#Children of Lothar

[semioticapocalypse]

Lothar Rübelt. Wiener Kinder beim Fußballspielen. Karl-Marx-Hof. C. 1950

I Am Collective Memories   •    Follow me, — says Visual Ratatosk

[findmeinshattrath]

Okay so...

To the best of my knowledge, there is only one known NPC in the game who was born in Outland to members of the Sons of Lothar: Caretaker Dilandrus, who watches over the graveyard in Honor Hold. I, however, do not for one second believe that he could possibly be the only one. They were in Outland for over 20 years with no idea if they would ever be able to leave; even with all of the challenges, I think people would end up trying to develop some sort of life in that situation and children wouldn't be an unlikely possibility.

I am so interested seeing more characters like that and learning what life in Outland must've been like. I mean that for all residents of Outland, but the Sons of Lothar are in the unique position of being aliens trapped in an unfamiliar and shattered world that they have minimal experience with and any children they have would have a pretty unique upbringing.

I don't really have many fleshed out head-cannons about this currently, but the few I can think of now are:

Any children that they did have would at least attempt to be taken to be raised in the Allerian Stronghold, which was the only base they had in a remotely healthy landscape and seems like the one with the smallest amount of imminent threats (Honor Hold would become surrounded by demons and Fel Orcs, same for Wildhammer Stronghold plus all the lava, and Kirin'Var was in the most shattered location and had to deal with the mana storms)

Definitely at least had Draenei influence since they started interacting before Draenor even shattered, even if it was a limited capacity initially.

A fair number of hybrid children. I know Blizzard tends to treat this as a rare thing for whatever reason they give, usually some form of fantasy racism, but 20 Years plus a limited pool of potential partners, casual or serious, seems like it would have happened a decent number of times.

[vigilskeep]

i feel like i’m being deliberately confusing so i’ll go over the barest of facts as it’s shaping up and pin some names on the background characters

bann lothar trevelyan has five children. his first wife, lady gisela, was a sickly noblewoman from the anderfels who he met when she moved east for her health, and he married her for love despite her family’s history of mages, something the trevelyans historically strictly avoided for centuries (both pious and perhaps desperate to kill rumours of tevinter connections). they had four children:

arthur trevelyan, circle mage necromancer, liar extraordinaire, engaged to josephine montilyet as a kid before found out as a mage, has an adopted daughter from the circle

helena trevelyan, templar, kind of terrible, muscles like you wouldn’t believe, maybe loves you but will only show it 6-12 months after you’re dead

maxwell trevelyan, his class is civilian. family disappointment, kind of useless and very pathetic but in a sort of charming way occasionally, NOT thrilled that his siblings are all insane and the titles ended up with him. the moustache situation is bad

caitriona “cat” trevelyan, circle mage. professional baby of the family which let her get away with way more than it should

when the shock of her mage children eventually killed gisela—or so the story goes, though one might say that she was already weak and probably shouldn’t have been having four children in the first place—bann trevelyan was eventually convinced to remarry. but this was for political gain, a marriage to the lady joan, a much much younger woman from an influential ostwick family. she wanted none of it, and a year or two after her first and only child’s birth, immediately accepted an offer to join the grey wardens. the child was:

beatrice “bea” trevelyan, who grew up quiet, reserved, and kind, but became considerably less reserved after she was lauded the herald of andraste, took up the assassin specialisation, saved the world, and married red jenny herself

lady joan—or ser joan of the grey wardens, as the lady preferred to be called—died with many other grey wardens at the battle of ostagar.

bann trevelyan always regretted her fate, as if his regret after the fact was any good to her. it made him unwilling to push their daughter into an arranged marriage or the chantry life as he was expected to do with his younger children. this made the remaining children from his first marriage deeply anxious, sure his intention was to push them aside and give her their inheritance. (the bann was very distant with all his children, except perhaps his beloved eldest son, thoroughly convincing the rest that he disliked them specifically.)

bea was thus somewhat mistreated by her elder siblings thanks to their anxiety/jealousy, though she would assure you it never got out of hand. she spent the majority of her time simply ignored, in the library or with the trevelyans’ horses, except during the visits of her aunt: a templar named ser adelaide, bann trevelyan’s younger sister who had been passed off to the chantry as she was supposed to be. she saw herself in bea for that reason, and also had never been fond of lady gisela, so bea was her particular favourite and she visited whenever she could

[geekcavepodcast]

"Defenders of the Earth" Gets Collected into Graphic Novel

1987 Star Comic Defenders of the Earth miniseries is being collected into a paperback graphic novel from Mad Cave. The graphic novel will collect issues 1-4. Defenders of the Earth hailed from writers Stan Lee, Bob Harras, and Michael Higgins and artists Alex Saviuk and Fred Fredericks.

