PalatineBoard

Bronzehamut wrote:

QOTW: What is your nation's nickname?

The Duchies. It's a relatively new nickname, pony gaining popularity after local authorities gained more autonomy, with a Duchy being equivalent to a state.

Deep within the shadowed, uncharted depths of Weser Amatland, a small force of Mlocikian men treaded carefully, their torches casting dim, flickering light upon the dark, winding stone walls. The path had grown treacherous with narrow passages, sharp descents, and air thick with the earthy scent of untouched soil. Each man moved with both eagerness and a creeping sense of dread, for they knew the caves had yielded sights most grim.

Then, as they rounded a final bend, they stopped dead in their tracks, struck by the sight before them. A cavern stretched wide, its interior filled with an eerie glow—a light of unknown origin, illuminating every dark crevice and casting shadows that danced ominously.

But it was the sight below that stole their breaths. Staring up from the cavern floor were enormous, twisted faces, embedded into the stone as if pressed or grown there, a grotesque and terrifying sight that defied the laws of nature. Each face was large, far larger than any human visage, with features distorted and frozen in expressions of agony and despair. And the flesh—this was no stone or carving—it was flesh of a sort they had never seen, tinged with strange colors and tough as leather, but unmistakably living matter.

Each face bore a peculiar, jagged mark upon its forehead, a symbol unknown to the men, yet radiating a dark and malevolent energy. Some of the faces seemed to almost twitch under the torchlight, as if trapped in a nightmare they could not wake from. The men could hardly tear their gaze away from the horrible sight, feeling as though the monstrous faces watched them in turn, with eyes long sealed shut yet still aware.

One of the soldiers crossed himself, muttering a prayer under his breath. Another gripped his sword hilt tightly, as though it might somehow guard him from the unearthly presence in the stone. Slowly, a sense of dreadful understanding crept over them: this was no natural phenomenon. Whatever had created these twisted visages, it was a force far beyond their realm of understanding—a remnant, perhaps, of a curse as old as Amatland itself.

As the men slowly backed away from the ghastly faces embedded in the cavern floor, their torchlight revealed more ominous details hidden within the surrounding stone. Along the walls, markings in a strange, unfamiliar script sprawled across the rough surfaces, twisting and overlapping like the roots of some ancient, malignant tree. The characters bore an unnatural shape, sharp and angular, as if etched by claws rather than tools. The lines seemed to pulse faintly, an effect of the dim, eerie light, giving the words a life of their own, whispering secrets only the dead could understand.

Scattered among the script were carvings of monstrous figures, creatures so grotesque and unnatural they chilled the blood of even the bravest men. Towering figures with elongated limbs and faces twisted into expressions of rage and agony loomed from the walls. Some were adorned with jagged horns, while others bore mouths filled with sharp, serrated teeth, forever captured in poses of violence and fury. One creature, a serpent-like beast with multiple heads, spiraled across an entire stretch of wall, its scales meticulously carved, each one tipped with a razor-sharp edge. Another depicted a colossal, winged figure with hollow eyes and clawed hands reaching out, as if to ensnare any soul who dared venture into its lair.

The men exchanged anxious glances, for the carvings told a grim story of Weser Amatland’s past—a history steeped in darkness, ruled by beings that were neither human nor divine. One soldier, unable to resist, ran his fingers over the strange markings, tracing the shapes with a mix of fascination and fear. The stone beneath was cold, almost unnaturally so, and seemed to hum faintly, like a muted heartbeat resonating from within the depths.

With every marking and monstrous carving, the men grew increasingly aware that they had trespassed into a place meant to be hidden, locked away from the living. The horrors carved on these walls weren’t mere decoration—they were a warning, a record of a civilization that had dealt with forces that defied all natural laws. The feeling that they were being watched grew stronger, as though the monsters themselves were ready to reach out from the stone, dragging them down into a fate as terrible as those whose faces now lay in eternal torment beneath their feet.

With a silent nod to one another, the soldiers turned to leave, burdened with the knowledge of what they had uncovered—cursed and terrible remnants of Weser Amatland’s secrets. They vowed to return with the news, though it was clear that these caverns held a darkness that defied all understanding and would likely demand even greater sacrifices before its full truth was laid bare.

