She grimaced, taking a brief glance out the window. "Sir Colbers, let them in. And summon my sons as well, and every other Crowcape. The peasants and the man should be let in, that is. I have no need for filthy sellswords." The trio came in, and she sat down at her tall, oaken throne. "Speak what you need to speak, why have you come here to disturb my process of thoughts?" She folded her hands together, looking to them, and mostly, the shady man. Every Crowcape was summoned, the newly knighted Sir Petrock and Lord-Commander Colbers stood side by side with her. Her sons, as well. Dom, in his aketon and Vlad in his robes.

The hooded figure stood quiet, their head leaning downwards. Now, that they could be seen so closely, the two peasants that stood by him appeared to be eyeing everything, and were quite built. It only took a moment after the Lady had spoken for a reaction to be garnered. The peasant to the right of the hooded figure took a step forward, making a sound as if he had started to speak until the hooded figure reached out to stop them. The hooded figure pulled back their hand slowly, back inside of the cloak. "Sorry to appear like this, but it would appear that rumors travel entirely faster than a man on horseback; which frightens me as to what else can get through the lands and possibly to the others." The hooded figure kept in their stance, not moving at all, "Also, my friend may have told me some of what they had heard before arriving home. I am here today to let you know, I have no fears, and I do not feel threatened. I came here, dressed like this as it would raise an entirely less of an alarm, and I'd rather not have a target on my back. The reason why I risk my life like this, with so few men to guard me, no armor to shield me, and no walls to hide me," the hooded figure reaches their hands up slowly to grab at the tie of the cloak, just below the neck, "is to show you that I will do anything that is needed to keep my people safe. And perhaps, to also meet the great Lady Olga, herself." The hooded figure now pulls at the string and once it fell they grabbed it to keep it from touching the floor.

The hooded figure before Lady Olga revealed them self to be a man, a strong, bold looking one, with determination and a strong will. He slunk the cloak over his shoulder and smiled at Lady Olga before calmly and strongly coming down on one knee and holding his hand flat out, as if a gesture to offer himself and all that he is before standing up to attention. "I apologize, Lady Olga, for the secrecy, but I believe that a strong alliance between our nations and Peletaria will keep my men safe, and offer us in advantage when the others become blood thirsty. I am Lord Solterra."

First it surprised her, then it confused her, then it annoyed her. "You have already sent an envoy a week ago or so, and he should have already came back to your lands with our answer of acceptance. Is it so?" She shrewdly examined him. And while he intrigued her, she suspected he was of a loose mind to come here when she already sent her answer, to come here with but a few of peasants and sellswords, to come here... She patiently awaited his answer, sullenly stretching in her throne.

"I'm not here about the alliance, I am here about the rumors, not of any you may have made, I just want to clear the air. It is true, I may be over protective of my lands, and I may even perhaps be over reacting to what I believe may happen in the future. But I must tell you, while politically, I may not be perfect, I have the hearts of my people and I stand on the front lines of all battles that face me. I do not hide behind my walls or my people, I am strong, I am smart, and while I may not be able to exceed at the things you are incredible at, my Lady, I do consider myself the best tactician out of all those I know. What I am saying is; you can believe what your people say, you can believe what your trusted court may say, but I am one of the Lord's you don't want to throw away when and if you decide to take on bigger plans." He squinted, examining the Lady for a moment before smirking. "You know, I did say I wasn't intimidated, but I have to say, it isn't because my soldiers are disguised as I was. I'm perfectly fine in a battle on my own."

She found his words an irritating slight, was he trying to subtly tell she hid behind her thick walls, did not care about her people, did not stand on all the frontlines that could happen? Her youngest son very well was risking his life destroying and exterminating bandits who rob and kill the peasantry. She looked to Domund, whose face was contorted in a disdainful annoyance. She waited for a bit. "Yes, you have shown you aren't such a Lord who must be thrown out, by this showcase of valor and selflessness," She internally chuckled, "You have shown political savvy. Yet why should there be ill rumors about you at my court? I see no reason for your visit here, save for the wish of good hope and luck to each other, for we are allies." She looked closer, scanning his face. "You can stay at my court for as much as you want, you'll have your quarters provided for you and your men."

She suspected he was very well not Lord Solterra. If he was smart, he wouldn't come here without a warning, if he was smart, he wouldn't subtly hint a threat. And she has heard much rumors about the gentle, weak-willed, young Lord Solterra, while the one in front of her looked much like someone in her crowcape guard. She suddenly realised Lord Solterra was much more cautious, suspicious, dangerous. The angels alone knew what game Lord Solterra was playing with Olga, but she had not liked it. Or did she? If what she has pondered on was true, he had a chance not to be classified as a milksop forever in her mind. Much more a spider, she liked spiders. Or did she?

Lord Solterra took a breath as he looked over to the peasant that he stopped earlier and gave a sigh. "I apologize once more, my Lady. In my nervousness it seems I made a larger mess than what I had planned and may have unintentionally insulted you. Upon my return to my Kingdom, I will throw an event in your honor and send you riches in hope of your forgiveness. But... Since we're on the discussion of Courts, I suppose I must confess. There is one last thing... I have lied to you, my Lady. But you see, I wiah to Court you."

The uproar was deafening, but no, it was a silent one. The uproar was blinding, the faces and the grotesque expressions of her servants, maids, sons, guardians, some were surprised, other in strange, sickening awe. Vlad has already retreated away from the scene, Domund crossed his arms. Her own reaction came quick, first her face lightened up in a brief, moment-lasting surprise, then the look of realization swept over her beautiful face. That was the only thing to have expected. She clapped her hands, as if the whole hall was screaming in outrage. "Lord Solterra, it is enormously kind of you to say such things. I believe, not in the presence of so many eyes and ears, we should discuss it further in my meeting room. However, I grant you permission, as long as it stays in the boundaries of chivalry, my lord." Her guard nodded, and the servants and other members of court had left. They began to proceed to the meeting room.

Solterra looked over to the two men standing with him and he gestured them back to the others. "I won't be needing my men from here, allow them to return to my soldiers." He gave them a nod and they all departed ways. Solterra boldly following swiftly after Lady Olga as the two burly men left the room, heading back to the soldiers.

She took a stroll along the gardens with Lord Solterra, her crowcapes quietly standing in the distance. She turned to look at his face, it was a strong one, she thought it resembled something of a bear, along with his powerful build, the adventures and exploits she has heard were evidently true. The garden was the only resemblance of life at court, other than that they were only hues of sable and grey, and red. Even her servants and maids looked lifeless, as much as her vassals. "Is it beautiful in Therral, my lord?" She wondered aloud, slowly spinning to see his answer.

Solterra tilted his head as he continued walking, pondering at such an out of place question. "Well it isn't a kingdom of petals if that is what you are asking. I let my people plant flowers wherever they wish; Even outside the barracks. A good scent can give positive emotions to an individual, which is why I've outlawed alcohol. Why do you ask?" Slightly wondering at the use of being calling 'my' lord, but he shrugged it off and opened his ears. He always saw saying 'my' lord or lady as something that meant the individual had significance to the other, and that's why he never calls anyone with 'my,' but that is just him.

"Interesting ways of managing your country, my lord. If you decide to court me, I might as well try to know you better. Is there any particular poems you like? As much as I'd like to know about you, I'm a patron of arts." She shrewdly awaited his response, trying to calculate what kind of person he is. Outlawing alcohol seemed a peculiar notion. The water is horrid from everybody shitting in it. Try to drink it? You're dead. But mead and ale? Only thing you could drink, as far as she knew.

"Hmm, well, personally, I write ...I mean, I write important phrases, ones you hold dear to yourself. They inspire me to write poems, but with the stress of the times now and the work I must do to ensure my peoples safety, I don't exactly have the time or energy for it. I suppose I can give you one..."

"We're Searching for a place."
"Where we can live peaceful days..."
"With no wars, no stealing..."
"A place that isn't run by fear."
"A place where people can live and actually trust other people."

"Sadly, my heart may be bigger than my muscles, my Lady." He sighed, suddenly having all of his memories rush to him of war and pain, and trying to shrug it off. "I am a strong man, I know it because my people and my sister tell me, I just question how strong I really am." He wasn't talking about physical strength, however.

"An idealistic poem. Regardless, sometimes strength is something you can bear on yourself, the sword that is hanging by a mere thread, right above your head. Do a mistake, and it falls. Lords and Ladies, and Overlords, all have to go through such dread."

"That I do bear many things, my Lady. But alas, I must begin my departure, my men will be waiting for me. Unless there was more to say or ask of me, do tell, if there was something you wished of me, you may speak any time. But otherwise, I must begin my leave. My Kingdom has already been without me for far too long."

"Farewell, Lord Solterra."

Castle Grounds, Pelataria
Afternoon

"Damon!"

The call went unanswered, as the heir to Vetus Patriae lay at rest in the golden fields beside the castle. Though the sun was yet new, he had spent it's hours sparring - and now he deserved a rest. Still, the call persisted, louder, closer.

"Damon, where are you?"

