The distant sounds of footsteps walking down the hall echoed after the time-hardened stones of the capital of Nordskag, Castle Kongsete. Lieutenant-General Leonard Reindewic strode down the hall, flanked by two personal guards. Finally, the clunking of his boots ceased as he reached the door to the throne room. The two pikemen guarding the door reached towards the handles, though Reindewic cut them off by throwing each of the giant slabs of wood asunder and marching into the room. “Disrespectful southerners,” the pikemen on the left muttered. “Whatever it is, it must be urgent,” the other said back, as he closed the doors behind the Lieutenant-General.Leonard strode forward silently towards where Osvald Krumme, the King of Nordstad, as upon his stone throne cushioned with the pelts of animals slain in his predecessor’s hunts. “Your Majesty, King Krumme.” Leonard began, stooping to one knee in respect, his right hand clenched around a rolled piece of paper. “Rise; your respect is welcome but unnecessary. How may I help my friends to the south?” Krumme replied. “Thank you, your Majesty. I bring plans from the capital for an invasion.” “An invasion of…?” “Hvitskag, your Majesty.” Osvald’s face lit up like the sky during Mershell’s Dance. “Is that so? Come. There is much to discuss,” Krumme said as he stood and beckoned Reindewic towards a chamber to the right of the throne. Strewn across a dark oak table was a large map of the Three Skags, over which the two poured for several hours, sharing quality strategies and battle tactics. Though Leonard was always somewhat reserved, the two left that room closer than they entered. A small semblance of friendship was not all that they emerged from the room with: The Lieutenant-General had his orders, and was intent on acting them out to the letter. Osvald, ever the pro-Regalian, granted joint command of the Nordskag armies to the Regalian Military. Reindewic returned to his ship and had his men mobilize: They would march for Hvitskag later that day while respecting the treaty with the Mirnoye. Soon, Nordskag and Regalian soldiers alike began burning all Hvitskagger naval vessels they could find. Though some remained passive, the Hvitskaggers were barely civilized. Men, women, and even some older children took up arms against the intruders, to little effect. Any resistance was crushed almost as soundly as the snow beneath the boots of the marching soldiers. At the end of the day, a sizeable portion of Hvitskag was occupied, and with it, a large population of the nation. Unfortunately, not all of the upstarts could be caught; many Hvitskaggers fled into the Mirnoye treaty zone on Hvitskag, where both Regalia and Nordskag were not permitted to have soldiers. This caught the joint army between violating the truce, or risking dragging the war out by letting the Hvitskaggers hide and regroup. Meanwhile in Drixagh, Lieutenant-Admiral Virathus Krupp continued his efforts to relieve the local population of their hardships and stimulate the local economy. Unfortunately, Drixagh was more ravished than he had originally anticipated. The area largely lacked cities; what little fortifications that stood were inhabited by tundra and forest nomads who survived on cattle. Practically all domesticated animals, wild livestock, and even horses had been eradicated in the area, meaning there was simply no economic base left to rebuild, especially since the soil was unsuitable for agriculture. Krupp’s attempts to placate the locals through mixed marriages and incentives was relatively successful, but perhaps not in a way the initiative creator had hoped. The locals had more so given up on remaining Northern as the Justifixion of their kin had proven too cruel to face, even for a people who normally relished death in battle. The majority of them simply converted and adapted to Krupp’s attempts to Imperialize them, largely because they felt utterly abandoned. No other Northerne family in Regalia had publicly spoken out in any meaningful way to safeguard the Northerne culture. As the situation progressed, the Northerners started viewing Krupp as less of an Imperial dog, and more of a charitable samaritan, while those old Northern families that had all fallen under the sway of cowardly silence or Imperial yoke were now considered the traitors. The general sentiment in Regalia had become that the North was now truly lost and forsaken. The barbaric free way of the Northerners had been broken: Nordskag’s new king, Osvald Krumme, had rapidly set out to modernize his aging Kingdom, and in Drixagh the population adapted in large numbers. The only lands where Northerners continued to wave their axes around and scream obscenities at each other were Hedryll and Ostryll, as well as some of the northern Cairn Kingdoms; all locations far removed from Regalia and its politics. Elsewhere in the west, Charles Montagaard, accompanied by Johann Eshevard, took a ship to Daenshore along with the Imperial standard banner to oversee the first movements against the Elves. Their intention had meant to strike at the Elves for a longer period now; global events had