A small contingent force, weary from their journey along the jagged coastline of Weser Amatland, stumbled upon a strange sight as they rounded a rocky outcrop. Before them lay a deserted encampment, its tents battered by the winds and its fires long extinguished. The sand was stained a dark, crimson hue, splatters of blood marking every surface like some grim tapestry. Yet, to their horror, not a single body could be found.

The men moved cautiously, their eyes scanning every shadow, every flutter of the wind-torn tents. As they ventured further, they found weapons discarded in haste, bloodied swords half-buried in the sand, and torn armor pieces scattered like the remains of some frantic battle. The silence was deafening, a heavy contrast to the signs of chaos around them.

The contingent force moved cautiously through the blood-soaked sands of the deserted camp, their faces grim as they took in the signs of a recent skirmish. The camp was a field of torn banners and abandoned armor, all marked by fierce combat, yet not a single body remained. Every trace of the camp’s former inhabitants was gone, as though the very earth had swallowed up the souls of those who had camped there. But then, one soldier's hand paused on something submerged in a shallow pool of blood—a flag, floating and drenched. As he lifted it carefully, the force felt a chill pass through them. It was unmistakably the standard of the Holy mlaitse order.

The sight was unexpected but not entirely shocking. Mlociniakik intelligence had suspected that remnants of the Holy Mlaitse might still linger in Weser Amatland, bound by their former alliance with the Amatlandic lords. But to see their blood staining the shores, without a single Mlaitse soldier in sight, raised questions that none could easily answer.

"Could the Amatlanders have turned on them?" whispered one of the men, voicing the thought that lingered in everyone’s mind. It was a chilling possibility—that, amidst the crumbling of their realm, some Weser Amatland soldiers had betrayed the Mlaitse Order in the desperate chaos of their downfall.

Their captain ordered them to search for signs of what had happened, hoping to piece together the story left behind in bloodstains and abandoned weapons. The signs pointed to a brutal ambush, with hastily constructed defenses and evidence of Mlaitse soldiers struggling against foes. The Mlaitse, who had once fought side-by-side with Amatland's forces, seemed to have been overwhelmed here—betrayed, perhaps, by those same allies as desperation drove men to cruel measures.

The captain collected the flag and any further evidence of the skirmish, determined to report this unsettling find back to King Adrian. If this betrayal was confirmed, it would only deepen the mystery of Weser Amatland’s final days. The land was proving to be a twisted nest of alliances and deceit, where even the closest allies turned on each other when survival was at stake.

As they departed, the soldiers left with a new respect for the merciless power struggles that lay hidden beneath the surface. For Weser Amatland was not just a ruined land; it was a labyrinth of broken oaths and bitter betrayals, and it seemed it would reveal its secrets only with great caution—and a sharpened sword.

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In the dying days of the month, as the sun began to set over the tumultuous lands of Weser Amatland, a group of Mlociniakik's finest archaeological specialists, flanked by a contingent of seasoned army men, stumbled upon a discovery of unparalleled magnitude. Before them, partially obscured by blood-soaked earth, lay an immense staircase, each step seemingly carved for giants. Blood stained the stone, a grim testament to the horrors that had unfolded here.

Before descending these foreboding steps, the group wisely called for reinforcements. Hardened knights were summoned for extra protection, their arrival underscoring the gravity of the situation. Thus far, their explorations had unearthed numerous cavern cities, each devoid of life and littered with the remains of Amatlandians. Yet, this colossal staircase hinted at something even more sinister.

With cautious resolve, they descended the bloodied steps, their torches casting flickering shadows on the walls. At the bottom, a giant stone gate loomed, flanked by a dozen corpses. Each body bore strange marks on their foreheads, identical to those found on the gruesome faces embedded in the floors of the deep caverns.

Hours of meticulous searching finally yielded a discovery—a hidden lever, concealed beneath one of the bodies. With a collective breath, they pulled the lever, and the massive gates groaned open. The sound was deafening, echoing through the cavern like the wails of tortured souls. The very earth seemed to shudder at the opening, a terrifying prelude to what lay beyond.

