Yam I Am

A Galaxy Divided (Sci-Fi NRP)

@Malta307 I had an idea of an old Austrian-style monarchy whose glory days had long passed and was ready to collapse at a slight breeze, but I think i'd be better to avoid it in this instance, given that's the focus of the main story at hand. Another idea I had was a collection of outlaw and pirate outfits who had, over time, coalesced their forces into a united front and eventually formed a loose, federative republic (while still partaking in the lion's share of loot and pillage). The idea behind that one was a rift forming between factions who would want to "settle down" and start developing themselves more into a trading power, given the sheer amount of starfleets at their disposal, and the more free-styled pirates who more viewed the Republic as a giant alliance of mutual convenience, not as a true government, and would want to keep it that way so they can, y'know, keep being pirates.

A Galaxy Divided (Sci-Fi NRP)

Tentatively interested. Though, i'm kinda curious as to what this "finished story" you mentioned looks like.

𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 - 𝙳𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚢 𝚃𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝙵𝚘𝚛𝚌𝚎

Anyone have any ideas for what they wanna make? I'd like to bounce off of people before I go all Leroy Jenkins on concepts and sheets.

𝙿𝚕𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝙸𝚗𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚢 - 𝚆𝚊𝚛, 𝚂𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚎, 𝚁𝚎𝚋𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚘𝚗.

Tentative interest. My computer's being repaired at the moment, but if this is gonna take a while to set up and get going, everything should be alright by the time this launches.

Valkyria Chronicles: Echo Black

A broad lip stretched with echoes of its thoughts ringing through the dark cave. Bursting like bats from the darkness came the demands for attention as the soldier slammed a hand onto the counter like anchor to the ocean floor. Helpless, the red headed man behind her took hold of her arm for the moment in an attempt to sway her to pull from her course of action, but the stubborn one had made her choice.

"Clover-" Hamlock pleaded, tugging at her arm as she half vaulted the counter.

"Oi! Boiler! What've you tossed up today? Can'te giveahint at what ye've made- Maybe some whiskey on the side for te lack of flavor!"

"There is a menu above you-"

"Nobody's talkin- te you knobcomber."

Hamlock exhaled audibly, red flushed face blowing smoke as he placed his arms behind his back to see how this would play out. Who knows, maybe this insufferable personality would be dealt with. "You commoners..."

Clover dropped back down after getting a brief look over counter to nothing that particularly grabbed her interest with a wide grin and an expectant mind for playful banter.

As soon as her distinctive voiced graced his ears - and "graced" was a term he used generously to describe the drudge Vincenzo experienced whilst near Clover - Vincenzo near-instinctively swallowed the drag of his cigarette, for a mouthful of ash and tar was a far better taste than another bout with Clover.

His eyebrows entrenched into his gaze. Turned to face the pair, he lazily looked back at the woman, too, casting a sideway glance toward Hamlock.

"Actually...i'm not sure what's on the menu today, Clover." he replied, leaning into the counter, "Because after what you owe me, i'm not even sure if i'm supposed to feed you, or if i'm supposed to let you go hungry and call our debt even."

Well...this was problematic. The dark green hair gave a chuckle, sweetening up her voice a bit as she gave a half shrug.

"Hey, noowww, let's not get too upset here, Vinny. I told ye- I'm good fer it! I just need a bit of time and you'll have yer share! Sides- ye wouldn't leave yer fellow man with a gut empty. No?"

"A fellow man...maybe."

He heaped a platter of breakfast bake upon a pristine white platter, and promptly handed Hamlock his breakfast.

"A woman as slippery as you, though?" Vinny shrugged.

"Thank you, Vincenzo." Hamlock nodded. "I'll be looking forward to the meal." As the soldier walked by Clover, he gave her one more bit of advice in a whisper: ^{"Don't make things worse for yourself!"}

There was a certain look of defeat in Clover's eyes as the man she despised made off with her meal. There was a certain burning inside to do what was right... overshadowed by the rage egged on by pride. Turning her broken gaze from Hamlock to Vincenzo, she took a slightly more aggressive tone.

"Look- Vince- I went through the training like everyone else. I'm a lass you can depend on- but I don't see the point in bein' heartless. Now- and I'm askin' ye nice- please, can I have a plate of somethin te eat?"