precipitated some sort of conflict between Regalia and the Elves, especially since the Elves made an alliance with the Songaskians. For many months, this front had been ignored by the Regalians because the Altalar were largely involved in a quasi-war with the Avanthar. The Lieutenant-Generals finally opted to strike when the Altalar were perceived as weak, and when the Orcs seemed as though they favored supporting Regalia. When arriving in Daenshore, Montagaard received a very lackluster welcome from the local Daendroquin and Lusitian population, always infamously anti-Imperial. His march through the city of Daenshore was solemn and quiet. The population simply stared at him unenthusiastically. Upon arriving at the fields of Ulvar, near the border between Daenshore and the Hortutor lands, Montagaard rested the Imperial Banner and the Montagaard levies in preparation to strike out against Ríë Rivaëlla: The nearest Southern Altalar Kingdom. They chose to rest the day to observe Holy Mass and the celebration of Heron Kelter, the Daen reclaimer, who had once walked these same fields to claim more land for the Ailor race to settle on. The army settled down for the night, the purple, viridian, and black tents dimly lit by campires. Charles Montagaard and Johann Eschevard continued to receive Daendroque dignitaries until the late hours. Even Varran ambassadors from the city state of Ssil, and perhaps entirely unexpected, even some Avanthar who brought news of the royal tribes. Come dawn however, the sun rose to greet a camp caught in the grips of panic. The preceding night, a massive Altalar army had approached from the nearby forests under the cover of night, using their superior skill in skirmishing to disable Regalian scouts and outposts before they had a chance to alert the base camp. By the time the army was within viewing range of the camp’s outer sentries, they had practically surrounded the entire camp. Total number assessments were difficult, but it was obvious that the Montagaard-Imperial Standard Banner, assisted by some Viridian Knights, was outnumbered three to one. Johann Eschevard quickly managed to break down some of the tent areas and form up an orderly to brace for an attack, but the situation was turning bleak when the Elves brought about their own newly developed artillery: some Magic-based projectile weapons. The Regalian Army, usually relying on superior gunpowder artillery fire, was unable to deploy its weapons, while morale itself had also taken a considerable hit. It was in that moment that the General Staff concluded that the battle was indeed hopeless. The Westmark Army was too far away, closer to the town of Palasta just outside of Daenshore, and there were no other friendly forces that could be alerted. In fact, even if there were, there was no way to get a messenger past the Altalar who were masters of bows and the forests around the area. Charles had the priests that accompanied the army administer a morning prayer to the soldiers to call for the Spirit’s protection and blessing on this field, rousing the crowd with a speech to appeal to their sense of duty, their love for the Empire and their Emperor “Loyal Regalians, venerated soldiers, and true followers of the Emperor’s will, the Imperial Spirit opens its arms to us as the scaled shall weigh our souls in the hour of battle. These heretic non believers wish to take from you what they think, in their infinite complacency and licentiousness, to be your most valuable possession: your life. “Be not afraid of their blade or the wickedness in their eyes and their hearts, and strike they shall at us as they have done before to Herons Olenberg, Heizenwald and Yvrais. These creatures have disturbed our course, our Great Way, unjustly. They have violated our sanctity in a holy day as this, with aims to devour our hopes and spirits like an infernal beast from the Void.” “This beast threatens now to break the wills and hopes of not only you, my comrades in arms, but also of the people in the Empire: your wives and children, your parents and your friends, and above all, your Emperor.” “You Anglians, pillars of the Empire’s society, upon our backs do the others reap, our infinite victories over hunger and death, first to strike against the tyranny of the Anahera menace, show now that we are the wheat separated from the chaff.” “You Dragenthalers, spirits of freedom and self determination. Your vigor and virtue to fight for what is yours, your free will tempered by the Imperial Spirit, shall inspire the Empire for generations to come. Show now, that you are the inspiration that the Empire longs for.” “You Calembergers, Vixians and Montanians, loyal brothers, but pillars equal in strength and stature that hold up the vision of our most holy of Emperors, show now your worth and value to the Empire, and let your people embrace their place among the peoples of old, together, all of us, as Imperials.” “This day, a crimson day where we will turn the soil red with the blood of the impious, shall be a day of your glory—a day upon which if you keep your faith, if you slay but one vile knife-ear in the