The commander, general Lysander, sensing the importance of this find, arrived promptly. His suspicions were confirmed as they stepped into the cavern: this was indeed the fabled cave where the royal council of Weser Amatland had once presided.

The sight that greeted them was both awe-inspiring and horrifying. The cavern was vast, illuminated by an otherworldly light, and within its expansive bounds lay the lifeless corpses of many, draped in royal attire. Soldiers, nobles, and council members alike had all taken their own lives in a final, desperate act. The centerpiece of this tragic tableau was a magnificent statue of Belemis and Adin, sculpted in gleaming gold, standing watch over the macabre scene.

At the statue's base were five chairs, each occupied by a member of the royal council. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that each had driven a golden dagger into their chests, the same eerie crest carved into their foreheads. Blood was everywhere, painting a picture of despair and finality. The air was thick with the stench of death and the weight of unanswered questions.

Among the dead, they found a long scroll clutched in the hand of a council member. The scroll was covered in strange texts, symbols of a language lost to time. This precious find was swiftly secured, with plans to send it to the Grand University of Ardelianosa in Mlociniakik for deciphering.

The discovery was profound and chilling—an entire population seemingly sacrificed in a ritual of despair. With most of the cave system now explored and the grim fate of Weser Amatland revealed, it was clear that the war could finally be declared over. The majority of the Amatlandian populace had perished, leaving only a handful imprisoned in Mlociniakik.

While the caverns remained to be studied, the bulk of the Mlociniakik army would soon be withdrawn from the desolate nation. Henceforth, any who wished to trade or explore Weser Amatland would need to seek permission from Mlociniakik. The land, soaked in blood and steeped in mystery, was now under their watchful eye, its dark secrets slowly unraveling under the relentless pursuit of knowledge and power.

Mlociniakik wrote:

In the dying days of the month, as the sun began to set over the tumultuous lands of Weser Amatland, a group of Mlociniakik's finest archaeological specialists, flanked by a contingent of seasoned army men, stumbled upon a discovery of unparalleled magnitude. Before them, partially obscured by blood-soaked earth, lay an immense staircase, each step seemingly carved for giants. Blood stained the stone, a grim testament to the horrors that had unfolded here.

Before descending these foreboding steps, the group wisely called for reinforcements. Hardened knights were summoned for extra protection, their arrival underscoring the gravity of the situation. Thus far, their explorations had unearthed numerous cavern cities, each devoid of life and littered with the remains of Amatlandians. Yet, this colossal staircase hinted at something even more sinister.

With cautious resolve, they descended the bloodied steps, their torches casting flickering shadows on the walls. At the bottom, a giant stone gate loomed, flanked by a dozen corpses. Each body bore strange marks on their foreheads, identical to those found on the gruesome faces embedded in the floors of the deep caverns.

Hours of meticulous searching finally yielded a discovery—a hidden lever, concealed beneath one of the bodies. With a collective breath, they pulled the lever, and the massive gates groaned open. The sound was deafening, echoing through the cavern like the wails of tortured souls. The very earth seemed to shudder at the opening, a terrifying prelude to what lay beyond.

The commander, general Lysander, sensing the importance of this find, arrived promptly. His suspicions were confirmed as they stepped into the cavern: this was indeed the fabled cave where the royal council of Weser Amatland had once presided.

The sight that greeted them was both awe-inspiring and horrifying. The cavern was vast, illuminated by an otherworldly light, and within its expansive bounds lay the lifeless corpses of many, draped in royal attire. Soldiers, nobles, and council members alike had all taken their own lives in a final, desperate act. The centerpiece of this tragic tableau was a magnificent statue of Belemis and Adin, sculpted in gleaming gold, standing watch over the macabre scene.

At the statue's base were thirteen chairs, each occupied by a member of the royal council. Upon closer inspection, it was evident that each had driven a golden dagger into their chests, the same eerie crest carved into their foreheads. Blood was everywhere, painting a picture of despair and finality. The air was thick with the stench of death and the weight of unanswered questions.