"Flash Gordon must team up with the Phantom, Mandrake the Magician, and the super-strong Lothar to defend planet Earth against the dark forces of Ming the Merciless. Luckily, they’ll get some help from the next generation of heroes: their children!" (Mad Cave)

Defenders of the Earth goes on sale on June 19, 2024.

(Image via Mad Cave Studios - Cover of Defenders of the Earth)

[wonder-worker]

The career of Bertha, daughter of Lothar II [and Waldrada], reveals that women were not simply passive bystanders in the politics of the period. As the transmitter of legitimacy through blood, she was in fact a key player. [...] She was considered a major force in Italian politics, and her political aspirations may have extended much further than the Tuscan region or even the kingdom of Italy.

-Patricia Skinner, "Women in Medieval Italian Society, 500-1200" / Daniel G. König, "Bertha of Tuscany's Correspondence with al-Muktafī bi-llāh in the Version of Ibn al-Zubayr."

[Bertha of Lotharingia was] an ambitious and politically successful female member of the Carolingian elite. The daughter of Lothair II of Lotharingia, she was born around 860 or 865. Married before 880 to count Theobald of Lorraine, she shared her husband’s exile in Arles, where he had sought refuge with Boso, the King of Provence (r. 879–887) after the latter’s brother Hugo had attempted to conquer Lorraine. She bore him four children who were to attain influential positions in a region spanning southern France and northern Italy.

When Theobald died around 887, Bertha married the margrave Adalbert II of Tuscany (r. 885–915). Adalbert’s family had much property in Provence, carried the epithet dives and led a lavish court life in Lucca. […] Theo Kölzer described Adalbert’s policy as

“characterised by a skilful manoeuvring between the individual candidates for the royal and imperial crowns, which he played off against each other for the sake of his own advantage, always taking care that the autonomy of his margraviate and his quasi-royal position did not suffer any damage in the turmoil of the time.”

Adalbert’s policy involved reacting to the ambitions of margrave Guido II of Spoleto, his son Lambert, margrave Berengar of Ivrea, duke Arnulf of Bavaria, and King Louis of Provence, all of whom aspired to the crown of Italy between the end of the ninth and the beginning of the tenth century. Adalbert II and Bertha first sided with Guido II and his son Lambert against Berengar, thus ensuring that Guido was crowned King of Italy in 889 and emperor in 891, his son Lambert becoming royal and imperial co-regent in 891 and 892 respectively. The couple’s support for Guido and Lambert expressed itself in the fact that their two sons were christened Guido and Lambert between 891 and 894. Adalbert tried to impede Arnulf of Bavaria from interfering in Italian affairs in 894, but then turned against Lambert by cooperating with Berengar of Ivrea between 896 and 898. If we believe Liutprand of Cremona, it was around 898 that Adalbert tried to become king of Italy himself.

Around 900, Adalbert and Bertha supported the aspirations of King Louis of Provence to become emperor, possibly in the hope that Bertha’s son Hugo would thus be able to become King of Provence instead. When Hugo’s promotion failed to materialise, the couple turned against Louis, first by not impeding, then by actively supporting Berengar in his conflict with Louis. In this period, the couple already exerted enormous influence in Italy: the anti-pope Sergius III (sed. 898 and 904–911) had sought refuge with Adalbert and, according to Liutprand of Cremona, was “made pope by Adalbert” (papa per Adalbertum constituitur) in 904. In this year, the couple felt strong and independent enough to begin dating their documents according to their own regnal years. When Louis was eventually captured and blinded by Berengar in 905, he entrusted Bertha’s son Hugo—count of Vienne and Arles, duke and margrave of Provence—with the government of Provence.