Sighing, Vinny turned around, apparently working quite hard behind the window of the mess hall. Clover could make out a few clangs and scrapes, an occasional clink of silverware against what she could only hope was another meal...God, the smell was nearly irresistible. Leave it to Vincenzo and those Zwellians to find out how to make something made of grains and tomatoes taste so damn good. When he really wanted to, Vinny could produce miracles in that mess hall setup; Even a few stray cigarette ashes were almost like a sweet spice when in one of that man's productions.

Then Clover smelled...burning? Like a sour smoke, or like papers coated in acrid oil now being ignited...

Vincenzo turned around, and it hit her.

On the dinner plate designated as hers sat her breakfast: It was the usual egg breakfast bake, all right, perfectly fluff and scrumptiously coated in a healthy glistening of cheese and olive oil.

Upon its top, three cigarettes had been stuck in, fired and ignited like they were her birthday candles.

"Here." Vinny brusquely addressed, "I made it *special."*

He held the plate upon his fingertips and leaned forth upon the counter, putting his whole mass between her and her breakfast, soon to be dripping generously with cigarette ash.

Now there was a beautiful taste to her nose! It reminded her of a special feeling she hadn't felt in so long. Was it the romance of a first love? Was it the embrace of a red faced mother elated to find that her daughter was still in one piece? Mortality transcended to another plane as the divines touched fingertips with the limits of humanity to create something so beautiful. All it took- was one bite from the forbidden fruit to turn it so blackened and corrupt. What once was beautiful- was now lost.

This- this was no meal. This was an abomination that was so ungraciously handed to her. She was no saint- she was no pure maiden of golden heart and taintless soul- but this- this was wrong!

Blood surged like lightning to a rod- anger beyond reason consumed as the eruption of a sleeping volcano threatened the peace of so many around her.

"LISTEN HERE BOYO! I'LL RIP YOUR TONGUE FROM YER BLO-"

"You'll what?"

A hand upon her shoulder quickly silenced the blazing woman. Who else could it have been other than her commanding officer? Who else- but one of the lieutenants.

"I'll..." She bit her tongue, giving a flustered grind of the teeth and taking her plate with a harsh swipe. "Enjoy the fucking meal."

Lieutenant Kyllo watched the young soldier bitterly march off- giving her only a few blinks before turning to face the cook. "Is there a problem, Vincenzo?"

"Aside from the usual?" Vincenzo snarled, sneering at the woman going by. He had had plenty to do with an unfavorable sort - all in goodwill of his fellow soldiers, of course - and by many metrics, Clover was far from the worst of his headaches. If anything, Vincenzo would - by his own admission - rather be chained to a bed with Clover than have another 20 hour shift.

"Eh, it's nothing." he dismissed, giving a defeatist shrug, "Just some old business that hasn't quite been settled yet, and Clover's a b-...not familiar with Zwollian humor."

Kyllo could tell Vincenzo could only hush out his last correction by the bite of his tongue.

The officer simply nodded in turn, allowing that to be as it was. "Clover is... a bit dense. I think. But I also think that maybe she could come to learn that humor in time. You know?" He gave a slight shrug, smiling softly as he progressed their conversation. "Well- maybe we can take a look at some Zwollian cooking, hm? How are our supplies?"

Vinny leaned back from the counter, raising his eyebrows at the inquiry.

"They're a'lright, yeah. Been a lot better since we got the req memo about Signora Generala." he quoted. His tone was rather uppity, sarcastically ecstatic.

"What'll it be, then?" Vincenzo asked, returning his lean to the counter.

The lieutenant gave a soft chuckle, grinning as he pondered the reaction. Though he supposed that there wasn't often a difference between units in the military. They were given a budget, but he was told it would be better as time went on. Even now- it seemed like the general was at least holding up her end of the bargain and given that she wanted to give a presentation of her fine collection he supposed it was only expected. Only time would tell if she would be so generous as to continue and donate to her project.

"I'll take the Casserole. Just try not to sneer too much at the VIPs with the general when she comes and maybe things will go a bit more smoothly when I talk to her about getting you a decent break from army life. At the very least we could discuss getting more ingredients regularly."

"You try getting any other of these guys to cook. I'd rather just start eating trench mushrooms." For an Zwollian, Vincenzo had an odd dryness to the delivery of all of his jest. Even for one who had not and was unlikely to see any frontline fighting, his usual tone never deviated far from a certain cynicism which might be more routine amongst a veteran caste.