Among the dead, they found a long scroll clutched in the hand of a council member. The scroll was covered in strange texts, symbols of a language lost to time. This precious find was swiftly secured, with plans to send it to the Grand University of Aldrion in Mlociniakik for deciphering.

The discovery was profound and chilling—an entire population seemingly sacrificed in a ritual of despair. With most of the cave system now explored and the grim fate of Weser Amatland revealed, it was clear that the war could finally be declared over. The majority of the Amatlandian populace had perished, leaving only a handful imprisoned in Mlociniakik.

While the caverns remained to be studied, the bulk of the Mlociniakik army would soon be withdrawn from the desolate nation. Henceforth, any who wished to trade or explore Weser Amatland would need to seek permission from Mlociniakik. The land, soaked in blood and steeped in mystery, was now under their watchful eye, its dark secrets slowly unraveling under the relentless pursuit of knowledge and power.

so the weser amatlandese were so afraid of you they killed themselves?

Latbel wrote:

so the weser amatlandese were so afraid of you they killed themselves?

mayhaps, doe we officially don't know why they killed themselves, but i think it's because one of their revelations were becoming true or smth like that

Latbel wrote:

so the weser amatlandese were so afraid of you they killed themselves?

It is much better to die by your own swoard than the swoard of your foe

Halyx Korsak, hearing the news of the discovery made by the soldiers of Mlociniakik, decides to retrace his path out of the caverns. Upon returning to the small Bronzehamutian camp at the mouth of the cave system, he discovered that all the soldiers had mysteriously died. There was no sign of any attack, and Halyx concluded that something had to have come and stealthily killed the inhabitants of the camp. He packed his belongings and returned to Bronzehamut, unaware that the bodies left behind on the shores of Weser Amatland had veins of purple beneath their clothes and armor. Halyx wouldn't know until it was too late, but he had just brought the rare and incredibly contagious disease that would come to be known as Cavern's Grip to the shores of Bronzehamut.

Weser Amatland wrote:

It is much better to die by your own swoard than the swoard of your foe

nah, go bravely sally forth in a last stand than die dishonourably at your own hands

Bronzehamut wrote:

QOTW: What is your nation's nickname?

The Land of Commerce

Because ofc

Fides nos portat, fides nos tuetur.

Decree of the Office of Naval Affairs

By Order of the Lord Admiral Roque Valle, with the Approval of the State Assembly of the Confederation

Let it be known to all mariners, merchants, and the peoples of the sea, that due to the grievous events on the mainland, and in the interest of safeguarding the realm from the spread of the pestilence, all ports within the Ferrovian Confederation shall be closed to vessels of foreign allegiance. Only those of member states shall be permitted entry.

Any ship bearing the flag of a foreign power that attempts to defy this decree shall be warned and, if it persists, met with force and destruction. Further, all vessels of member states arriving from mainland territories to the Ferrovia Isles shall be held in quarantine for a period of three weeks, or until such time as it is certain they carry no signs of the plague.

By my hand and seal, this order is binding upon all who sail under the protection of the Confederation. May the sea protect us from the evils of this sickness.

Signed and Sealed on this day,
Lord Admiral Roque Valle

Exiting a forest in the North of Weser Amatland, the convoy froze at the sight of death and destruction. They could see the village they were heading to burning in the distance, a thick cloud of smoke as dark as charcoal hovered over the ruins.
There was silence, none dared to speak, no screams could be heard, not even the sound of steel and men killing and looting. Suddenly, one of the guards escorting the convoy was struck by an arrow to the neck, killing him instantly. Another guard was hit and fell to the ground. Before anyone could react arrows were falling upon them from the woods they had just left. The captain leading the convoy realized too late that they had been followed. AS quickly as it started, the rain of arrows ended and men came rushing out of the woods, slicing through anyone still standing until only remained a few peasants, the captain and three of his men. Having surrendered to the attacker, they were granted mercy and captured.
The captain, outraged by the massacre of innocents and the destruction of a village faced the attackers wanting them to give their identity, his question however, was answered when he saw more men exiting the woods, carrying with them a dark banner bearing a white cross and an eagle.
Soon the men left, bringing with them their prisoners and leaving the bodies behind after having looted their belongings. The village still burning in the horizon.