He popped his head up, and spotted his younger sister Amelia, identifying her as the interruptor of his rest. Groaning, he got to his feet, adjusting his sword in the scabbard and brushing off any residual grass and dirt. "I'm here, Ames," he replied, taking a few steps toward her. His sister grinned - her search successful - and ran over to meet him.
"Father wanted to speak with you - something important. He's in the main hall waiting with Uncle Jonah!"
Damon rolled his eyes. "That's Commander Peterus - the man fought hard to earn his post, he deserves to be recognized." In truth, Damon saw more of a father figure in Jonah than he ever would in Lord Cole. In his heart, a warrior's fire blazed. And though he mostly respected his father's ability to get the job done, Damon often questioned if the ends truly justified the means.
"Yeah, yeah," his sister's voice broke him from his ruminations. "Father and the Commander wish to see you." Damon nodded approvingly. Amelia was a brat sometimes, but to the eldest of the Cole children, he could see quite a bit of himself in his younger sibling. Putting aside the physicals - the same piercing black eyes and thick black hair inherited from their mother and shared with his other sister, Jules, but devoid entirely in Ames - they both shared a deep dedication to whatever job they set about doing. For Amelia, however, that task was normally to annoy Damon. But she did so with the fervent determination of a soldier of the Guard.

Though Amelia and Damon were similar enough to be marked as siblings by the average stranger, they differed in some respects as well: in complexion, where Damon's tanned, rough skin proved a stark contrast to Juliana's porcelain features. Furthermore, Damon always made the effort to keep himself presentable, his clothes clean, his hair tidied. Ames, on the other hand, cared little about the impressions she made on others, and it took the direct order of her parents to tame the free spirit. Though quite pale in comparison to her brother, her blonde hair framed her face in gentle curls, and her father's eyes glowed with curiosity. She was only eight, but everyone knew that she was going to become quite gorgeous seven or eight years down the road. But though the two were quite unique of each other in their own rights, deep down they shared an affection for each other, and one would not betray the other if push came to shove. With a word of thanks to his younger sibling, Damon set off toward the castle.

[Double Post, Removed]

It were as if the seasons were in tune with the fortunes of Lundland’s people.

The Growing season proved to provide the most agreeable weather it had in decades, and the crops of the land flourished under warm suns, gentle breezes, and light drizzles. The people were happy, their optimism was boundless, and their good fortunes seemed to be carrying into the later season, as their crops looked as numerous and delicious as imagined.

The event on every commoner’s lips seemed to be the grand wedding of Ragnvald Vasa, the heir to House Vasa, and the second daughter of Lord Eadric Summer, Emily. It was a wedding of the most grandeur of proportions, but because it was held on the isolated island of Orkneyjar, the precise details of the wedding seem to depend on whomever is talking about it. It is, however, known for sure that the extravagance of the wedding equalled the mythical affairs of past Overlord’s weddings, and that it took a whole season to fully prepare.

The whole affair seemed a testament to the great wealth, power, and prestige of both partaking Houses, and all those in attendance could not help but be awed at all they saw.

All was peaceful and prosperous for most in the past season. But, as the weather grew colder, so did the hearts of men.

The Grand Cathedral of Bernwick was alight of late, but no matter how much the bishops were pried for information, they were as tight-lipped as rag dolls. But, very recently, they have made their qualms known: the Church had very good reason to believe that the King of Therral is a heretic, who desires the downfall of the Church of Lundland, the collapse of the Faith itself, and the destruction of Lundland’s crown.

Their proof for these accusations are a series of letters in correspondence with Lord Lothar Wolff of Attolia, whereupon the King admits to a number of intentions most foul. And though the Church discreetly invited the King over the Bernwick, that he might be afforded the chance to defend himself in a trial, he refused to show up within the time allotted. It was therefore that, on the morning of the thirtieth day of the fourth month, Archbishop Innocent III issued this proclamation:

“To all the Faithful of Lundland,

God is all-forgiving, but if the sinner does not repent, God cannot forgive.

Such is the case with Lord Solterra Behringer, Lord of the Lands of House Behringer, and self-styled King of Therral. He has made his evil intents known through letters toward the King of Attolia. We do not wish to say who made us privy to these letters, but these letters were undoubtedly and verifiably written by his hand.

A season ago, we asked that he attend an investigation of these letters. He could have said many things in his defence; that the letters were forgeries, that he had written these letters in a fit of rage, or even that he wrote the letters with clear intent, but regretted his actions. Lord Solterra did none of these things. Instead, he ignored us. Turned us away, as the Traitor denied our Saviour.”

He then proceeded to issue a formal condemnation against Lord Solterra Behringer, stating that any Lord would do well to make war with him, so as to show him the error of his ways, and either give him a chance at redemption, to bring him back into the fold, and into God’s good graces, or to smite him where he stands.

The condemnation could not have come at a worse time for the Kingdom of Therral. A royal decree had been sent out to outlaw alcohol and any herbs or potents that could have a recreational use. All breweries, vineyards, and wineries were to be seized and shutdown, with all produce to be taken and sold in a foreign trade deal. As if this did not cause enough outrage, as soon as the official Excommunication was given, Lord Solterra began sending his soldiers all across the land to pillage every place of worship toward the Lundish church. Innocent, unarmed priests were slaughtered at the altar. The people watched in horror: how could their kind, generous king, who had given them only goodwill, do such terrible things?

As a sign of protest, numerous former clergy performed the Sacrament of the Supper, complete with wine, in the middle of Bellmoral. Soldiers attempted to take away the alcohol, but the priests resisted. One blow lead to another, and soon a riot engulfed the square, killing dozens.

To top it all off, a huge force mustered at the borders, and began marching east.

Meanwhile, in the Crownlands, the terrible conditions of late grow worse. Despite all the charity afforded to them, many thousands still starved, particularly in the Falkwreath region, where the Bogans had laid waste to everything.

It is odd, then, that the feckless Rone has chosen this time to leave Bolgaz. With the Knights of Everfallow, cladden in white armour, and surcoats bearing the crest of House Trisch, they ride along side a vast force of mercenaries, toward the lands of House Vearin.

The mercenaries in question bear the flags of La Familigia de Meaux, the powerful banking family of the Ordained Kingdom, and one of the richest organizations in the known world. The mercenaries are clearly apart of their private army, but it is uncertain how Rone managed to get their aide.

With this army at his side, a letter arrives at the desk of every Lord and Lady in the realm, sealed with the crest of House Trisch: "All Lords and Ladies of Lundland are to pledge support to Rone in the conflict against House Vearin. Rone has given them ample time to release his sister, who is wanted for high treason against the crown, and has been refused each time. Rone does not ask you to raise any levies, only for you to pledge your support, and deny aid to House Vearin. Those found aiding the enemy, or the wayward princess, are to be tried as accomplices to treason."

And if there were any hope for peace left, the recent conflict in the Ironstone Islands has dashed it. Numerous raiders have destroyed the wealthy towns of the Island, and the Strongheart family has been killed to the last child. House Ealmund is doing battle with House Reaver and Bloodhorn for control of the island, and both sides are weighing their best options. Around them, the common people rage at their desperate situation, as all their food and money has been taken from them.

Hope among the Lundish has died as quickly as it was born. Knights and lesser lords cry out that conflict has come again, and eagerly await the glory and riches battle might bring them. The Great Lords and their vassals all vary in the reactions. But one opinion is held in agreement among all high society: a great war is coming, to be fought over all wrongs of armed men's eyen.

---

It is now the Harvest Season, AU 107

Across the meadows, the stoic faced men stood. Servants and maids moved from side to side, preparing the breakfast, cleaning the seats, the tables, moving things back and fro, furnishing the hill for the comfort of the lords and ladies. Beyond, the mighty walls of the Crymsonfort stood. Olga had just finished putting on her rich dress of red, gold, and black colors. Her firstborn son stayed close, in his doublet of dark crimson, jeweled rings on his strong, short fingers. Their eyes, like four eerily colored moons met in the mirror. It was a bad time for festivities, as the Stronghearts have attacked the trade routes. She awaited the guests.

After a late night push by horseback to keep time with the rendezvous, Lady Cole and her armed guard of thirty mounted soldiers arrived at Crymsonfort. Antony had been there prior in his dealings with House Bloodsun, but this was to be Josephine's first foray into the allied lands. Her husband sent her, and her specifically, due to her own charisma and wit. Additionally, with Nevin away on diplomatics of his own, she was the most learned of the court of the affairs of Lundland as a whole. Plus, Lord Cole thought that perhaps Lady Olga may have a better time identifying with the leading lady of Pelataria, rather than himself. Bringing her own horse to a stop at the gates, Josie modestly presented herself simply as 'the dignitary from Pelataria', and requested permission to enter.

The dignitary from Pelataria arrived. "Most splendid to see you, Lady Josephine, I have heard much about you." In fact, she hadn't. Only that she was the wife of Lord Cole, and she had begun to fear she would be known only as the wife of Lord of Therral. "I am afraid Lord Solterra is yet to come, eat if you are hungry, drink if you are thirsty, and any man in your entourage can do so, as well."

