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Johann lugged a pail under each arm. He'd gotten a little distracted out by the well, and the slow exit of the sun had unnerved him, to say the least. Torse was neither safe nor giving in the modern day. They'd been erasing Horrors in scores, but the ocean was still teeming with unlife, and the Demon legions so close by rarely allowed someone to celebrate safety.
A rustle in the bushes brings him to sharply pause, frozen like a deer prepped to bound away. Johann isn't the warrior his father was, survivor he may be, and before he can even see what lingered, he's sprinting for town again. But by the time he's there, a crowd of soldiers and servants alike linger around the notice board.
Gruel lands wetly into Alvte's bowl. She sips from the bowl with a grimace. Somehow, despite most of it being water, it still managed to taste plain and awful at the same time. The soldier who'd poured it gave with some sort of disappointed glare, so she swallows a smile and steps out of the line. With the state of Ruttgher and all, she wouldn't really have the right to complain.
It wasn't a long line. She passes by sparse streets on her way to the mill. A few hands extend, asking her for coins she didn't have. Her steps quicken along the long road. By now, she was an expert at looking the other way. But even an expert has their slips, and Alvte had her weaknesses.
One of the reaching hands was particularly frail, attached to a frame that couldn't have been older than nineteen. Not too far from her son's age. She sighs, and takes a knee. Her hand reaches into her pocket and finds a coin purse that'd been light for years. She produces a pittance, and clasps it into the hand of the boy.
"Keep going." She affirms. "We'll be helped soon."
Parzi is already getting tired of goosebumps. Arlora was never particularly warm, but at least before the Crisis, it had been alive. Stood on night watch, at the still makeshift frontline walls, the odd quiet of the day had led her to that tried and true Sihndar pastime of reminiscing. She missed her hold. Sometimes, in her cramped barracks, filled with Regalian Soldiers, king's men, and Ferian survivors, it felt close again. Once in a while, she'd see her friends in the reflection of her glass. She doesn't think they'd be proud of her, cooped up on the wall like this.
She doesn't usually think like that. Suddenly, Parzi felt close to home in the worst sort of way. Her nose crinkles, and she glances upward. She hadn't even noticed how dark it'd gotten. She strikes her torch to the stones and slides down a ladder, skulking steady toward an open gate she certainly wasn't the one to open.
Her posture was low, but she'd been firing down at Bone Horrors from a wall for the past few years. Admittedly, her skills in stealth had gotten rusty. If the crackling of flame on her torch hadn't alerted her enemies, the branch she snaps under her boot certainly did. A smiling face protrudes out of the dark into the orange glow of her open flame, flat-nosed and sharp toothed. The demon beast growls. Parzi's blade comes free of her belt with a click.
Word travels fast. The Peerage learned before Parzi, Alvte or Johann ever could. On the 22nd of February, 3:00PM PST, the Assembly shall gather to decide the future of Arlora, Torse, and Ruttgher. The bureaucracy has given them the right to decide where the new wave of immigrants, including Wirtem Settlers, Elven Refugees and Anglian Merchants will go.
However, the government isn't the only element with an interest in the future of these lands. In common bars and military circles, the horn of a warlord blows. Augustin Roca, King of Hel, seeks to place his own hand in this governance, and as repayment for the kindnesses given to him in Amontaar, will allow non-knights and non-nobles to also decide who goes where. In his corner, the commoners will have to decide where the Roca Company mercenaries, Kathar Refugees, or Anglian Impoverished will go. He intends to meet in the Crookback Meeting Hall, February 23rd, 3:00 PST.
A rustle in the bushes brings him to sharply pause, frozen like a deer prepped to bound away. Johann isn't the warrior his father was, survivor he may be, and before he can even see what lingered, he's sprinting for town again. But by the time he's there, a crowd of soldiers and servants alike linger around the notice board.
He's too thin to shoulder past the crowd, but he's tall enough to read what's been stuck on.
-
-
Gruel lands wetly into Alvte's bowl. She sips from the bowl with a grimace. Somehow, despite most of it being water, it still managed to taste plain and awful at the same time. The soldier who'd poured it gave with some sort of disappointed glare, so she swallows a smile and steps out of the line. With the state of Ruttgher and all, she wouldn't really have the right to complain.
It wasn't a long line. She passes by sparse streets on her way to the mill. A few hands extend, asking her for coins she didn't have. Her steps quicken along the long road. By now, she was an expert at looking the other way. But even an expert has their slips, and Alvte had her weaknesses.
One of the reaching hands was particularly frail, attached to a frame that couldn't have been older than nineteen. Not too far from her son's age. She sighs, and takes a knee. Her hand reaches into her pocket and finds a coin purse that'd been light for years. She produces a pittance, and clasps it into the hand of the boy.
"Keep going." She affirms. "We'll be helped soon."
Alvte meant it as a lie. When she carries on along her walk, her eyes catch a notice that she hopes would make it true.
-
-
Parzi is already getting tired of goosebumps. Arlora was never particularly warm, but at least before the Crisis, it had been alive. Stood on night watch, at the still makeshift frontline walls, the odd quiet of the day had led her to that tried and true Sihndar pastime of reminiscing. She missed her hold. Sometimes, in her cramped barracks, filled with Regalian Soldiers, king's men, and Ferian survivors, it felt close again. Once in a while, she'd see her friends in the reflection of her glass. She doesn't think they'd be proud of her, cooped up on the wall like this.
She doesn't usually think like that. Suddenly, Parzi felt close to home in the worst sort of way. Her nose crinkles, and she glances upward. She hadn't even noticed how dark it'd gotten. She strikes her torch to the stones and slides down a ladder, skulking steady toward an open gate she certainly wasn't the one to open.
Her posture was low, but she'd been firing down at Bone Horrors from a wall for the past few years. Admittedly, her skills in stealth had gotten rusty. If the crackling of flame on her torch hadn't alerted her enemies, the branch she snaps under her boot certainly did. A smiling face protrudes out of the dark into the orange glow of her open flame, flat-nosed and sharp toothed. The demon beast growls. Parzi's blade comes free of her belt with a click.
Beast blood soon stains a notice Parzi hadn't read yet.
-
REJOICE.
The bureaucracy, with the overhead of the Imperial Court, has placed the role of resettling Torse, Arlora and Ruttgher in the hands of the wise peerage.
New life shall be breathed into these long struggling lands.
Glory to the Empire.
-
-
REJOICE.
The bureaucracy, with the overhead of the Imperial Court, has placed the role of resettling Torse, Arlora and Ruttgher in the hands of the wise peerage.
New life shall be breathed into these long struggling lands.
Glory to the Empire.
-
Word travels fast. The Peerage learned before Parzi, Alvte or Johann ever could. On the 22nd of February, 3:00PM PST, the Assembly shall gather to decide the future of Arlora, Torse, and Ruttgher. The bureaucracy has given them the right to decide where the new wave of immigrants, including Wirtem Settlers, Elven Refugees and Anglian Merchants will go.
However, the government isn't the only element with an interest in the future of these lands. In common bars and military circles, the horn of a warlord blows. Augustin Roca, King of Hel, seeks to place his own hand in this governance, and as repayment for the kindnesses given to him in Amontaar, will allow non-knights and non-nobles to also decide who goes where. In his corner, the commoners will have to decide where the Roca Company mercenaries, Kathar Refugees, or Anglian Impoverished will go. He intends to meet in the Crookback Meeting Hall, February 23rd, 3:00 PST.
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