A mysterious letter finds its way to every leader in Palatine. It reads:

You try to contain it, but your efforts are futile. Soon, there will be nothing left but the faithful, and the land shall be pure again

There is no signature or any sign of who it came from.

Bronzehamut wrote:

A mysterious letter finds its way to every leader in Palatine. It reads:

You try to contain it, but your efforts are futile. Soon, there will be nothing left but the faithful, and the land shall be pure again

There is no signature or any sign of who it came from.

Listen not to these lunatics, instead imprison them and cut their tongues so that they speak no lies

A journal entry from our leader:

I don’t know why I write these words. No one will read them. No one should. But perhaps this ink and paper can hold what my weary soul can no longer bear alone.

The night was heavy again. Sleep, when it comes, is a cruel gift—brief and filled with echoes of screams I can never forget. I saw their faces, my family’s, etched in terror and agony. I reach for them in the dark, and they slip away like smoke. The intruders' shadows loom larger, and I wake with my fists clenched, breath ragged. Nothing changes. The memory remains a festering wound, never healing, never silenced. I am their last witness, and yet I failed them.

I thought salvation found me once. He pulled me from the ashes, this man who promised hope when all I had left was rage. He taught me to feel again, to love, to trust. And when he cast me aside, when he left me bleeding in the dust, I learned the harshest lesson: that trust is a blade, one that cuts deep and leaves scars you cannot see. I should have died that day, yet I awoke… changed.

The hunger is a beast I do not understand. It gnaws at me constantly, clawing its way through my resolve. I fight it, every hour, every breath. I lost that fight once. An entire village paid the price for my weakness. Their blood is on my hands, and I wear it like a curse. How can I call myself different from those who butchered my family? I am no better. No purer. If anything, I am worse.

So I wander, keeping my distance, sparing the world from what I have become. People see me as a ghost—a pale wraith in dark, tattered finery. That’s fitting. The scar around my neck burns some nights, as if mocking me for what I am and what I’ve lost. A cruel necklace marking the moment my life was severed in two.

Sometimes, I imagine finding him—the one who saved me, then betrayed me. I imagine asking why, but I know the answer will bring no peace. If anything, it will stoke the fire inside, the one I struggle to control. Perhaps it is better to wander without answers, to live in this half-life, searching for a redemption I may never find.

This journal is heavy in my hands now. My thoughts too bitter to keep writing. For today, that is enough. Tomorrow, I will keep walking. Until my sins catch up to me. Or until I find what it is I’m seeking—whatever that may be.

Official Proclamation of the Office of Naval Affairs

To all who sail upon the waters of the Ferrovian Confederation:

In light of recent and grave afflictions upon the mainland, the Office of Naval Affairs, with the solemn consent of the State Assembly, decrees that henceforth all ports within the Confederation shall be closed to foreign vessels. Any ship belonging to a non-member state that attempts entry into our harbors shall be rebuffed. Should they persist, such vessels shall face destruction by the order of the Confederation.

Furthermore, all ships of our member states traveling between the Islands of Ferrovia and our mainland dominions shall be held at port for no fewer than three weeks, during which time any and all signs of the Plague shall be closely observed and examined. Only after this period, and upon assurance of health, shall they be permitted further passage.

Thus is proclaimed and decreed by my hand,
Lord Admiral Roque Valle
Given on this 9th day of November in the Year of Our Lord 1424 Anno Domini

Request by High Lord Fizban ir'Platan to enter the Islands of Ferrovia

It has come to my notice that the strange disease known as Cavern's Grip has found its way into the bodies of Bronzehamutian citizens, and I have decided to take preventative measures to protect the government of Bronzehamut. The High Council and I request to temporarily reside on the Islands of Ferrovia along with Bronzehamut's top medical doctors to try to find out where this disease came from. Everyone aboard the ship has been checked for signs of Cavern's Grip, but we will remain on the boat for a period of 20 days to make sure the disease is not within anyone. If you decide to not allow us to stay on the Islands, we will respect your decision, but please know that the hope of curing this disease lies with us, and if we succumb to it by remaining on the mainland, all hope will be lost.