Lord Solterra suddenly bustled through the doors and quickly shutting them. He had came with only afew of his archers and even less of his Captain Soldiers as the rest were being thrown into their stations for defense and this made Lord Solterra a little frightened for his life for the fact that anyone that followed the Lundland Church like their life depended on it would now be wanting to kill him and he didn't even have so much as a third of his army to protect him on the journey to this summit. "Apologies for being late, to both of you." He moved from the door and walked forward, wiping the sweat from his forehead, laying out ledgers and documents for the Lady's and the Lord's. "Lord Wolff is not currently of an important concern at the moment," he continued as he sat down, looking stressed and slightly exhausted. "but these are the letters and such of the accusations, proof, and admission. He was accused of selling our, mmm, discussions to the House of Trisch, which sent everything into a downward spiral. However, what actually happened was Lord Wolff's inability to realize the dangers that lurk around every turn; he left his messenger undefended as they traveled from land to land, city to city, capital to capital, where ultimately the messenger met their death at the hands of some kind of murderer, who apparently didn't want the ledgers, just money. Cover up, or just a common robbery? Either way, House of Trisch got hold of them, and..." It was now it could be noticed most blatantly that Solterra was adorned in his full suit of armor as he tugged at it to breathe, "that's when... I received the letter from the House of Trisch and their religious lands of the charges they chose to place on me. I more or less said it would be nice to be witness to the downfall of the Lundland Church, not to be the one single-handedly doing it. It's like Rone, I disagree with the man, but I don't feel as though I should kill him. Same goes for the Church. We all have wishes that we don't exactly carry out, we'd just smile if they happened. You can keep these documents, all of you, for when we have the discussion of Lord Wolff's punishment, but what we must decide now is what we will do about my impending death. Half of my troops have been dispatched to Lord Wolff's to stop any attack on him by House of Trisch, and the other have have been shoved into the forts and ordered to station the walls unless said otherwise. Not to say I plead for reinforcements, Lord Cole has already sent some men and his son to assist me and I have given his son the most royalty I can offer inside a Fort. Meanwhile, mentally, Lady Olga seems to calm me by the very thought of her. But no, what needs to be decided is what will we do for the future. If we don't act now, I may be dead in the next week or so, and who will be next? They already targeted me, would they target either of you for being my allie? Should we lead an attack on House of Trisch? It may be too soon to think of war, but you must think about what is already going on; House of Trisch has already decided they don't like a few of us. Hell, they may not like a majority of us. And those that they do like may be mere pawns to them at this point. You all may, think it over, I will agree with whatever the decision is." Lord Solterra took a breath and once more wiped his face, sighing of little relief as two of his Captain Soldiers, dorned in their battle ready and large armor walked in and stood around him to protect him. Believe it or not, you could say these two men were half of his defense force. "King Sol--" "Tch tch! You address me as Lord in public!" "Yes Lord Solterra, apologies, the area is secure. We have our men scoping the area in case of any armies incoming." Lord Solterra nodded as he reached up to pat the man on the arm in thanks as he looked to Lady Olga and Lady Josephine. Lord Solterra was in serious distress.

She skimmed through the documents, and gave them to Lady Josephine right after. "Seems that Lord Wolff's vassals are not to be trusted? He is a man of honor, that I know. However, we must find the path of peace with the Church. Rone may not be much a threat, but Archbishop is a powerful man. I shall not risk an excommunication, for all my people are true to the Faith. And I shall not tolerate armed operations on my lands." She shot a glare to the armed soldier. "It does not mean I dishonor our alliance, but that we must try to get the Faith's forgiveness."

Lady Josephine thanked Lady Olga for her hospitality, before shifting to the task of examining the correspondence. She did not doubt Lord Wolff's loyalty, yet the threat of both Church and State simultaneously and independently concerned her.
"Lady Olga is correct," she stated, looking up at the armored Lord Solterra. "The Church is the primary threat, particularly in the West. To ignore their call for trial may have been folly. Had you attended, and we - my Husband, Lady Olga, and Lord Wolff - spoken on your behalf, the problem could have been diffused. But.. That is in the past, and now we must find alternate solutions. How are your relations with the Lords of the East? Or," she paused, unsure even if she should mention it. ".. With Brindbay or Mishfarden?"

Lady Olga only shook her head at the mention of Brindlay and Mishfarden.

Lord Solterra shook his head quickly. "I pay my good will to Rone every Season, I follow the law of the Church, I stay in line like everyone else. However, Rone has known for some time of my disagreements with him and the Church, and my Royal Blood is not from these lands. At first he thought I would be a great asset, but now for years he's been wanting to take me down. If I had went to that Trial, I would not have returned, I hope you both understand this. Now, the others in the west? I haven't really been able to get into contact with them, so I don't quite know them. I suppose we are neutral. I only have ties with Lady Olga, Lord Cole, and Lord Wolff."

Lady Olga clearly did not like her suggestion even enough to consider it, and rightfully so: Mishfarden harbored a hatred of Lundland that went back centuries. However, Josie simply would not let the idea die.
"It may sound absurd, but the lands to the south may be the only area that Lord Solterra is safe." She turned to the head of House Behringer, looking into his eyes. "To the Overlord, you are an upstart. To the Church - a heretic. We are your friends, here, but the Church has as much sway in our lands as they do in yours. If you stayed at either of our courts, they would still find you. But they have no sway in the south. Brindlay follows the rule of Mishfarden, but they are not our direct enemies. They would have little to lose by harboring a Lundish Lord - especially one hated by the Overlord. Especially if you made it worth their while."

She thought for a moment, pursing her lips, stepping back, thoughtful. "That does seem a good idea. Your sister can rule in your stead, and you may even keep up contact. You can find a good, fitting noblewoman wife for yourself there, and you can send your heir back when he is of age. I shall not fight the Church."

Grunts with a smirk, a somewhat 'heh' erupting from him in a low tone. "My lands? Do you mean the spot of grass my Keep stands on, my territory, or my homelands?" taking a breath as he calms himself, "I have no homelands, my Grandfather was a King of a large continent at once, but I never found out what happened. I found out after my father died and my mother, sister and I, and the rest of the village we lived in, traveled to Lundland away from the south. You see, because of my past, my family isn't safe anywhere except Lundland. My father fought in many wars down there, killing many who wanted the land, they know my family name. But no, I won't sit here and lie to you, try and give you a reason to fight with me. The Lord," he looks over at Lady Josephine, "He barely know me, he may not even know the colors of my Kingdom. And you," he turned to Lady Olga. "The same goes for you, but I had also requested to court you the same day we officially met. A strange old man in a cloak claiming to be a Lord and requesting love with a prospering Ladyship. Well, I will let you know this; Rone will not send all of his forces to kill me, and I can take on his smaller armies. If I can get him to send all of his forces, you could move in. With both of your armies combined, you could kill the Overlord, and take the throne, if you wished. Maybe even in assistance with Lord Wolff. Either way, it seems Lundland, and my new castle, will be the death of me." Lord Solterra stands. Exhausted, sweating, but his frightened face turned determined. "This Summit told me what I already knew, well I'll tell you I won't die on my throne! I will die alongside my people!"

She sighed. Men were all so eager to fight and die like complete fucking idiots. She sympathised with Lady Josephine, though. She seemed an adequate woman. "You see, Lord Solterra, Lady Josephine and I had been advocating against war all the time in this summit. We told you things you needed to listen to and think about, instead you decided to go by the path of war. What will happen is that the Church will excommunicate you, and your people won't listen and obey you no matter how charitable or caring you are. You can run, and rule through your sister. Else, you will die, alongside your people. Who will also die."

"This is not a game, Lady Olga, what happens after today will spell the future for everyone. Not just I or my people, and not just Lundlands. It will affect you, Lady Josephine, entire families. It doesn't matter what is going on in your head, but if you feel the need to bend over for the church, then you have it. Obviously you are the cold-hearted harlot all the rumors speak about. And don't worry about the alliance, I know when I said I'd go to war, that would be the end of our little joining. This land needs a serious re-awakening, and at some point, you'll wake up and realize it is too late. Just remember I said that. Don't worry about our personal joining, to save your reputation, I'll always say we had nothing. Now, if you excuse me, I have to leave in preparation. I might be able to make it in time for your parade." He nodded as he looked at Josephine, giving a slight bow in haste, "Good day, Lady Josephine." He quickly walked away from the arrangement, gesturing to his guards who quickly followed after.

She kept her cool as he insulted her, quietly following him with her gaze. She then sighed, turning to the remaining, more considerate and agreeable person next to her.

It surprised Lady Fiona in some way, but as it turned out, House Vearin's declaration would not be the only thing of significance that shoved Lundland a few inches closer to the abyss. One way or the other, the amount of messengers arriving at the castle increased incredibly. Fiona's younger sister, Karin would jest (?) to just start building stables especially for the many men bringing her both good and bad news.

Actually, when she thought about that, calling it "moderate and horrible news" would be a statement much closer to the truth. It could be argued that the matters of Helen and her claim were more pressing, so let's start with that. Fiona received many, many letters in response to her bold decision to stand behind Helen. Many- most were negative and malicious, demanding that Fiona sold her honor for the measly price of 10000 bulli. Some were well-meaning though, but cautious. Fiona could understand not immediately rushing to openly aid Vearin, given the rather nasty political climate.

Oh, there was also one letter that was either nonsense or written in some code. Nobody knew what to do with it, so Fiona put it aside. Then there was, of course, the official letter of Marshal Ingen himself. Actually, two letters. He took the time to personally adress her and urge to follow his order. Fiona's steward, Garret Siebert, looked at her as he waited for his liege to formulate a response. He seemed to look puzzled, which caused Fiona to ask him to "Guess her answer".

He guessed correctly; the answer was no. The answer was also delivered without any vulgarities, which was incorrectly guessed.

Of course, such would not be left without consequences, and as all the other lands seemed to descend into chaos, Fiona was one day faced with grave news.

