the woods came savages, clothed in animal hide and bones, they carried clubs or bows and had started to attack. The Lumberjacks started to cry out and run, one of them got on the cart and frantically made the horses take him away.

“Tell the town! Get the Woodmen!” A laborer shouted, he was soon over run by the savages. The lumberjacks who ran were eventually caught, those who stayed and fought would be defeated. Any of the lumberjacks who lived would be taken to the woods and killed in strange ritualistic sacrifices. Luckily the one lumberjack on the cart got to Old-Trees safely. He shouted through the streets, “The savages have come! They come in the east! Call the Woodmen!” Towns guards took the man in, and reassured the townsfolk. The lumberjack would be questioned for more details, even if he is spreading baseless rumors, the guard gathers, and men are preparing to fight.

Lord Grossman, December 12, The Capital

Lord Grossman never liked the capital, it seemed too chaotic and disorganized. People milled around everywhere, stepping out in front of carriages (including his own) and going wherever they pleased. Despite the grandeur and the amount of wealth that floats through its streets, Lord Grossman could not help but see the little flaws. Cobbles in the street missing, the sewers smelled from nearly overflowing, and livestock were in the side streets unchecked. Lord Grossman knew there could be little done with these small issues. His own lands were kept perfect, at least in his mind, and he made sure none of these small details were not solved. But Lord Grossman was fortunate to only have to keep track of so much, the city was so huge no mere man could keep track of it, especially not the upcoming king.

The prince, Phillip II, at the mere thought of his name Lord Grossman sighed. The man was definitely not prepared to handle the entire kingdom by himself. Many saw him unfit for the throne, but Lord Grossman was a proud supporter of Phillip I when he was ruling, and wished to support his successor. However, would it be for the good of the kingdom, for the good of Lord Grossman’s family? That was a question he hoped to see in the coming months. Because, as history has told us, nearly every single time a new king is crowned, dozens of dukes and lords vied for control. Lord Grossman would try to stay out of this, but if it comes down to it, he will have to pick a side. Lucky Lore Monroe seemed to be on good terms with the Grossman house, having the strong duke on his side made him feel safe.

Lord Grossman reached the castle of the capital, and was led to his accommodations, nice spacious rooms for him and his family. As he finally settled down, he received a message, from his brother who was taking care of his lands while Lord Grossman is away. Upon opening it, he could see the urgency in his brother’s handwriting. The letter explained how the wildmen east of Bryn have started crawling out of their woodland homes and have started attacking our lumberjacks. Lord Grossman cursed under his breath, and immediately started issuing orders to raise the “Woodmen” of Bryn and some other troops from Frisie. Lord Grossman also wrote a note to lord Monroe, asking for help.

To Lord Monroe

It has come to my attention that the “people” in the deeper woods adjacent to my county have started to rise up and endanger my people. These creatures should be ended once and for all, while i can hold them back, we must seek to kill every single one of these savages for the greater good of the kingdom. I do not ask for much, but your men are much better prepared than mine, we are a people of peace. I would greatly appreciate your support and would be in your debt.

Lord Grossman

I am raising the “Woodsmen”, a levy of men from Bryn who are equipped to fight the savages as well as some men from Frisie. They will protect the Eastern border of Bryn for now.