-Fizban ir'Platan, High Lord of Bronzehamut

Bronzehamut wrote:

Request by High Lord Fizban ir'Platan to enter the Islands of Ferrovia

It has come to my notice that the strange disease known as Cavern's Grip has found its way into the bodies of Bronzehamutian citizens, and I have decided to take preventative measures to protect the government of Bronzehamut. The High Council and I request to temporarily reside on the Islands of Ferrovia along with Bronzehamut's top medical doctors to try to find out where this disease came from. Everyone aboard the ship has been checked for signs of Cavern's Grip, but we will remain on the boat for a period of 20 days to make sure the disease is not within anyone. If you decide to not allow us to stay on the Islands, we will respect your decision, but please know that the hope of curing this disease lies with us, and if we succumb to it by remaining on the mainland, all hope will be lost.

-Fizban ir'Platan, High Lord of Bronzehamut

To the Honorable Lord Fizban ir'Platan,

The Office of Naval Affairs acknowledges receipt of your request and hereby grants you leave to enter, provided that you adhere strictly to the established porting protocols for vessels of the Confederation. Should you possess a Confederate ensign or any banner of similar distinction, we bid you display it prominently to ensure that our Coastal Defenses may recognize your approach without delay or confusion.

By the hand of the Office of Naval Affairs,
Leória

Mlociniakik wrote:

When the letter initially reached King Adrian, he dismissed it skeptically. He had received various such letters in the past, filled with empty threats and ominous prophecies that never came to fruition.

However, a few days later, a man on horseback, appearing petrified and disheveled, arrived at the gates of Derfin. He was a Mlocikian soldier from Amatland, and he requested an audience with King Adrian. Unfortunately, Adrian was out on a town inspection at the time. Desperate, the soldier, a knight, wrote a letter to Adrian. His hands trembled as he detailed the harrowing events he had witnessed:

"My Liege,

As we traveled near the cave systems, we stumbled upon a military encampment. The scene was horrifying; everyone lay dead, their bodies riddled with vomit and other bodily fluids. Some had even attempted to saw off their own limbs in their agony. After investigating, we returned to our camp, where we too fell ill. Our skin turned a sickly blue, and many succumbed to the disease. I escaped the quarantine, determined to warn you. I have traveled in pain and starvation to bring you this message.

Your loyal knight."

The knight handed the letter to the guard before collapsing from exhaustion and disease. The guard, taken aback by the knight's ghastly appearance and the urgency of his message, rushed to deliver the letter to King Adrian. The gravity of the situation was becoming undeniable.

King Adrian read the letter with growing concern. The accounts of the knight's experiences, coupled with the eerie missive received days earlier, painted a picture of a looming catastrophe. The once-dismissed threats now seemed far too real. The disease, Cavern’s Grip, was no mere figment of imagination but a deadly plague that had the potential to spread like wildfire through the realm.

Realizing the dire implications, Adrian ordered immediate containment measures. Camps and towns near the caverns were to be isolated, and anyone showing signs of illness was to be quarantined. Additionally, the king sent urgent missives to other leaders in Palatine, warning them of the potential outbreak and urging them to take similar precautions.

Decree of the Parliament of Chineva in regards to the Decree Made by the Office of Naval Affairs

By order of the office, Chineva and Finola shall close it's ports to trade from non-confederation states.

The ports of Chineva, Meierburg, Brandonbay, New Chineva, and Merchantsville are to be temporarily closed down until the settling down of the plague with Vernstadt remaining partially open to trade with a quarantine of 3 weeks.

Signed and Sealed,
Brandon III and I, by the Grace of God and by the provisions of the law of the State, Grand Duke of Chineva and Meierburg, King of Finola

QOTW: What language(s) do you speak?

Bronzehamut wrote:

QOTW: What language(s) do you speak?

Indonesian and English