face of judgement, you will win yourselves the cloak of Imperial martyrdom, for surely, the Imperial spirit will award you the gates to paradise to join by his side.” When the speech had completed, Johann Eschevard and Charles Montagaard both donned their military uniforms and took to their steeds. Followed by Imperial banner carriers and even a bearer of the gilded image of the Emperor, they formed up with the front line of the cavalry, hoping to dent the Elven battle line to weaken their defense and to allow the Regalian Army to break out. When the charge commenced, Charles Montagaard and Johann Eschevard charged at the front of the formation, flanked by those same banners and followed by the image of the Emperor staring down the enemy battle lines. The Elves responded by firing their new weapons at the charging cavalry, the projectiles disintegrating both horseman and horse alike, but the charge persisted until it finally crashed into the Elven line, but was repulsed by Elven spears. The carnage that followed was only reported back by the priests which the Elves had let go due to some old standing cultural notion that the Elves deemed killing priests something only barbarian races would engage in. The priests would later report that the cavalry barely made any impact on the Elven lines, and that as soon as the cavalry was routed to return to the battle camp with no sight of those who charged on the front, the Elven Army started closing in on the Regalians. First hailed by destructive hails of Elven cannon fire and archery and even magic, morale broke to the point where the army effectively tried to route the field, but was still mercilessly slaughtered. The news of Charles Montagaard and Johann Eschevard’s final charge and subsequent death in true Imperial glory was both shocking and abrupt to the people back in Regalia. The news travelled quickly homebound by airship and then spread across the Archipelago in a matter of hours due to networking of gossip and merchants. Before long, the bells of the cathedral tolled and the flags of the city walls were raised half mast, for the Undercrown had perished and the government was without a leader once more. The Emperor tried to urge for calmness and contemplation, as well as a public mourning period for the loss of the Crown’s representative. Despite all his bravado and bold speaking, his expressions made all too clear in context to his last speeches that he too remembered all too well it was but a mere number of days since he told the Empire at large that he knew of none capable enough to succeed Montagaard in his position. The Emperor made no further outward statements on what he intended to do to replace Montagaard, announcing he needed time to contemplate and would likely call for an Imperial Diet at the end of the week to consult with the nobility on the matter. The public responded with mixed emotions, as Regalians had gotten used to over the past years. Montagaard was a controversial figure, but an able administrator. The economy flourished, and military successes were plenty. Pro-Crown loyalists even said Montagaard could be counted among some of the Crown’s most loyal pro Imperialists who fought effortlessly for Royal superiority and prerogative. Then there were those who felt he was repressive, marginalizing and cruel. Regardless of how the people saw him however, a greater distraction was soon able to seize their minds. Elves had never before defeated a Regalian army in the field. The casualties counted in the tens of thousands, and there was no way to confirm how many casualties had been inflicted on the Elves, or where and when they would strike next, or where their army even was. Furthermore, concerns were raised that the Songaskian Massya could turn on Regalia now he thought it was finally weaker, having opened a third front. Furthermore, news of Ch’ien-ji Warships started circulating in the streets. They were later proven to be pure conjecture, but the very implication of a foreign naval force prowling Regalian waters was enough to cause great concern among the average population of the Empire. The Emperor tirelessly lobbied with the Allar and Qadir to dedicate more force to their alliance, and while the Qadir were less receptive, the Allars joined the military by the thousands, so substantial in fact that the state was able to allocate a full Allar-only Army Mark to support the coming war efforts. The Crown Alliance was coming together, albeit in the face of the tragic death of numerous nobles and notable politicians, while a global scale war with the Magic Covenant seemed all but inevitable. Co written by MonMarty & Shayin