Regardless, he grasped the largest metal spoon from the rack above his head (The spade itself, Pyry noted, could easily be an entrenching tool in its own right), and dug into the great batch of breakfast, heaping generous amounts of a most pleasingly noxious assortment onto a spare plate. Long, gooey strings of pungent cheese clung to the spoon as he heaped each time onto the virtual pile of food, dripping with a hearty aroma with each clang.

"Here y' are." Quickly, Vincenzo displayed the plate before the LT with a furrowed, fumed glance, as if an artist showcasing a work which most displeased him to an art collector who found his worst work most intriguing.

He respected that the Zwollian wanted to uphold the things he held dear to him. Even for as rough as the man talked and for as hardened as he seemed there was a heart there that took pride in the things he sheltered. Even suggesting that nobody else could take his place- perhaps- was simply a way of saying that he took care of the people he was in charge of. Unwilling to take the time off...

With a softhearted tip of the hat the lieutenant tipped his cap and took his meal. "I see. Good man- Vincenzo." There would still be much to learn from the man, but that was for another time.

The captivating smell lured him down a path he wasn't so certain of. Was it of the spring fields in the morning? A conversation with a woman in the land standing upon the sun? It wasn't so familiar to home, but its exploration warranted a passionate walk down a lane with civilian clothes and a newspaper with the words 'The War Is Over' neatly spread across its proud casing. Loved ones coming from their homes to meet their tired beloved embracing them at the doorstep. A parade held for the fortunate ones spilling across the color filled streets. Flowing through the hearts of many a prayer that this peace would last forever. So sleepy from a day well spent and nothing but the moment to live for. Captivating... That is how one would would describe it. With eyes closed shut and a silence with feeling... something he couldn't quite describe other than being magical...

As the lieutenant opened his eyes next to his fellow officer, he gave a sigh of relief. Eyes traced to his gloves as he swallowed the last of his spoonful. It was only a moment of freedom. It was only an ounce of a dream. Even so... It was one they could always make a reality- were it not so then the power of word would not be true. The works of the hand- an alternate reality. Was that not what they were there for? Just like any one person going to the local diner for a meal- all wanted a warm meal- a feeling- that they could enjoy in peace.

Even as he finished his second spoon he felt this to be true. It wasn't just him- but his team who could make this a reality. And- hopefully- both sides could find a warm life when all of this was over.

"Do you believe in them, lieutenant?" Pyry spoke softly to Höfler, ensuring it was for her ears only.

Maxi tilted over, glancing a sideways smile at her fellow lieutenant. His words reached her ears almost with an audible thunk to them, like Maxi had just run face-first into a wall, pressing her smile into awkward fixture. It made her chuckle - nervously - but chuckle nevertheless.

"What kind of question is that?!" Höfler confidently remarked, "What kind of lieutenant would I be if I didn't think our Rangers couldn't live up to their names? Not a very good one!"

She laughed a bit more, an uneasy happiness to her exuberance as if to express some manner of relief, or guilt. Maxi had no qualms nor doubts over the brave lads and lasses under her command. Many of them were veterans of the Great War, she knew; And she knew many of them had more experience under their belts than she had in her entire long years at school. The Imperialette may have been the trickster, but Pyry could unshroud it so well. She was a bit...nervous.

"You think...it'll be like the last war?" she expressed back at him, curious at what his response could be.

Pyry nodded with a smile of his own to show to her response, taking it rather well and hopeful as she continued to express herself. A capable officer. He believed that. She believed in her own soldiers and that alone was cause for relief as he understood what was expected from her. Why- it was hardly something that he had questioned himself- but he did want to hear it from her mouth. You couldn't rely on what you thought all the time. Sometimes you had to rely on what you were told. Even then- nothing is certain- but it was enough for him. And for her question?

"Yes. But, I also think it will be nothing like the last war. Where we are now... We're all just a bunch of soldiers doing what we think is right. I heard in the last war there was so much respect passed around with the sheer desire to return home. That- I believe- is what we may face here... Or so my father told me. If that is true- and from what I've seen both out there and in here... I'm sure it will be for the right reasons. But even we are something experimental and new. In that way- I think we will simply need to have faith in each other in this new war."