A massive army approached Goldenfields, the capital of her vassal Barleycorn's lands. The army was led by Rone and his knights, but obviously, it could become even worse. The army was marching under the banner of La Famiglia de Meaux, a rich and powerful banking family of the Ordained Kingdom. Fiona cursed him for selling himself out to the foreigners, but even she realized that even if they were to slay Rone, a new enemy would quickly emerge from the south. Despite this, Princess Helen was filled with furious excitement. "First the weird letters, the demands for the arrest, and now it's come to this. I should have known my dear brother wouldn't afford me any quarter! We've already tried reaching out to the other Lords. Now we shall have to see who is truly on my side.

Let us ride, my Lady! Ride to the enemy!"

Thus, they rode.

BATTLE OF GOLDENFIELDS
[Co-Credit goes to the awesome Flooby Badoop]

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Praise the holy maiden, for Princess Helen was fated to be on Lady Fiona side. Queen Fiona, actually, as some of her people started calling her. Correct in the matters of law and custom, but she could not help but feel slightly suffocated whenever someone – even in most solemn respect – addressed her as "Queen". The last person of Diratania to style themself King was Nicolas II, her uncle and childless brother of her late father. Domnall considered the title of a King to be inappropiate for a vassal serving the Overlord. He didn't made any official changes though, because some did believe that he had the right to be called King, as the Overlord himself was less of a King, and more the "King of Kings".

One way or the other, Fiona could not but feel uncomfortable with such a title. Less so because of her position as a vassal, but more because it just felt "not right". A proper king or queen did not spend her days contemplating her melancholic disposition, growing an old and achey soul when the body was both young and fresh. She said to her trusted marshal, Phillip of Bellaudi (which curiously enough was a house that didn't reside in Bellaudi for generations) that only by standing up and fighting for the lives of her Diratania she would earn the rightful title as Queen.

Well, there they were now, and Phillip reminded her of her words by spreading it through the men. Perhaps she should feel secure now, given the seeming trust her people had, but she did not feel as if she was up to the challenge of co-leading an army. She got an education, in the tent's, word's, and sword's way, yet there was a vast difference between dry wood and dry paper and an actual battle on the horizon.

The warmth of the Growing season was sorely missed by the less-thickly armoured troops as they march toward Goldenfields. The weather was overcast, the air was cold, and a chilly wind passed through occasionally.

Phillip of Bellaudi led the Norraine Division from the front, alongside Princess Helen, Lady Fiona, and her husband Lord Donald. The pendants and banners of House Vearin waved proudly in the wind, and the troops marched at a steady pace. Many had mixed looks of dread and excitement. Lady Helen's presence was quite large, both physically and in her demeanor, but she curiously conversed with the soliers as if they were her equal, making boisterous and bawdy jokes. The soldiers felt comfortable around her, and Fiona heard them talk to her in a way they have never done in her dignified presence.

"It's an honour to go to battle with you,"

"If we die today, I will have considered my life well-spent to have fought in your company!"

"We'll put you on the throne, you'll see."

"It's a shame you were born a woman; you carry yourself with more manhood than any man I've met!"

After a day of marching, the army spotted a force on the horizon. The soldiers started to take position, but Phillip gestured for them to stop.

"It's alright!" he yelled, "It is the mercenaries we have hired!"

And indeed, he was right. As they approached, their appearance could be made out clearly: men in full plate, painted jet black, and waving a dozen different pendants. Some men had clearly painted words on their armour and pendants: "War is my life" "Burn," "Maim," "Kill," "Death!"

The Robber Knights.

A rider with a dark blue-plumed basinet helmet, bestride an armoured jet-black destrier, rode toward Phillip.

"Captain Anduin?" asked Phillip.

"Aye. We're ready." the man said in a hoarse voice, muted by his helmet.

"They call you The Bodyburner. Is it true what they say? You burn your enemies alive?"

"Everyone's got hobbies. Mine are money, death, and fire. In that order."

"That is good. You will have plenty of all three, fighting for us."

A few feet away from Captain Anduin and Phillip stood Donald and Fiona, observing the mercenaries. He leaned over to his wive.

"These are really the guys you both decided to hire?"

She didn't respond for a while, just watching the two men overthere interacting. Donald interpreted this as her formulating a response, and indeed, after a few seconds she tilted her head to his side.

"I should get a nice hobby as well, don't you agree?"

He hoped this was an example of her sharp tongue, and not an approval of burning people alive.

It takes some time more before they reached Goldenfields, but thankfully, the land of the Barleycorns are very flat, so there were no uphill climbs. Upon arriving in Goldenfields, however, they came upon a horrifying sight.

A massive force surrounded Castle Goldenfields, all bearing the banners of La Famiglia de Meaux. From what they could gather, Fiona counted up the forces: roughly 200 Knights, twice as much Horsemen, 1,000 Swordsmen, circa 700 to 800 Longbows, and maybe 2000 pikes. In the distance, four dozen Trebuchets flung great boulders at the castle. The force was just standing 500 meters away from Vearin's army. Her own army was just 1350 men strong.

She looked for the forces of House Barleycorn, and spotted many men on top of the parapets of the castle. It seemed House Barleycorn has decided to hole up inside their castle, which would mean their full levy would be there.

Lastly, she look for the forces of House Stoat. About 1,000 Metres from Vearin, they spotted a large camp, with pale green and brown pendants flying over it. It looked as though this were House Stoat's force. An envoy was sent over to them, and it wass confirmed that their whole levy was ready in the camp.

Rone's forces had already spotted them, but they occupied an entrenched camp surrounding Castle Goldenfields, which was a circular trench 120 metres long. Their forces were spread about this trench, save for the trebuchets, which were placed 100 metres behind the trench, and were guarded by all the Knights in the force.

The troops looked at Fiona, awaiting their orders.

Breath in.

Breath out.

Breath in.

Breath out.

"You there." She talked at one of the knights.

"Try and see if there is some way to contact the besieged Barleycorn's. If you can get into the stronghold, deliver my order for them to leave the castle and attack with all their might once the trebuchets stop firing."

She went to another one.

"Send a message to Stoat's camp. Their troops should merge with ours at this point. We shall organize ourself as one force then."

The envoys embarked, and Fiona glanced over to see whether Phillip had any reaction. Something that told Fiona whether she did "good" or "bad". None of that, alas.

---

The forces became one, and Alduin's Black K nights as well as the Stoat Hunters led the charge as cavalry while the infantry slowly followed them. Fiona ordered them to battle with the knights guarding the trebuchets. She felt that this was of the highest priority, and she hoped she was right. Princess Helen chose to take charge of the Norraine Divisions Horsemen. Fiona considered telling her to stay back for the sake of safety, but she knew Helen enough to know the futility of such a request.

The Vearin Cavalry reached Rone's knights, who turned around to fight. The very ground was shaking as if thunder and storm themself were domain not of the sky but of the earth. Then, a louder roar sent shivers down Fiona's skin as she could see part of the Barleycorn's wall fall to the fire of the trebuchets. If they were not fast enough, this siege would be shorter that she would have liked. Unbeknownst to her in that moment, Barleycorn's archer were granted a small victory as their hail of arrows completely destroyed Rone's Longbowmen.

The Stoat Hunters continued to rampage the artillery, shooting volleys at it's operators. She gathered that the enemy knights retreated, but as Fiona came closer, they just went back far enough to catch up with Rone's Horsemen, who were about to battle the cavalry. As the Stoat Hunters were focusing on the trebuchets, they were not properly able to defend themself against the assault. The Knights continued to attack the Stoat Hunters, and that battle was too much. They began to retreat.

Yet Fiona's eyes were focused on Helene riding the Norraine Horsemen and the Black Knights into the enemy cavalry. The Black Knights seemed to break at first, but Helen alone was enough to encourage the Norraine Men to fight with great vigor.

However, the operators of the trebuchets decided that they were outnumbered, and began fleeing. Fiona let out a small sigh of relief as she watched them run, before ordering the infantry to pick up and dispose all the enemy knights that became horseless. The ranged troops were unsure about this, though, as they were afraid they could hit their own men among the mess of the battle. Fortunately though, the melee infantry managed to eliminate the horseless men.

The Black Knights appeared to break completely now. Fiona could hear Helen yelling at them. What exactly was unsure, but Fiona found herself yelling as well. The infantry was ordered to attack the enemy cavalry, but as the enemy saw the Vearin men coming, they began their retreat to the camp. Helen chased after them, and her unit cut down some people, yet it was too small to do much besides eliminating some of the horseless remains.

Fiona gave out the order for all men to regroup. She managed to have the trebuchets cease fire. Even though the Stoat Hunters and the Black Knights fled, it could be said that the battle was going well. Fiona could see Rone's men raising their shield in defence of the Barleycorn's constant arrow barrage, while other men began to dig trenches. She wasn't sure how to see this. For sure was just that the damage that Barleycorn could do would now be decreased significantly.

...

What was she supposed to do now?

They could wait, and see how much Rone's men break in morale, but was that the right choice? Would that not be catastrophical for the tension that propelled her own men towards blood and steel? Yet, charging into the camp... what consequences would that have? She didn't knew.

She didn't knew...

It took her some time to formulate an order. The Stoat's artillery men were to come to the army and ready the trebuchets for potential use. Helen remarked as to the why. Firing the trebuchets might cause causalities among Rone's men, but so could they hit Barleycorn's wall.

