Non Ducor, Duco I am not led, I lead (O.R.) Spoiler: Musical Ambiance! It has often been said that the crucible of Resilience is Strife and Discord. That strength and conviction, untested, are as sound as paper in the wind. Dark hours have brought Regalia to the fire - but it has not found us weak; it has not found unfaithfulness, nor has it found us powerless. The nature of Regalians has always been paradoxical - lands of wild differences in race, culture, language, faith, terrain, tradition. A disparate group united under one blessed Emperor. When faced with such a picture, an outsider may find it easy to imagine that we are a mismatched, incongruous people who were ripe for seeds of dissention. But we, Regalia, know that nothing could be further from the truth. To the faithful in the city of Regalia - face this siege with grace, courage, and the knowledge of your righteousness in the face of sanguine hostilities. That your fight against these monsters is a true, just battle that brings honor to us all. When we lift our swords, use all our talents to defeat these unholy vampires, we give praise to the imperial throne that imbues us with strength to fight. We know our strength lies in our hands - willing to reach out to help fellow Regalians, no matter their birthplace. We know our joy is in the celebration of our cultures under one banner as our Emperor proclaims, not the subversion of them. We know our hopes are united in a strong, safe Regalia for all. We know our fortunes rise when we stand up to defend what is our way of life from those who seek to destroy it. We know that our future rests in this moment; the moment when all good peoples of every faith, raise up to defeat this scourge, this bane that is no match for the heart of Regalia. From every corner, every heartland, every province, every fort and colony. I call upon your fervor, your faith, your love. Unite to defeat this foe! This enemy that, if unchecked, shall darken every horizon - stalking the nights of the snowy north and blotting the sun from the golden south. We are stronger than our enemy. We have been tested. We have rode through suffering and ruin. And our love of Empire, and our faith in the days to come shall see us through to victory. Arise, Regalia and stand. Our salvation is in our hands. Now is the time for deliverance. Rise and fight for what is ours. Our Empire! Rise and fight! Yours in faith and hope, Genevieve L. Howlester The above message was copied upon pamphlets and found its way to many of the resistance in the countryside by couriers and mysteriously left in the city streets of Regalia.
The note arrived in the bitter, gloved hands of Adrian, picking up the burdensome note from the street. Regarding it with disinterested, crimson eyes, the man's twisting, crooked smile only grew more and more as he paged through its roughly written letters. "The dogs can barely hold onto a fortress and they have the audacity to spread-- what? Litter about the property of his Lordship? PFFAH! Garbage and propagandized drivel, more empty obfuscations that had so defined the state of Regalia before it fell into our rightful grasp." Crumbling the note up in a balled fist and tossing it to the wayside of his path to fester, Adrian continued his walk in the newly prized city of his kin.
Aldon found his eyes gazing over the message that had been dropped in his hands from the courier on high, sitting in a quiet eve away from the main thorough-ways and streets of the city. At first only looking at it with passive eyes, reading the message, the young Cahal felt his spirit of rebellion ignite, his scornful, tired passiveness turning into a wide, nearly triumphant smile. Raising his eyes skyward, the Ailor folded the note into one of his many pockets, hope burning in him as he laughed. And his voice carried into a great howl, the sound of the boy who had lost his home but never lost his heart.
The Lady Cadieux picks up the notice from outside the Burning Bridges Clinic, holding a mop with a blood red god-knows-what substance on it. She reads over it once, then twice. A small, subtle smile settles on her face as she turns back into the shop. "I never knew that her Ladyship was /this/ talented at writing. I mean.. Obviously, maybe I'm just stupid. There is hope after all." Isabelle plops on the edge of the pond, raising a hand to pet Frank the turtle. "Maybe it's time to finally find a way to fix up the old curing box, hm? Can't let the Matron have all the fun."
Brandt von Eisner, once behind the walls of the Mercenary Keep, retrieves the message from a pouch secured to his belt. He begins to read. "Eloquently written. Her Ladyship has talent with words... It will serve its purpose no doubt, and unite us all at the gates of the Kade and Howlester Estates for the push into the city." He remarks, before making his way further into the keep.
Milena stares quietly down to the page in her hands, fingers curling 'round its edges. Her lower lip trembles as she lifts her head skyward, scrutinizing the very clouds there. She swallows, the paper crumpling a touch as her grip tightens. Then, she stands and tucks it away close to her beating heart and sets off for the camp.
A daendroque leans back snatching one of these as she reads. “Mm…well written certainly. A good speech let us heed it. Hopefully this time the nobles will not beat me up when I try to help.” she said a note of bitterness in her voice. Before she took a breath, “Let it go…let it go Rosa there is a greater project you must help. Let the dishonorable be dealt with by life.”