"Yes, quite~!" She seemed to suddenly spring into another phase, like another person or another place were simply inserted as simply as the turn of a page. It was far from the previous unease, Pyry could note; Her body straightened, poised upright with confidence. Her tone was chipper, more clear.

"They've been very sort of...selective about this. The generals, I mean." The Lieutenant went on, "We have our briefing and orders, but, you know there 've been a lot of changes between the last war and now, especially up-top. You know, the whole Belaire Convention."

"Maybe they're all more on-edge now. Or, maybe they're just trying to find a way to make the Ruzhians get involved again." she laughed.

Pyry blinked at the shift- though it had to be expected at this point. She was a strange individual but he could say that of himself. Despite such thoughts, he would move on as would be needed. Besides- it was always good to see another in a good mood. Though the thoughts of why they decided to make so many changes were really a question that he couldn't answer but if the last war was any indication...

"You could be correct." He chuckled. "But whatever the reason I only hope it means a quick war and a great progression. I feel... odd about the general herself, but I think we're fortunate to have her. Do you think the troops are ready to meet with her today?"

Maxi shrugged, even casting a playful grin to go along with it. Perhaps "readiness" wasn't what she was aiming for. After all, the fighter never became tense in the face of danger: Only ready.

"Sure!" the lieutenant chimed back, "I think they'll get along with her. Besides, it helps when they know that I have to answer to someone, too!"

"I can only hope you're right. The last thing we need is daily inspections to tell us where our funding stands based on behavior... but onto more serious business." With that lighthearted conversation over, Pyry pulled out some notes on a sheet of folded paper which he unraveled to show unto his fellow officer. "I think you're right Maxi. The locals have been odd and we have found some evidence of foreign activity scattered around our recon objectives. It's a bit early to say- but even campsites show differences and it typically results in one being rather uniform. Similar imprints and I managed to find this at one of the campsites."

Pulling out the end of the smoked stick from his pocket the lieutenant offered it to the other- giving her the opportunity to scan the graphic marking. "Imperial?"

Her grin rapidly evaporated. Peering over the documents, she glazed over each segment one at a time, scanning with an intrigued, scrupulous eye. Occasionally, it raised, yet more apropos the papers were telling an out-of-age joke than one of concern. She tapped the Northwest corner - Pyry could tell from indirect attention alone - then slowly traced a finger down, as if following some hidden outline in the paper.

"It could be...hrm. . ." Maxi mused, pursing her lips while she thought. Their ambiance turned silent. She slowly rolled her eyes back upon Pyry.

"We should bring this up at the briefing later...I think the General will want to know about this before we move out."

With a nod, Pyry turned his attention to the soldiers and placed a hand to his chin. "For now, we ought to see how the men are doing. I will speak with you more later. Hm? Oh- and keep an eye on Clover. She seems a little aggravated today." He chuckled, standing up and moving to his quarters while enjoying another trip into the land of dreams.

Vassals to an empty throne

"E ke né en train din gajer a élur vurbinneuç?" (And what do we not have to gain by speaking to them?)

Lucinêa punctuated his voice, such that even the shouts that were required to break the clamor of their mounts' gallops reduced his phrases to mere hushes.

"Ja né élur konfïdeu. (I don't trust them.)

The elder's words were bold. Clear and as unwavering as the overhead sun. His late translator looked over in weary suspicion, naught a moment into conversation yet already tiresome of it.

"Aççurantâ, zo Léza-" (Surely, the liza-)

"Élur avéren un agendâ, e nuača avï çïré defrâodeuč a prender dečiziux čin zo Gardinâ." (They have an agenda, and we have been tricked before by making decisions without the Gardinâ.) Leokadra scoffed in return. "Ačionar čin zo Gardinâ nuača avéreneuç a ruïn muilte fois inâinte." (To act without the Gardina has led us to ruin many times before.)

Begrudgingly, he sighed, turning over his head to the road ahead. Lucinêa - as befitting for a military man the likes of he - was very much a proponent of action, for he knew full well that, in the greatest texts and teachings of war, to seize and maintain initiative was paramount. Alas, a direct belligerence he was not in, and so the finer loci of diplomacy he would need to subscribe to. Leokadra's words rung true, he knew, for that was the worst part; The divisions sewed by accord and treaty kept their people under constant partitioning, and all of it was only possible by one foolish Yuravian making peace deals first and consulting the remaining tribes thereafter.