"I do not plan to use them right now, but I do plan to keep my options as open as possible."

Half of the truth.

In the following moments, there was just the spark of another plan forming in her head.

No, she couldn't order that. They had no other choice than to charge. Violently, with honour.

The Black Knights regrouped at the edge of the battle, and made their way back to the army. This was good. Uncomfortably good.

The troops were organized so that the ranged infantry were in front, the cavalry behind them, and the infantry were behind them. Fiona waited for the Black Knights to rejoin the force, and began to march onward.

When in range, the Stoat longbowmen launched three volleys at 3 instances into the enemy trench. At 60 metres, the bowmen and crossbowmen started launching their volleys into the pikemen.

To avoid hitting the troops by accident, the Barleycorns had halted their volleys as Vearin advanced. At the moment the forces begia to charge at the enemy trenches, the Barleycorns opened both the southern and northern gates of their castle, and launched an assault on either side of the enemy trench.

The first charge became a brutal slaughter for the Diritanian forces, as the cavalry was slaughtered at the embrace of the enemy pikes, who stood firm in the heat of the charge. From there, it was a brutal slog of men attempting to reach past the enemy pikes, only to be cut down by the enemy swordsmen.

After the first charge was complete, it was clear that nearly the entire Norraine Division and Robber Knights mercenaries had been cut down, with the few who remained in full, panicked retreat. The enemy horsemen, who had managed to regroup, were now cutting down the retreating, wounded, and horseless.

Helen, however, made it into the trenches, along with the forces of House Stoat and House Barleycorn, both of whom had suffered heavy casualties, but were now inside the trenches, and making good work of the pikemen, who were meant more for combat at a distance than close quarters.

The enemy pikemen began to break against the onslaught, then marched into full retreat, allowing the Barleycorns and Stoats to kill or wound nearly all their remainder. All that were left were the enemy swordsmen, whose force grew thinner and thinner, until they too broke into retreat.

As the aftermath was stood over, the enemy was left to scatter in all directions. The enemy horsemen, seeing no recourse from the fight, abandoned the battle.

Helen wiped the blood from her blade, and stood atop the parapets of Castle Goldenfields, cheering the men on over their victory. While the fanfare went on, Lord Donald reported on the casualties.

Of House Vearin's forces, 574 were killed, and 597 were wounded. Those who survived have fled the battle, and are not likely to be seen again.

Of House Stoat, 191 were killed, and 390 were wounded.

Of House Barleycorn, 239 were made horseless, 584 were killed, and 1691 were wounded.

Fiona didn't look at him as he reported, nor did she say a word. She listened, however, and went on to Castle Barleycorn.

The soldiers of Stoat and Barleycorn claimed the spoils of war. Some of them began looting the bodies of the dead, but Fiona cared little about that. Perhaps it would even be right to say that she even thought that they deserved it.

She was about to speak with Lord Jon II, yet before that she turned and looked over the battlefield from the walls.

...Rone was none of these bodies.

Yet.

The Harvest season has always been a time of busy, excited work, where the people of the land at last take the fruits of their labour, and hide it away from the Waiting cold, that they might have another safe and prosperous year.

Curiously, this Harvest season was a time of bloodshed.

The great army that Rone had amassed dissipated before the combined arms of all Diritania. Though many lives were lost in the Battle of Goldenfields Castle, it was a sure victory for the supporters of Helen. Bards and boasting soldiers have spread their own rendition of the battle's tale all over Lundland, where almost 10,000 did battle. There is talk among many of the Lords that perhaps Helen's claim is truly the one to support, for certainly God seems to lend his will to her. The Archbishop, as always, continues to stay out of such matters.

"Politics," Innocent III said when asked to comment, "are for men in velvet, not men in cloth."

This proved an inopportune time to make such a statement, for not a month later, Bishop Issa IV of Daisyfield was reported to have gone to Lord in his sleep. The man lived for 78 long years, and it cannot be said he didn't enjoy a full life. But the question now lingers on many's lips: who shall take the vacant seat? Currently, Father Heinrich Wolff, Pastor of the Parish of Attolia, is the most-liked candidate, with all but Bishop Arnulf I of Luke Church in agreement. Arnulf I has made it vocal that he would prefer Father Samuel Vealcook, the disenfranchised eldest son of the Vealcooks, to take the seat. This has caused quite a stir amongst the other Bishops, who are wondering what sort of game old Arnulf is playing.

But one thing that can be agreed by every bishop is the pressing need to deal with the wayward Lord Of Therral, Solterra Behringer. The Lords of the land were, understandably, busy with the recent conflicts of late, and no-one took up the opportunity to attack Therral with their blessing. There is currently talk of proper mission against the vile blasphemer.

Speaking of Therral, more disturbance still has been reported in the land. There were some good of late: an agreement was reached between the vassals of the land and the reigning Behringers, that they might keep alcohol in their land, and allow their churchlands to be unmolested. The only proof for this agreement is an apparent peace among the vassals, and the raising of a vast force of men from every corner of Therral.

This, however, was the only accord. A large force of Behringer soldiers has been discovered to have invaded and captured the Mayor's Mansion in Falkwreath Township. The precise details of the battle are not well-known, but the results are clear: the small garrison of the Mansion had been defeated, and the Mayor of Falkwreath executed. The soldiers have gone about the land, gathering resources to repair the damages to the Mansion, and to ensure the loyalty of the local peasants, whom they expect to provide them with the taxes and crops that would have otherwise been due to House Trisch.

However, their occupation proved to be not without troubles. A large shipment of good food was sent to the soldiers. On its way, however, the starving peasants of the beleaguered land assaulted those who were escorting the food, and attempted to take it for themselves. Though no soldiers were harmed, numerous rioters had to be killed, among them women and young boys.

In Therral proper, unrest continues among the people. Former priests denounce Lord Solterra on the streets of Bellmoral and Falkirh, while itinerant preachers gather the faithful together to cause riots, and plead to the people of other kingdoms to free them from the grip of this blasphemous ruler. These riots caused yet more death and damage, but the people's anger is unrelenting.

Characteristically, Lord Solterra attempted to improve things, by saying that a stipend be paid to all the recently deceased soldiers in the recent conflicts. This move won him back some lost favour, and many people are now not sure what to think of their suzerain.

Last, but for horror's sake not the least, are the events surrounding the Ironstone Islands. Of late, the Lords have forgone conflict, in favour of seeking allies and arms. In actions surprising and damning in their timing, House Ealmund pledged vassalage to House Bloodsun, the rulers of The Wound, in a ceremony with the somber, yet heavy way known well of the Bloodsuns. At the same time, the Suehan House Bloodhorn pledged vassalage to House Vasa, the Jarls of Jorvik, as it seemed a fitting unification of their peoples.

House Reaver is currently neutral in matters, though for now, they are opposed to House Ealmund.

This turn of events has made the already desperate situation in the Ironstone Islands even more so. With the lands formerly belonging to House Strongheart now in disarray, they will perhaps become the first battleground of the conflicts to come over the cold, unforgiving isle.

And now as one annum ago, the nights grow longer, the sun dimmer, and the skies darker. Snow blankets fields not covered in frost, and the people of the land retreat into the safety of their homes, to feast, celebrate, and ignore the conflicts of late.

They hope to reclaim the sanguinity of the last Growing season to have for all the next annum.

The court of Bolgaz is silent.

---

It is now the Waiting Season, AU 108

---

An annum has passed. . .

Trade and Tariffs

The following trade routes were raided this annum:

[ Waiting Season ] Coldport to Iceport, Coldport to Longspear, Coldport to Soarheight, Coldport to Pentiloch, Iceport to Longspear, Iceport to Soarheight, Iceport to Pentiloch, Longspear to Soarheight, Longspear to Pentiloch, Soarheight to Pentiloch, Giant's Bane to Calisii, Giant's Bane to Veara, Giant's Bane to Bellmoral;

[ Working Season ] Coldport to All, Orgules to Fishmarket, Orgules to Bellmoral, Orgules to Sourwoods, Sourwoods to Fishmarket, Sourwoods to Bellmoral;

[ Growing Season ] Iceport to All, Longspear to All, Soarheight to All;

[ Harvest Season ] None

The following towns have gained in prosperity this annum:

None

The following towns have lost their former wealth:

None

The following towns have been sacked:

None

The following towns have completely destroyed:

Coldport, Iceport, Longspear, Soarheight

Characters

The following characters have been married:

Yngvar Vasa, younger brother of Lord Haraldr Vasa, to Bucgan Villsvin, eldest daughter and second child of Lord Askr Villsvin, during the Waiting season.

Ragnvald Vasa, eldest son and heir of Lord Haraldr Vasa, to Emily Summer, the second daughter of Lord Eadric Summer, during the Growing season.

Luccio Hastings, the eldest son and heir of House Hastings, to Elizabeth Abel, the eldest daughter and second child of Lady Carol Abel, during the Growing season.

Vilajahmur Vasa, younger brother of Haraldr Vasa, to Maria Hastings, eldest daughter of Lord Hastings, during the Harvest season.

The following characters have been born this annum:

Gustav Vasa, son of Yngvar Vasa and Bucgan Villsvin, in the beginning of the Harvest season.

The following characters have died this annum:

Lord Kaine Abel, head of House Abel, assassinated in his bed at age 63.

Bishop Issa IV, Bishop of Daisyfield, died peacefully in his sleep at age 78.