Frejla Sat upon her chair, eyeing over news sent to her. Her hand wringing as she prepared to say a prayer to Julla. "Southerners. . What greed. The slaughter of a well-preserved culture, savage or not, is ultimately even in the slightest, a despicable deed. It had been set upon us by that Eirik Valdemar, of whom I would have cherished ripping apart with my bare hands. Nothing pains me more than to see the cowardice of the old Noble families of the north to barely speak or help on this issue. Disappointing at the very least. Have you truly thought of the repercussions of your somewhat well-intended actions? Delight me, as my soul has more than crumbled to the point that I write with you with such eloquence. Old gods keep you. Spirit watch over you. Shall you find your path in life, let it be filled with blood. -Frejla." The letter would be sealed and sent to Virathus Krupp as soon as possible. Spoiler: a continuation "Baldur, friend and ally, If you are not dead my friend, I will let you know now that the North's death would have been a lot less harsh had Eirik Valdemarr never stirred the pot as he did. If you are not dead, I hope your travels are safe. Gods bless your being, should that scar ever fade I hold hope in my heart. Frejla."@Wumpatron The death of Johann didn't bother her as much as she thought it would. They had already grown extremely distant and lacked any sort of friendly interaction. Should he have remained such an even-tempered yet emotional friend, she would have considered shedding more than a single tear. @Olde_Publius
Conf Ladveer winced on hearing the news, "Sh*t..." He paused for a moment, taking a drink of his ale for a moment longer... "This... Is not good, to say the lease...." He tried to remember what little he know of the geography of the area, but that was no much... "Hmmm..." (#RipCharles)
Virathus rode around Drixagh, the paints on his face becoming more elaborate as he tirelessly engaged the people, and bring life back to the broken land. Upon hearing news of Johann and Charles' death though, he ceased his incessant hunting, meetings and travel to mourn; insecurity racked his mind. He pondered on the Bastion Guard, his livlihood, and his work in the north... Would it all be for naught? Upon recieving Freijla's letter, its inaccuracies lead Virathus to simply believe she had hoped for him to forward it to Von Treppewitz. For her sake, he sets it alight upon a fire, huddled in a hunting lodge near where the Grand Armada is stationed.
Nadina Haaven blinked. She blinked again; but still the same. A third time, and nothing before her had changed. She sat straight down on the unforgiving cobbles that had saw the news meet her ears, oblivious to the concerned and disgusted glances that inevitably came from onlookers. She had expected that this day would be a joyful one. For months she had pined over how to remove this "foul usurper" from the throne; how she would regain her place and dignity, and how she would reassert the positions of the noble families that harbored her. But the day had finally come, and it was not the bittersweet taste of righteous defeat. It was the bland, tasteless suggestion of uncertainty, laced with the subtle sting of sour racial tension. She sat in silence, pondering her now very tentative future. "So that's why he was smiling..." Unfortunately, it seemed that her planned tea with Aethelred would have to wait. @Doc_Cantankerous
There was silence. Enemy or not, hated or love, it came as a shock to have such a central figure of authority ripped so suddenly and in such a violent manner. Standing by her window to which outlooked the peaceful nature below, Riane Typhonus tried to push the thought out of her mind, but yet it lingered like a bad taste. How could this have happened, she wondered- How and what on Aloria have the Elves created that causes so much destruction? Does any others have this weapon- Where else can it be used? Her mind racing, the girl's thoughts could go no else but to her father, of whom too fought on the fields of battle. Could he be in danger of such a fate as well? Can this happen again? Surely it must have been a mistake, a one time event. Her thoughts raced and raced, unable to process the surreal turn of events, yet the world outside seemed to carry on, oblivious to the events that transpired. It was like a normal day, yet so much had happened, so much gone wrong. Riane ended up slumping into a nearby chair, holding her head in her hands. She'd say one, and only one thing on the matter when asked. "I wouldn't have wished that fate upon my worst enemy."
Merina paused upon hearing the news, glancing back towards the Crier that had declared it. She stood in thought a moment before recalling the man she'd only met once when she had accompanied the Minister d'Vaud into the noble's lounge. She looked down before turning on her heels and making out of the tavern on quiet and quick steps for her home. Halfway to her building, she stopped and twisted just slightly to turn roads- her direction shifted for that of her only friend. "This is bad," She whispered to herself as that was the only thought that came to mind.
Aethelred sat at his desk, reading and re-reading the note. "Dead... perished in battle..." He couldn't believe it, refused to believe it. Why would a man of such wits as Charles put himself in such a position. "I must begin preparations immediately for the Last Rites... Spirit, we have lost a jungle cat among men, may we find one who can fill his place. The Elves have dealt us a terrible blow this day... though they shall soon regret it."