Innumerate treaties forced the disunion of Yuravia, for even a thousand spirited tribes' soul went for naught if they were to be kept where their chants were drowned out. The Third Rebellion saw the signing of the Treaty of Jurivêa, that famously humiliating decree. If it were not insult enough to prohibit a people's most honored custom of election of a rightful and just Čévdinčévi, that so much fruit and toil be given to the traitors which made it possible made it all too overbearing. Lucinêa was correct to know that these treaties would, as soon as they were drafted, too, come to a just and fitting end. There would soon come a day where righteousness would prevail, and shackles cast down, for his opinion was but one in a sea of Yuravians.

Yet, such notions were cut short by the reminder of his mission, delivered through a lizardman atop a galloping horse.

Not all was lost, however, for his inquiry soon brought about an intrigued look upon Lucinêa's face: Rea-Abi was curious about the state of Arkronia.

"Kê čerê? (What does he ask?) The chief questioned.

"Çu çere deçpre zo maladul d'Arkronêa." (It's about the Arkronian disease.) Lucinêa responded swiftly. He turned to the chief, who gave no visual response, his eyes glued to the forward road.

"Kê çeç dévrâi vurbir?" (What shall I say to him?)

Chief Leokadra fumbled for a bit, mumbling and musing as he softly shook his head. Soon after, he swiftly barked his response.

"Vurbê kê voç vrê." (Say what you want.)

Text

"We have had many merchants return from Arkronia with very...troubling stories. They are in the midst of a rather troublesome illness, one which only seems to afflict their people. One man - a man I with so great of honor I may hold even his most ridiculous of tales to truth, I might add - has told me of entire villages being claimed in a week. Their medičes have quarters which fill with entire towns, trying in vain to grant some comfort to the ill before contracting the sickness themselves. The common folk of Arkronia are affected the worst, but...in due time, he believes that truly no Arkronian will be free from its touch."

Before continuing, Lucinêa looked back at his chief, stoic as ever, then glanced his ocean-dyed eyes back to his lizardfolk accomplice. His eyes narrowed, his horse galloping closer as if to offer some discretion.

"Many among us believe that, in these times of dire circumstances, the Arkronians will turn to much more...radical leadership."

"It is no secret that those of House Rhaskozikan have long had eyes on the Arkronian throne." Lucinêa cast another brief glance back at his chief. This time, he in turn made quick eye contact, where the two shared a short series of nods. "Where Chief Leokadra and I unfortunately disagree on is his intentions. The Chief and I both believe that they will no doubt attempt some power play to increase their influence in the near future...the Chief believes that, while they are most certainly rather...hostile toward persons the likes of you and I..."

Lucinêa took a deep sigh.

"...that they would need to be utterly mad to plunge a disease-ravaged nation into war."

"However, I have always been of the belief that sanity was never a value of House Rhaskozikan."

At the mention of his thoughts, Lucinêa could visually straighten, as if a soldier on leave with the instinctive passing of his superior. The road and coronation were miles and weeks away, he knew, yet...he had felt exposed, like he had make some utter flaw amidst his musings that would reveal some great conspiracy. Such was the power of a culture of paranoia, he imagined.

"Now, do forgive me, for what I will say will come to you as madness, but...I believe it may be in our best interests to ensure the young prince lives a long and fulfilling life. It may come as insanity for a Yuravian to wish well of the Arkronian throne, but I believe it will be better for both of us to have a lethargic throne than one which actively wishes for our destruction."

^@gowia

Vassals to an empty throne

"Komment ça çtaja?" (How are you faring?)

Leokadra scoffed. The mere fact he was to be in attendance for this charade would sour the mood of any Yuravian.

"Naja." (So-so.) The chieftain bit his tongue. His colleague sagely nodded back, only choosing to make eye contact for as brief a moment as he could.

From a strictly Yuravian perspective, Chief Leokadra's position was one of unenviable delegation; A far cry from the "honored guest" status their missive may have suggested. It might be assumed that, from their involvement in the Third Rebellion, the relations between the two might consist of nothing shy of open hostility. Yet, if to describe some affair as "bittersweet" would be to do so in a semi-positive tone, then their association could be compounded into the expression, "sour-sweet".