Land and War

The following battles have taken place this annum:

The significant Battle of Cold Harbour took place in the middle of the Working season, between House Sorensen and House Strongheart, in the fief of Cold Harbour, outside the town of Coldport. House Sorensen won a decisive victory, and it ended in their destroying Cold Harbour.

The small Assault of the Mayor's Mansion took place in the late Growing season, between House Behringer's forces, and the garrison of La Famiglia de Meaux, in the fief of Falkwreath Township, at the Mayor's Mansion. House Behringer won a decisive victory, and it ended in the looting of The Mayor's Mansion, the execution of the Mayor of Falkwreath, and the occupation of the fief of Falkwreath Township.

The Battle of Castle Goldenfields took place in the beginning of the Harvest season, between House Vearin and their vassals, against the forces of La Famiglia de Meaux, in the fief of Goldenfields, at Castle Goldenfields. House Vearin and their vassals won a close victory, and it ended in the consolidation of their forces, and a widespread boost in support for Princess Helen's claim to the throne.

The following fiefs have changed owners:

Falkwreath Township from House Trisch of The Crownlands to House Behringer of The Kingdom of Therral. It was conquered in the Growing season.

Earlier, during the late harvest season of AU 107.

Deep orange phantasms danced across the rough cavern walls, shedding light upon the sophisticated and time-worn paintings etched onto the stone by a violent yet precise hand. Composed of earthen colors, ranging from rust red to a grayish blue, they told the sad story of a grim goddess and how she came to be one such. They must have dated back many centuries, possibly even a millennium or more, for they were captioned with a cryptic language nobody spoke anymore, and depicted abstract, alien imagery that unsettles the mind. Beneath them, on rocks, protrusions and stalagmites near the floor, dozens upon dozens of candles were lit all around the chamber, their white wax washing over the stones and encrusting upon them.

The irregularly shaped cave was moist from constant exposure to water that trickled through the ceiling and from the opening at the far end where the cavern opened up to a subterranean creek that splashed peacefully. Decorations had been put all across the well-lit cavern in the form of primitive effigies made from flesh and bone, animal and otherwise, and adorned with ribbons of scarlet cloth. In the centre of the room, a concave in the ground was stained a deep, reddish brown – a color that could only be dubiously made out, as it was furthest from the candles near the walls, but one could clearly see that the cavity was darker than the surrounding rock.

The knights flanking lord Ardobert Griffiths shifted nervously; they had seen this cave many times before, but there was something about it, something in the air, that did not feel quite right. None of the lord’s retinue ever looked forward to escorting him to the very heart of the clans – the den of the Godsister, Aderyn of the Ravens.

“Welcome, Ardobert,” the ancient hag rasped, her voice sounding like scraping bones, “to the threshold. It’s been a while that thou didst come to see me, but I dost know why thou art here.”

“Then I dost hope ye hath answers,” the lord of Almare replied, stern of tone and face, his gaze never leaving the aged druid’s face, “Guards, leave us.”

“Art ye certain, milord?” a concerned knight asked, but a mere hand wave from their lord sufficed as an answer. The two, clad in heavy platemail and armed with swords and shields, left the cave through an almost organically shaped tunnel leading upwards.

“They can feel her pain here. That is what dost frighten them,” Aderyn remarked as she took a seat on one of the flat rocks near the darkened concave.

“I fear not the goddess, Aderyn, but I fear for my people. Ye claim to know why I didst come here,” Ardobert said, his face stricken with doubt and weariness as he sat down close to the matriarch of the clans.

“I do. The portents are clear, good lord. War is coming. Like a great dragon it shall spread its wings and the shadow will fall over all of Lundland. Tens upon thousands will suffer and die, and not even forlorn Almare will be spared of the dragon’s breath. The only question that dost remain, dearest, is what they will fight and die for.”

“The neighboring kingdoms, Jorvik and Aaldoreanfeald, plan to overthrow the overlord and put Rone’s cousin on the throne instead. I imagine Kaldur will heed the call to arms as well. They say that Theodore Trisch dost plan to free the lordships of Lundland from their shackles, and return their sovereignty to them in full. But the overlord has done us no harm, and I see little gain in this. Yet, I fear that if I refuse, it will only put Almare at odds with the kingdoms bordering it, and I canst not afford to expose my people to such a threat.”

The great lord sighed deeply and lowered his head. Only then did he spot the gutted remains of a bird inside the dark indent in the ground, its intestines spread chaotically with small, colorful pebbles strewn about the flesh. He was no stranger to the augury that the clans performed; if anything, he came to rely on it to help him in difficult times such as these.

“I have told thee what I have seen. Why dost thou believe that my opinion matters?” Aderyn asked, her gnarled fingers delicately fumbling with the necklace made from sinew and teeth around her wrinkled neck.

“Because it is your people that will fight and die for me. Ye know this; if Almare goes to war, then the clans will be called to arms as well.”

“Thou hast been good to us, Ardobert. The clans trust thee and art willing to fight anyone thou deemest an enemy to the goddess and her people.”

“I know that she dost not care whose blood is spilled in her name, but I do. For but a moment, look through the eyes of a queen, not a priestess. What would ye do if ye wore my mantle and my crown?”

“Thou hast two choices, dearest. Thou canst choose to go to war for a man thou carest little for, knowing who thine allies and thine enemies are, knowing that the battle shalt happen far away from thine home and thine wife. Or thou canst choose to remain inert; to do nothing and wait for the wolves to come to thine home, not knowing when they will come or how many there will be. Besides… the Blindseer hast been bleeding heavily these last few months. The clansmen art having nightmares, and the forest is disquiet. Kyoru needs a sacrifice, Ardobert. Thou shouldst not deny her.”

The lord of Almare straightened himself and looked Aderyn in the eyes once more. His face was a mask of stone, an unmoving visage whose dark eyes betrayed no thoughts.

“These words are clear, Aderyn. I thank ye for your counsel, and I shalt consider it with care,” he said as he got back on his feet and offered a hand to help the old druid up as well. She accepted with a weary smile and bowed before him, only for him to return the gesture.

“Farewell, Godsister. May the goddess keep thee well.”

Ardobert turned around and embarked to leave the cave of flickering candle light behind him. He stopped only for a moment to hear Aderyn’s final words before wordlessly continuing his exit.

“Fare thee well, good lord. I dost have a feeling thou wilst need the goddess’s blessings more than I.”

(Collab with Flooby)

Solterra was sitting at his personal desk in his small study, looking over the recent letters that had came in, but not any from his subjects, but from people who he has sent letters to. One had caught his eye, and he felt like he needed to read over it a few times. Solterra then closed his eyes and sighed, reaching up to take his glasses off and lay them on the desk as he reached back up to rub his eyes. After a second longer of thought he stood up and adjusted his clothing, bearing a determined face as he set out through his home. He walked until he found Flooby, his most trusted Courtier and bestest friend and he gave him a long look that held sadness, but also boldness. "Flooby... come with me." He spoke in a hushed tone. He turned to head toward his show room and proceeded to his ceremonial armor. Custom made, just as strong as ordinary armor, just, slightly flashy; to show a point instead of just soldier apparel. "Help me put my leggings and armings on." He grabbed the chest piece and began to slide it on himself, connecting the straps on the side.

Flooby took out a key from a compartment located below the armour's case. He was not a man prone to great reactions, but this armour had not seen use by anyone in ages. In fact, he couldn't recall a time when Solterra had ever worn the armour. As he unlocked the case, and hefted the armour out, he arched a brow at Solterra.

"What event are you to wear this into?" he asked.

He had a servant fetch the proper padding and strings, and began putting them on Solterra. He was a large man, but the armour seemed to be intended for someone larger, so a bit of work would be required to make it fit comfortably.

The armor was never made to fit him snugly, and he was not a man to exercise his muscles. Some say he was a paranoid man, others say he just never felt too prepared. He needed a little extra into every spot within the armor to make sure it not only stood out, but it made a point to anyone who saw it. As he began to tie some of the other straps because he didn't believe to not do any himself for what was to come next.

"Whether it is tomorrow, or today, when doesn't matter here. But..." he took a breath, ashamed of himself from what he was about to say. "What I do does not make me right, it never will." There was a short pause before he continued. "By my own hands, I will commit murder of the highest degree. Rone will be taken down."

He jerked at his shoulders and legs to get the fitting correct as he stared at Flooby, the man he would entrust his life to. There was no helmet, not because Solterra never wore one, but when he puts this armor on... there is no hiding from the truth. "Walk with me."

There was nothing scheduled, no requested audience, it was just the time when the streets were most busy. "I need to show my people. No... I need to show everyone, the reason why I do things is to make a safer and happier world, not one controlled by someone because they say they can control you just by word of mouth." He pushed forward and walked toward the hall that lead to the balcony at the entrance of his home, where many of his subjects were in the streets and doing as they did, live their lives. "If I don't, I will lose all the support I have, and this world will fall, along with every life in Lundlands."

Flooby finished putting on the armour, and walked alongside Solterra in the halls as he spoke.

"You're being very vague, sir. Are you planning on joining your men in the siege of Bolgaz? And what do you mean 'this world shall fall?'"

They began walking out onto the streets, toward one of the balconies that faced the market centre of Bellmoral. It was dawn, and indeed the busiest time of day, when everyone was setting about to their work for the day.

"Sir, are you going out?" he added.

