The Curse Of Tilburgh: A Bolshekov Tale.

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A Curse Upon Tilburgh.
Short Bolshekov Tale.

"....- worshipers are cruel people and even crueler slave drivers." - A torn excerpt from a book on curses. 306AC.

Dusk had befallen Tilburgh Keep amid the dreary beginning of a summer storm. Sleepless, had Radoslav Bolshekov's nights been; without the comfort of dream, nor peace of mind. This was an odd anomaly, for The Boyar often slept easy despite his numerous ill-doings and foul deeds. Yet, at this, Rado may have found little issue: after all, his days had overflowed with duties and mandates, and what was a few hours more to work, than helpful? It was the paranoid thoughts, the mistrust, the fouler than foul thoughts, that had created so much tension over the lingering week.

It began with the banishment of Anna-Vladlena (beloved wife of Rado', who oft was spared Vladno custom of beating) from The Boyar's bedchamber. The woman of dark hair and fair skin was sent packing from the ornate bedroom, to sleep among the dust of a guest room. Her movements at night had tormented The Boyar's mind, and more so, had moved him into believing that they were the source of his restlessness. The woman knew better than to complain: after all, Radoslav in this strange paranoid state almost bore a similar resemblance to any Vladno of stringent masculine aggression.

In fact, the morning after this eventful night was much the same. No one was really aware of much change. The same amount of servants were beaten, the same amount of curses were made, and the distinct yelling of Tilburgh's new residents was clearly heard. One change, however, which drew the attention of staff, was The Boyar's dark circled eyes, and refusal to eat. The large bellied and muscled Vladno often lacked the will to refuse good food, yet here, he did. It wasn't long that morning before he had left the room; thereafter, servants could not find him. No, not even Emil Dragovich, The Boyar's most trusted friend, and advisor had been informed of his departure. The only evidence of his leaving: a long line of bedding, draped down from the southern balcony to the forest floor, Rado's discarded tunic. And a rambling letter.

He was firmly gone. A storm raging outside, and Tilburgh Forest, dark, and full of gloom. The servants, in a panicked state, turned to Emil for guidance; his response yet to be seen. Meanwhile, Radoslav ran through the dripping, dark undergrowth like a mad beast: something was chasing him, or at least to anyone viewing this sight, that would become apparent. Barefooted, barechested, and drenched in the outpour of the storm, Rado made fast-paced into the unknown..

The Druzhina search for their Lord on the hills of Tilburgh.

@Inquisitater @OnyxAstera @Mooffins @HeyoBiggums @CrysRazapple
(Thought I'd write this up, seeing as I'll have little time to RP during the week, and possibly next with my finals. Hopefully this sparks some family RP up - feel free to reply with reactions from the story, or post-story).​

 

[SocialDarwinist]

As soon as Emíl's scrutinizing gaze had defeated the turbulent and disorganized wording of the letter Radoslav had left behind, a mantle of understanding settled on his shoulders, and his demeanor grew cogitative, as though something evident had finaly dawned upon him. The Voyevoda didn't hesitate to command split search parties of armed and mounted Druzhina to search the hills surrounding Tilburgh castle, but refrained from riding out himself. He instead sought out the resident Chaplan to consult with him. As reported by servants, both men refused to allow anyone entrance to the castle's library while they conducted their research within.

Hours later, Emíl finaly emerged from his isolation. His countenance now displayed stern determination, rather than introspectiveness. He barked a quick succession of orders at the staff, instructing them what to do in his absence, and commanding them to saddle horses for him and a small retinue, aswell as packing his saddlebags with some very specific supplies. After a rushed meal in Iva's kitchen, the Etolian rode forth towards the Crown City, with a very clear picture of what had to be done painted before his inner eye.

One of Emíl's most trusted captains, preparing to ride for Tsargrad​

 

[PuffyPigeon]

A cruel and forceful hand leaves a cowering slave trembling in tears. Slick off of malnourished skin and fallen upon the cold and dirt-ladened stone floor, a familiar ichor.

Grotesque and inflamed slices decorated the broken spirit's back; the symbols were made, old and new.

"Capture and make use a less dangerous pet.."
- Unknown​