There were no thoughts to be had when it came to the focus of the Elven slaughter. The Undercrown's death, Karl of Aldvard's mind was not focused on this. But on the man who had been serving him. Just as the Circci had been serving said man, Johann or rather Count Eschevard as he had called him for weeks. The news of his death was met with sulking. A day spent at the park, reclined without anything to eat or anything to drink. He knew such an abundance of both as he had since gotten used to would cease now. That wasn't the bother. "Johann..." The name slipped from the Circci's mouth once more. He had never really addressed the man by his first name. It was always Count Eschevard.. But now he wasn't here. And now he was doing it. He was saying it. Never to know how he'd react to it.. "Johann.." He whispered once more, as his fingers found the fabric of the suit he'd been gifted by the now deceased Ailor, one he had chosen to wear given the news. The fabric twirled between his digits. @Fatherland
The temporary camp of Leonard Reindewic and the men under his command is alight with celebration, the Lieutenant-General himself alive and out of his shell amidst a series of victories against the barbaric Hvitskaggers. Regalian and Nordskagger alike sing and cheers, arm in arm, united by their conquest of Hvitskag's west. The question of how to deal with the foe fleeing into the demilitarized east is a question for tomorrow, for now, the men remain boastful and proud. The celebrations then dwindle somewhat, men settling into their makeshift beds as others stand watch with a boosted vigilance. Leonard himself makes for his tent, his vision somewhat faded from the few-too-many drinks he had with the men. Then, he's run into by a younger recruit. Normally this would warrant a stern response, but in his tipsy state the Lieutenant-General just laughs and lays hands on the boy's shoulders. "What rush?" he laughs, nodding to his comrade. The missive raises a letter, handing it to his commander solemnly. Moving into his tent, Leonard pours over the letter quickly, his expression dripping, his lightened mood growing darker and darker as he settles into a seat. The paper floats slowly to the floor, his hands cradling his head as fingers run through his hair. "Shit" he utters quietly.
Frida didn't care much for the news on Charles, but when she heard of Johann she frowned. "My spirit, not him." she'd mutter. before sipping from her teacup.
The familiar sound of shattering glass echoed in the quiet halls of the Drache estate as word reached it in the midst of the evening, for the wine in her hand was forgotten long before the courier was ordered out. Soon following their scurrying away from her sudden burst of rage, Chemyle slumped against the doorway, the weight of what had occurred setting in before she could do much as shut the door and process the contents of the letter that hung between her fingers. She felt sick, and it wasn't until one of the estate's retainers got her to abandon the spot she was coping in did she return to her study to mourn alone, refusing to see many despite any hypocrisy that managed to slip through her regret and contemplation. There was much to do, but she was all too content with not touching any of it. "It shouldn't've been them. Not that way.."
Baldur Fenross rode across Drixagh with Virathus. He had intended to turn the man over to the wrath of the tribes, but instead fell silent on arrival. He had not anticipated the destruction that had been caused already. Silently he stood with Virathus in front of tribe after tribe. The spark was lost. Drixagh was lost.
Ultimately befallen to acquire a letter herself, Emergart d'Vaud would happen to attain this knowledge in mere time as well... After an hour or two spent in contemplation, the woman weakly lifted her hands onto the table before her... and began jotting in a pained manner.
"Internal instability in the midst of a three-front war. Perfect," the sailor muttered darkly to a servant that he passed on his way to the breakfast table. He paused. "And aye, orange juice, bacon and eggs."
Benedict had just learned the news that morning as he ran his daily errands. As he returned home in the evening to meet his elder cousin, Markus, Benedict still seemed rather bewildered by the recent events in Daendroc. "By the void, Markus. The Altalar. They killed him. They killed the Undercrown. It's..." he paused. "Such a pity. Truly a day of mourning for the entire Empire." The words took on a new tone. One less of shock, and more aggressive. "They- What?" Markus responded. "They killed the Undercrown in battle. Ran him down along side tens of thousands of Regalian soldiers." Benedict had now lost any previous hint of confusion or shock. "How horrible." Markus exclaimed. A grin crept it's way onto Benedict's face, slowly but surely. "Not to worry, Markus. I am sure that the City can cope. There will be a significant gap, however. And chaos. Plenty of chaos. People will need a way to handle this. The public will be desperate for closure. Wouldn't it be just wonderful if someone could give them that, Markus?" Benedict had a seat across from Markus, pouring himself a bottle of Whiskey. @GoldWolfGaming
Hengest marches somberly out of the Bastion along with his fellow former Guardsmen, this was truly the end of an era for a great deal of men and most especially the empire. "It's gonna be a terrible time to be a dagger eared freak in Regalia.." Montagaard's Dog grunts angrily to his unit.
Distant bells resonate in deep sombre tones at the signal of dawn, a markedly homage... On the home front, and abroad, this were turbulent times... " If only..." Life is a fickle mistress.