Once they stepped foot outside, Solterra turned to Flooby and rested a hand on his shoulder. "Lundlands is ruthless, and will not stop. People will continue to kill and blood will continue to spill." He then smiled, continuing. "I'm the cure for these lands. Even if it means it is the first cure to allow for an immunity after me. Do not worry any longer."

He then, without another look or word towards Flooby, he turned to face the balcony and approached it. He rested his hands on the railing and took a breath as a few onlookers caught him.

"My people. My subjects. My friends. Please, I beg you to hear me. I apologize for the recent losses that occurred in our home of Therral, and I will not dismiss them as they were nothing. We will hold a grand funeral for all of those that lost their lives in their own home. But, you must hear me out. The churches will return. The drinks will return. Safety, happiness, and laughing children will return. It will all come back as it once was before all of this happened, I promise. I do not hate the church, and nor am I against it. But those who hold the power to do whatever they wish by simply uttering the words must be stopped. I must stop these people, so not only the joyous times of past will return to Therral, but too all of Lundlands! And that power I speak of is Rone. His people, starve, desperate, pale, women and children dying." He pounded his fist against the railing. "I will not sit by and allow this to happen, to allow Rone to starve his people, let young ones die, just so he can raise an army to control us! We are a threat, to the greed he has over the Church, and I aim to cleanse that sin. But I can not do this without you! Today, I will set out to Rone's home, and I will take it. I will cleanse the church of its evil that plagues the inside, and bring back God to our loving arms! Please, tell me that these fires, this hate, and the fighting in our own home will be gone once I return. Please!"

At first, there were few onlookers to Lord Solterra's speech, but his passion grew, so did those who were listening.

In a matter of moments, the entire street stood in awe as they realized their king was personally addressing them.

After Solterra finished, there was a silence.

"Cheers for the King!" yelled a woman, who was holding the hand of a child. Several other women joined her in shouting.

"Murderer! Liar! He preaches peace, but holds a knife behind his back, as the aedile did against St. John!" cried a priest. Several joined his cries of hatred, and began chucking stones toward the balcony.

In what seemed an instant, the whole crowd erupted into a frenzy, a mix of cheers and jeers. Fights broke out between people, and dozens chucked stones toward the balcony. One of them hit Lord Solterra square in the jaw.

Flooby stood back at a safe distance, and stood with wide eyes. As he saw the reaction of the people before him, he could not help but think about Solterra and his actions. All this time, he had been serving him as a man of numbers and state actions. Passion and opinions were something to be had away from one's desk. The man felt himself conflicted: on one hand, Solterra's speech appeared to be apologetic. He renounced all his ill deeds before his people, and gave them no violence in return. Yet at the same time, the last two seasons had been filled with nothing but death by his own hands.

The speech was powerful, but for those so vehemently against him, who had lost everything by his hand, it seemed doubtful he would ever be accepted again.

He grabbed Solttera by the arm. "My liege, we should go back inside, before things become more heated."

He hunched slightly, brushing his jaw as he looked at Flooby, turning away, jerking back to his people. "This injustice must STOP!" He yelled with all of his might, disregarding his pained jaw entirely as sadness and adrenaline rushed through him. "We are a people joined as one for the safety of others! Therral was NOT to control its people, it was to protect them. Still, Keep Middlesbrough stands with no order of military actions. If you have any faith in me but do not follow me, leave there now! My remaining soldiers will from now on NEVER slaughter another man or women of Therral! The churches will be rebuilt, and the priests given a home. When I leave my castles gates, drinks will no longer be taken, and not one more scream shall happen! If you follow God then you shall not lay one more hand on another for He shall strike you down for harming one of his own people. If you do not follow me, you will follow Him!" Solterra gained an angered face, but the sadness started to erupt as a tear glistened from his eye. "Soldiers of Therral! Those who are left to guard the people of Therral, only raise your weapons to an enemy, your people are not your enemy! Restrain and calm them, but only if needed. No jail, no sentence, no stocks. I leave now to free Lundlands from the plague that threatens ALL of our families. I hope I do not come back to death and torment."

Solterra heaved a mighty breath and slowly turned back to his castle, looking to Flooby. "Ready five-hundred men in their own ceremonial Armor. The best of them, to my side. I leave to Bolgaz this moment," he continued, walking back in and heading to the stairs to find the entrance. "Find how many subjects live in Falkwreath and purchase food for all of them, open all the trade routes. Do as I said we would do with our people." He stopped, looking at Flooby and holding his soldiers. "Take over while I am gone, and make my people happy. I don't know if I will return. Goodbye, my friend." He reached down to grab Flooby's hand in a shake, and then abruptly left to find the men and leave his home.

Flooby gave a curt nod, and set about the task assigned to him without another thought. Guards were set about to maintain order, making sure not to harm anyone, but everyone had calmed down, even the priests. The people dispersed from below the balcony, and set about their tasks once again, though this time accompanied by low talk of what had just happened.

Meanwhile, five hundred soldiers spent the next hour getting prepared in their ceremonial armour, and set out into the courtyard of the keep, to await their liege, who had been there with them and began to set out on their march.

Aaldorenfeald was not a good country for philosophers. It held few men of the churchly order, and even fewer scholars. No one had time for philosophy, or for the arts, or for anything else deemed unnecessary and wasteful by the conditions of such a stark society. The Aaldoren had always been a people resolute, and their resolution was labour. There was no night's rest more satisfying than after a hard day's work, Aaldorenfeald's people told themselves. This steadfast ideology, body over mind, extended from the lowliest labourer to even Aaldorenfeald's King. It was all the more embarrassing for Grindan Osgar, then, King of the Aaldoren, when in his work, he found his mind drifting to matters of philosophy. He had capacity to console himself, though, for his philosophizing was at least of the constructive sort.

War was a grisly and horrible affair. The pestilence it brought about was just as bad as the terror of the bloodshed itself, and Grindan had always considered it to be the responsibility of any good King to spare his people war whenever it was at all an option. The contents of Grindan's philosophical musings as he perused the papers cluttering his workplace poked at those considerations. With each steward's report read over, each book entry double-checked, each stiff parchment flipped over to leave the Warrior-King's eyes free to see another document, Grindan's resolve for peace lessened and lessened. It was not easy to remain a man of peace with an army assembling at your doorstep, after all: even if, in this case, the army was Grindan's to command. Grindan mused that his own sentiments for peace, dwindling as they were, were moot at this point. Besides that it would be rather embarrassing for a King to send an army of several thousand men hailing from multiple kingdoms back to their homes merely because of a change of heart, the war force assembling and training outside of Rytael as Grindan worked would also hopefully be saving more lives than they'd end. Grindan chuckled at the thought that an army of angry men could ever save even one life, let alone more than they'd kill; Grindan's personality and training was that of a warrior, after all, and so he held no pretenses towards what would occur on the battlefield. Still, though, the rare Aaldoren philosopher trapped inside of Grindan's grizzled frame knew that it was no jest that wars could cause peace. Grindan himself—the warrior, not the philosopher—knew, like all of his countrymen, that his cause alone was the one that would most lead to peace. For all of his doubts about war's necessity, though, never for a half of a moment did it cross Grindan's mind that the necessary war was the one being fought by his enemy. The idea that he was not right was almost as inconceivable as the idea that he could lose.

Stepping away from the letters at his desk, Grindan ascended his way, unguarded and unaccompanied, to the tallest part of Rytael's great manor. Swinging open a solid set of doors and closing them shut again behind him, Grindan found himself immersed in the cool, midnight air of Aaldorenfeald. Below and before him, a field of light as if a spear of stretched out to sunder the night's dark shield, was an immense camp-site, befitting several thousand men's arms. Fires from the hundreds upon hundreds of tents bellowed smoke high into the air, and the men below slept and ate and fought, readying themselves for what was to come for them. Banners of numerous sorts flew high, just barely made out from Grindan's distance. House Osgar's wolf was the most numerous among the flying banners, but it was not alone. Neither was the personification of that wolf, Lord Grindan, alone as he peered over the ledge at the army below. A woman, one of simple beauty, had been sitting atop the tower as Grindan now was whilst the King was in his office. She'd been waiting for him to arrive, and he'd known.

"It's surprising how beautiful a horrible thing can seem to be, isn't it?" Lady Catríona asked, her eyes never leaving the army, even as she spoke to her husband. "These men will have killed at least their own number in foreigners before they arrive back to their homes and families." Catríona paused, then turned her eyes away from the army and to Grindan. "How many thousand are they? How many Aaldoren lives are you sending off to die on foreign soil?"

Grindan frowned, and matched his wife's gaze, turning to face her at precisely the same moment she'd turned to face him. "Zero. I'm not sending a single one of those men off to die. I'm sending them off to kill. The war our country fights is one that will give Lundland lasting peace. As with all states of peace, though, the one I hope to impose will have to be watered with the blood from a soldier's throat." Grindan beckoned to the army, and then changed his frown to a smirk. "They're gardeners, every one. Even those that craft wood or fish. They are gardeners, and God has tasked them with a climactic garden to water."

Her husband's metaphor made Catríona smile. She loved his plainness. She did not enjoy the prospect of men fighting and dying, but Grindan's explanations always managed to sway her. She trusted that Grindan's campaign was not one of vanity. It was a task to be accomplished: just like a garden to be watered, or a field towed. Her eyes focused on those of her husband, and she wrapped her arms around him tight and kissed him like it would be the last time they would ever touch. Grindan reciprocated, holding his wife lovingly, the cold man's affections for the mother of his children showing through his harshness. There was an amount of truth to the idea that this embrace could be the last Catríona ever had from her husband. The night's air that they now shared would be the last shared by them in this season, for the next morning Grindan would be taking his position at the head of the army assembled below them, and going off to war.