[During this time, Bertha has been identified the royal woman who most likely sent a letter with an embassy in c.906 to the Caliph of Baghdad, al-Muktafi, where she described herself rather grandiosely as "queen of all the Franks". First brought to light by Muhammad Ḥamīdullāh , it has been rigorously studied and re-examined by historians. According to Daniel G. König: '...it becomes impossible to presume with Ḥamīdullāh that Bertha was a woman without political ambition who offered her hand in marriage to the caliph to escape her allegedly weak and unsuccessful husband [...] Rather, it becomes conceivable that Bertha could have developed a foreign policy strategy that looked beyond Italy and Byzantium and as far as Aġlabid North Africa. When she eventually understood that the Aġlabids were nominally subjected to the ʿAbbāsid caliphate, she looked eastwards to ʿAbbāsid Iraq. If there was a marriage proposal at all, she may have wanted to offer one of her daughters to the caliph, as François Bougard suggested [...] Bertha’s son Hugo (r. 903–947) certainly pursued a Mediterranean strategy as soon as he became king of Italy in 926. His intensive relations with Byzantium are recorded by the emperor Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, his complex relations with the “raider colony” of Fraxinetum by Liutprand of Cremona. According to Ibn Ḥayyān (d. 468/1076), he approached the caliph ʿAbd al-Raḥmān III of Córdoba in 328/939–940 with the demand of a “security guarantee for merchants of his territory that travel back and forth between there and al- Andalus.” It does not seem far-fetched to assume that Hugo’s mother had already begun to think in the same lines of securing the Tyrrhenian Sea for Tuscany and of expanding the region’s security and economic purview.']

In 906, the year in which Bertha is said to have sent her letter to the ʿAbbāsid caliph, Louis of Provence had retired from the competition for the imperial throne, whereas Adalbert and his wife were confronted with the imperial ambitions of Berengar of Ivrea, which they opposed by blocking the Apennine pass leading him to Rome. Bertha seems to have been strongly involved in containing Berengar. That she wielded power at the side of her husband is evident from her correspondence with the archbishop of Ravenna. Germana. Gandino proposed that, in the contest with Berengar, Bertha was able and willing to present herself as a descendant of Charlemagne, as heiress of the Carolingian dynasty in Italy, and thus as a legitimate alternative candidate to the imperial throne. While this may seem unconceivable at first sight, we should consider that her husband Adalbert II did not have an equally prestigious pedigree and, by 906, had receded into the background politcally. Bertha’s quest for power also seems to have prompted contemporaries such as Liutprand of Cremona to harshly polemicize against her in particular and against women striving for power in general. Gandino believes that Berta may have even called herself “basilissa” (Βασίλισσα) in her letter to al-Muktafī bi-llāh, thus seeking imperial recognition from a foreign leader in a time, in which she—not her husband—formulated a claim to the imperial throne.

Bertha’s activities in the period after writing the letter demonstrate that she occupied an important political position in a region spanning the Provence in the west, Ivrea in the north, and Tuscany in the south. Still confronted with the imperial ambitions of Berengar when her husband died in 915, she installed her son Guido as margrave of Tuscany with herself acting as regent and married her daughter to the margrave Adalbert of Ivrea after his wife’s death. When Berengar chased Adalbert from Ivrea and arrested Bertha and Guido in Mantua between 919 and 920, she still managed to prepare the ground for her son Hugo. He was to become King of Italy in 926, shortly after Berengar’s assassination in 924 and Bertha’s death in 925."

[workingclasshistory]

On this day, 12 January 1904, a rebellion began by the Herero people in Namibia against oppression by German occupiers of their country. The rebellion had begun in January 1904 in response to rising tensions within the German colony and was initiated by an order from Samuel Maharero, leader of the Herero. In 1884 the German state had declared South-West Africa a German colonial territory. The Germans took land from local African inhabitants and instituted laws and policies that served to oppress the local population. The Herero remained more economically powerful until a plague in 1897 killed up to 90% of their herds, weakening the Herero. German policies became more brutal in response and the Herero people’s freedom and culture became heavily restricted. The rebellion began with the invasion of Okahandja, a city in central Namibia, by mounted Herero, who killed 123 people, mostly Germans, and set buildings alight. The uprising spread across the region with Herero occupying a military station and killing soldiers, besieging another city and ambushing a German military company. Eventually, however, the Herero were overwhelmed by German forces. Many died of starvation and thirst as they fled through the Omaheke desert. 12,000 were forced to surrender and were placed in concentration camps where medical experiments and daily executions occurred. Many people from the camps were enslaved and forced to build railways, docks and buildings throughout the country. 80% of the Herero population of Namibia were wiped out during the revolt. General Lothar von Trotha, who was sent to crush the resistance, ordered that, “Within the German borders every Herero, whether armed or unarmed, with or without cattle will be shot.” A report published in London in 1918 stated that German soldiers had killed unarmed women and children. The war and the extermination order by general Lothar von Trotha, are considered by most historians to be the first genocide of the 20th century. https://www.facebook.com/workingclasshistory/photos/a.296224173896073/2184461488405656/?type=3

[istumpysk]

OPERATION ICEBERG: THE TIER LIST

THEORY:

Olyver Frey is Rosby's ward

TIER:

50/50: These theories are complete toss-ups.