Edmure shrugged his head with a light cackle. "Able tyrant, not the best tactician it would seem. Unless I see his body, I'm not so easily fooled Montagaarde." He leaned back in his seat, pondering on the new allar regiments. "They better get some of them Sa-Allar in the field or those poor souls will be torn up."
Darius Silevon upon hearing the news, had to step outside of his tent for a cigar, something he hadn't done in years. He contemplated trekking to Krupp's position, to give him his condolences, perhaps it would increase the monumental payment he got. The feeling was bittersweet, as his home was now free from the harsh clutches of a tyrant, yet left open and without their undercrown. "Tens of thousands.. Seems my kind was not the first of the Nelfin to strike." The Isldar muttered this out loud to himself, before stepping out if his tent with slow and weary steps to find Krupp.
Laurelle and Alan sat together in the dining hall, the table before them laid out with brunch. A stillness had passed over the room, and the maid had paused in the doorway. Laurelle looked up from the letter in her hands, having just finished reading the news aloud. The pair looked solemnly at each other in silence, though the maid had grown used to this sort of communication between the twins. Laurelle slowly shifted the letter to the side, but did not yet reach for the next in her morning stack of mail. She said nothing for a minute or two, while the scratching of a quill sounded from Alan's spot as he continued his work over their meal. Finally, the heavy silence was broken. "Spirit guide us." "And send those dagger ears to the void."
Garret already felt a deep regret as he boarded off of the ship. mercenaries were busy unloading boxes of supplies and other essentials as he paced along. Hands frozen to his flask, his shivering laughable as the report was read aloud by the Strategos. "- death of the undercrown Montagaard and count Eschevard at th-" Well, that came to a surprise to him, glancing around to the mixture of feelings his company presented on the situation he decided to speak. "Si, Si. We'll mourn them soon enough, the passing of the Undercrown and ugh- The other one. Drinks later, back to work."
"Crap..." Katrina muttered as she stood upon her vessel. The bitter-sweet feeling was almost overwhelming to the now recovering altalar. Concerned for the safety of her family, she'd pace around, trying to come up with some sort of idea to ensure their safety. Part of her was damn near jumping for joy, however; Charles Montagaard, the one who had initially spat at her, disliked her, was now dead. Though she couldn't show this joy in public, she feigned disappointment. The future was uncertain for the nelfin and her family. For now, all she could do was keep her head down, and ensure her family did the same whilst praying her elven kin, who may well achieve victory in her opinion, bring no harm to her family, who remained as neutral as possible in public.
Roselyne was sat on one of the balconies of Fort Kronau, the servant, whom had brought her and the rest of the family the news from a rider in the night, just leaving after having been dismissed. The Ithanian didn't seem saddened by the news, nor too content about them. She would lift her glass of wine to her lips, having a small sip as she glanced out over the fields. "An eye for an eye. For Carthas."
Ayda paused on her way to the boat, hearing the news being bellowed by a town crier. While she could care less about the Undercrown, the news of the defeat by the hands of the Altalar, no less, made her stop. She knew her tribe, and by extension, her family, had likely been pulled into the war with them a while back. Even though the Avanthar also knew most of her family where warriors who could hold their own in combat, she still worried. Especially since those arrogant blondes had beaten a military as strong as Regalia's seemed. Ayda sighed, then turned to continue her trek to her job. Hopefully, everything was fine back home. It had to be.
Torsten was sitting in an old chair, by an old window, in an old Regalian house. He laughed, after hearing the news, a smile had spread across his lips. "Now is my time, to rise, I will not become the Undercrown, but the chaos can be used as a ladder..." The Freeborne Patriarch then headed for the door, "House Norrvakt needs me now, more then ever. Together, we will dominate the political spectrum."
Irina Haagenvig shook her head with disdain as she boarded a vessel belonging to and built by her family. She set sail, southbound for the Crown Isle to evade the attempts at arrange marriage. Fortunately for her, her voyage went un-noticed, being a rather small craft boarding from her tribe in Drixagh. "S'pose I'll have to have a word with family down south about this." She arrived in the Crown Isle a mere few days after setting sail, and reunited with family in the city.
Merril Audhild sat at her desk, hands clamped in front of her, the cold silence of her home being her only awake company. It had taken a few days before she heard of the news, due to her lack of partaking in social activities past her job. She gritted her teeth, before finally sighing out the words; "They've done it. Regalia's finally bit off more than it can chew." "This can only end terribly."