No farewells, no goodbyes. Domund silently sharpened his dirk, in the company of burning candles, the rest was a deep darkness. It was here he grew and pondered, while his brother bathed in luxuries, and his sister had been quietly isolated from near everybody, resigning only to her teachers and her mother. The poor girl will grow surrounded by calvous men with bollocks to their knees and her 'lady mother', who sends her children off to spill blood without even meeting them in person.

"Domund, raise a thousand men and rush to the aid of Lord Solterra Behringer."

He frowned. Rushing to aid a man who was brave enough to call his mother a whore an annum afore, not as if he was protecting his mother, the Behringer fellow seemed to be half correct. And yet.

He stepped out to the courtyard, the dusk slowly showing its' hideous physionomy at this time of the day, and the sight of bare, crying dead trees outside the fortress hadn't made it better, everich of them screaming of inconstancy, the death of life. He pulled on his black gloves, repulsed by his skin. Many times had the healers come to him when he was a toddler. And even now he grimaced as he saw it; red open sores covering the surface, no matter how much herbal oinments and emmolients were rubbed on it, sometimes it eased the disease, but it will never heal.

So is The Wound, rotting and dying.

*

Finally, she could rest when she arrived back at her court. She could enjoy the sight of her lands, magnificient and dark at the same time, and even if the dreary grey walls of her keep weren't much distinguishable from the one of Jarl Haraldr's hall, it was still a welcome sight. Her guard had also became tired from the way back from Jorvik, and rested. I am back. She thought. I shall begin my way south, to the lands of House Trisch.

An annum had passed since the last Waiting season, in which the Bogan host retreated from the Crownlands after ravaging nearly everything. In this time, things have scarcely improved.

Therral had become a staging ground for numerous forces after the defeat of La Famiglia de Meaux's army at Goldenfields. Whatever grand scheme they might have had at greatness, it has clearly failed, for their soldiers and their pendants left Lundland, and headed back home.

Taking advantage of this retreat, Lord Solterra Behringer continued his advance, capturing Country Castle. He continued to advance his troops, until he came to Bolgaz. It is not certain what he found there, but apparent rumour has it that Bolgaz was abandoned. The mightiest fortress in all of Lundland, taken without force.

Meanwhile, the forces of Aaldoreanfeald and their allies finally convened in the Crownlands. A force had already landed in Falkwreath Township some time ago, but in sequence to them came a mighty force of cavalry, well over a thousand strong. Upon hearing the news of Bolgaz's most strange capture, it can be imagined how perturbed they might be.

In north, the tides of war both waxed and waned. A great fleet was spotted off the coast of Attolia, proudly bearing the banners of House Fisher.

There has been little word on the ensuing events there.

However, in the Ironstone Islands, where all were preparing for a grim war, peace prevailed. The island had become officially divided between the vassals of House Vasa and House Bloodsun, with House Bloodhorn being dubbed Jarl of Jarnstienjar, the Suehan name for the Ironstone Islands. The swords have been sheathed, and the mercenaries have been sent home, without so much as a single drop of blood being shed. Peace was even brought to those provinces in anarchy, after having order restored to them by Jarl Svipold Bloodhorn.

And to complement these stages, a new one had its curtains pulled back. In a lightning affair, the forces of House Orring, escorted by a small force from House Summer, swept through the Kingdom of Kaldur, and in several small skirmishes and battles, destroyed the relatively small forces of the lords. More died to the cold than to steel, but the conquest was nonetheless swift and brutal. Houses Hunter and Claw had all their land taken from them, and their families were executed without last words, mercy, or a proper burial. After the affair, the forces of House Orring left. It is unclear exactly what they gained from the affair, as House Summer occupied all the conquered territory. The benefits for House Summer, of course, are obvious, for in terms of land, their power is now undeniably equal to that of their liege.

But conflict was not the only concern of the Waiting season. For many, it was a time of great mirth. Toward the end of the season, two great marriages occurred.

The first was the marriage of Damon Cole, the eldest son and heir of Antony Cole, to Elena Vearin, the sister and current heir of Lady Fiona Vearin. It was a splendid wedding, held in the castle chapel overlooking the beautiful city of Palma. Though it was planned to be had outside, the snow and cold made such an attempt forbidding, but an equally joyous affair was held in the keep. The festivities lasted for several days, and the Waiting cold seemed all the more forboding when it ended.

In terms of political affairs, the marriage is likely to cement the interests of the two wealthy houses. It would not be surprising if House Cole were to be convinced to join the fight for Princess Helen's claim to the throne.

The second marriage was of that between Lila Westfield, the youngest daughter of Lord Devon Westfield, and Valgard Vasa, the gallant and honourable tourney hero. Though politically less important, the affair was no less grand, as it occurred right in time with the feast of Saint Nyklas.

The ceremony itself was lovely, but on the next day, the day of the feast itself, a great panic arose when an assassin was discovered to be tampering with the wine! It is known that the assassin killed himself by drinking the poison meant for whomever was to imbibe the wine, but the rest of the details have been ill-talked of.

Meanwhile, in the Churchlands, a great commotion was held during the day of the Election. Most people in Bernwick rolled their eyes: it had taken the Archbishop the whole annum of 105 to be elected, and it was expected that the election of the new Bishop of Diasyfield would take a comparable time.

To everyone's shock, the meeting did not last longer than half an hour. A unanimous vote was made in favour of Father Heinrich Wolff, Father of the Attolian Parish, and uncle to Lord Lothar Wolff, to name him Bishop Heinrich I of Daisyfield.

Of course, circumstances were different this time around, and Daisyfield is certainly not the crown jewel of the Lundish Church, but it was nonetheless an impressive gesture of trust toward the man, and by extension House Wolff. It cannot be certain how this might align the Church's interests slightly toward those of House Wolff, or vice versa, but the effects of the election have certainly already reverberated among the clergy of Bernwick. An energy can be felt all 'round, as rumours fly about of secret support given by the great lords toward the condemnation of King Solterra.

Not surprisingly, the question of faith has only become a bigger question in Therral. King Solterra's impromptu speech in Bellmoral, alongside an order to rebuild the churches that had been destroyed, the legalization of the faith, and the re-legalization of alcohol, has left many confused. The peasants rejoice that their leader is once again returning to the light, but the more learned men, particularly the land-holders and clergy, from whom Solterra had taken the most, the rumour that Solterra has lost his mind and soul to the Devil still persists. The mobs and rioters have dispersed, but the anger has not.

And now, the cold is slowly moving on from Lundland, lifting a blanket of snow to reveal grass painted red.

---

It is now the Working season, AU 108

Warmth finally returns to all of Lundland, and the long-awaited Growing season begins. Thankfully, this season has proved not be as hot as the last one, and the people rejoice.

The people who do not have to face the horrors of war, that is.

The east has become a battlefield, as House Behringer raised a mighty force to attack House Cole. The reasoning for this attack came from Lord Antony Cole's request to capture Alexis Behringer, Lord Solterra Behringer's sister and heir presumptive, who Lord Solterra had entrusted to her protection during his campaign in the Crownlands. He immediately followed this action with a nearly complete withdrawal from the Crownlands, and by raising the full might of Therral against Pelataria. Not days after proclaiming his ire was the vassal of Lord Antony Cole, Lord Crispin II Aldran, assassinated in his study. He died at the age of 63, and the assassin was not caught.

The word on the invasion's outcome has yet to reach the ears of each lord in the kingdom, but the fighting has been bloody, and the numbers of troops involved have brought awe and horror to the people of the lands, as they and the land are brutalized. God might only know the expense in coin, land, and life.

In the north, the battle between the forces of House Fisher and House Wolff begin in earnest. The campaign continues on, and its outcome remains uncertain, as there has been scant news from Attolia on the matter.

In the Crownlands, the void left by House Behringer has allowed the forces of Aaldoreanfeald to occupy Trischland. They now hold the mighty fortress of Bolgaz, and the great city of Pentiloch. It is known to all by now that the court of Bolgaz has seemed to have disappeared. As for the fate of the fortress itself, this is known only to Solterra Behringer and Grindan Osgar. The people of Trischland hope that they shall not starve as they did under Rone's feckless rule.

Last amongst the land's events were the appearance of a troupe most queer. A small group of priests, bearing the crest of the Master's City on a pendant, arrived in Bernwick. Such a visit is most odd: the Master has not made official contact with the Lundish Church in decades. In fact, nearly all the Bishops appointed by the venerable Master himself are dead, save old Arnulf I of Luke Church. One can only wonder what the Master wishes done.

Despite the war and bloodshed in the west, the centre and east appear to be bastions of calm. The sun shines, and crops grow tall. The joy and mirth of the last Growing season, however, have been replaced with anxiety and despair. The hopes of the people have been crushed, and it seems the eagerly awaited peace after the war with the Bogan Host has evaporated. The Lords and Ladies of the land seem desperate to shed blood, and in some places concern gives way to panic. Time will only tell what shall be wrought on Lundland.

None know Rone's whereabouts.

---

It is now the Growing Season, AU 108