Time immemorial marked the great clash of cultures which would define Arkronian-Yuravian relations. From a fundamental standpoint, there was seemingly no pleasing the one without the expense of the other. Leokadra, the poor soul, made no effort to appear pleased at his request for attendance, for it was that Leokadra held the unanimous opinion of the Yuravian concerning Arkronian endeavors: That such constructs were a waste of time. The uniform roads, the towering spires, the rippleless gardens which laborer toiled without recourse to maintain...What manner of buffoon would think it a good idea to discard so much time to these creations? Did Mother Nature not already provide infinite order, her will of life, death, and rebirth? Did she not already give bountiful beauty in all her creations to all her children on her fair Earth? For reason undefinable, the greyskins were far too fond of their lust for domination, and so far was this psyche extended that they even incarcerated their very own lives.

"Aç âozit?" (Have you heard?) the old chief's aide murmured, "Zo prïnza çere malâde din mourt." (The prince has fallen deathly ill.)

"Çu çere leurs secrét perâo guardâija." (It is their worst-kept secret.) He plainly responded.

Word throughout Yuravia spread quite quickly for any matter. A loquacious bunch, paired with their traditions of nomadism, and what resulted was a state in which a common joke was that it was impossible to keep something a secret for any period longer than 10 days, by which time chiming wives would find themselves chatting about the Tênuar's new affair with Cor as if it were the day's weather.

"E?" (And?) the aide expressed, "Né deturioneuç inkuienteneuç?" (Shouldn't we be concerned?)

The chieftain scarcely made his response known. His shoulders rolled in so minor a fashion that to call such a maneuver a "shrug" suggested it could be more than possible accident. Two deep, stone-bleached eyes wearily gazed the young translator aside, scrolling in such fashion apropos a musty library scroll, the likes of which had not been unfurled for decades.

"Zaç afačeriux din çu koruna né affligineuç." (The affairs of that crown afflict us not.)

"E kê açêa homê din zo Mâçon din Razkozïkan?" (And what of that man from House Rhaskozikan?)

"Bah! Çeç parubulaux né çeren dar bêtiçe." (Bah! His words are nothing but hot air.) Leokadra waved, his scoffing huff utterly dismissive of any such sentiments in that militant aristocracy.

Lucinêa sighed. The gaunt man had few qualms with serving as the translator of this well-respected grouch, for the ride to Arkronia wasn't one with the fullest beauty of Mycordia in gaze, with which he planned as a pleasant distraction to its fullest extent. Even - perhaps uncharacteristic for a Yuravian - the fact he was to be in attendance of an Arkronian mandate upset him little, for there, Lucinêa knew too well that there, he was to be in the good company of his fellow boredomites. No, his greatest pains came from that of guiding his horses about, as for the eighth time this hour, his prized companionss had developed selective hearing in tandem with a desire to graze upon what few grasses remained along the Kaledian frontiers.

Such inklings he hoped would remain as his sole concern.

"Avï!" (Hail!)

Leokadra gestured. His finger extended, two long figures in the distance. Lucinêa squinted, peering out with the guidance of the chief. Soon after, he clicked and whistled. By miracle, his black stallions neighed and followed.

"Çalut."

"Good day to you." Lucinêa interpreted. He halted his horses just before the embassy, his bright eyes gesturing their intended use as the envoy's transport.

"I trust you have been keeping well?" Lucinêa inquired, his light voice hopeful to ignite at least passive conversation. Darting his head quickly to his right, the translator made quick contact with his elder. The man to his side had a face to put caverns to shame, cracks to make the parched stones of Leed mere chips in comparison. In Ascerian standard, Chief Leokadra, then, was far older than perhaps any living creature had a right to be, yet it was in the face of such adversity that this same elder had the strength to shatter any lesser man.

"We in the Gardinâ have received your letter," Lucinêa prompted, "and we would be most gracious to accept your proposal of a rekindled friendship. Yet...forgive me. I believe I am...getting ahead of myself."

"Come along. We have matters to discuss on the long road ahead, correct?"

---

^@gowia

Vassals to an empty throne

@Milkman IMO it'd help; I'm usually a lot more active over Discord than I am here

Vassals to an empty throne

Allegiance: Rebellion

gowia

Oh yeah, Rebel Gang roll up

In all seriousness though...I would imagine Skekaria's position of being sandwiched between two Rebellious powers to be understandably nerve-wracking.