[Tier list overview]

EVIDENCE:

What is the theory?

Lord Gyles Rosby had no immediate heir when he died in A Feast for Crows.

Gyles Rosby's ward is a young man residing at Castle Rosby, located in the crownlands.

Presumably, Gyles wanted his lands and castle to go to this ward.

Cersei Lannister prefers to seize the lands and give them to an ally as a reward. She doesn't seem worried that the ward will cause any issues.

The inheritance is still in question by the end of A Dance with Dragons. Kevan Lannister, Hand of the King, dies before any resolution.

"Is there aught else?" The Grand Maester consulted his papers. "We should address the Rosby inheritance. Six claims have been put forth—" "We can settle Rosby at some later date. What else?" - Epilogue, ADWD

The author has deliberately not revealed the ward's name; many in the fandom believe it's Olyvar Frey.

Who is Olyvar Frey?

Born in 281 AC, Olyvar Frey is a member of House Frey.

He is the eighteenth son of Lord Walder Frey, and the fourth born to his sixth wife, Bethany Rosby.

Robb Stark took Olyvar as a squire, a role in which he excelled.

"You have done House Frey a grievous insult, Robb." "I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was as loyal a squire as any king could want. [...]" - Catelyn II, ASOS

x

"I'd hoped to ask Olyvar to squire for me when we march north," said Robb, "but I do not see him here. Would he be at the other feast?" - Catelyn VII, ASOS

Olyvar Frey was notably loyal to Robb Stark; he expressed a desire to stay with Robb even after he married Jeyne Westerling, and was not present at the Red Wedding. He is considered a Good Frey™.

"You have done House Frey a grievous insult, Robb." "I never meant to. Ser Stevron died for me, and Olyvar was as loyal a squire as any king could want. He asked to stay with me, but Ser Ryman took him with the rest. All their strength. The Greatjon urged me to attack them . . ." - Catelyn II, ASOS

x

Lady Westerling had remained at Riverrun with her children; Jeyne, her little sister Eleyna, and young Rollam, Robb's squire, who complained bitterly about being left. Yet that was wise as well. Olyvar Frey had squired for Robb previously, and would doubtless be present for his sister's wedding; to parade his replacement before him would be as unwise as it was unkind. - Catelyn V, ASOS

x

"I'd hoped to ask Olyvar to squire for me when we march north," said Robb, "but I do not see him here. Would he be at the other feast?" "Olyvar?" Ser Ryman shook his head. "No. Not Olyvar. Gone . . . gone from the castles. Duty." - Catelyn VII, ASOS

x

Olyvar Frey had been devoted to her son as well. Hadn't Robb said that Olyvar wanted to remain with him even after he'd married Jeyne? - Catelyn VII, ASOS

What is a Good Frey™?

A Good Frey™ is a member of House Frey who isn't entirely reprehensible. Believe it or not, there are members of House Frey who are actually good, although the author makes it challenging to distinguish who they are.

Other members of Good Frey™ include:

Roslin Frey, the wife of Edmure Tully and the sister of Olyvar Frey.

"And Lady Roslin was distracting you." "She . . . they made her do it, Lord Walder and the rest. Roslin never wanted . . . she wept, but I thought it was . . ." - Jaime VI, AFFC

Perwyn Frey, personal escort to Catelyn Stark, member of Robb Stark's personal guard, and older brother of Olyvar and Roslin Frey.

"Well met, sers. Is Ser Perwyn about? He helped escort me to Storm's End and back, when Robb sent me to speak with Lord Renly. I was looking forward to seeing him again." "Perwyn is away," Lame Lothar said. "I shall give him your regards. I know he will regret having missed you." "Surely he will return in time for Lady Roslin's wedding?" "He had hoped to," said Lame Lothar, "but with this rain . . . you saw how the rivers ran, my lady." - Catelyn VI, ASOS

x

"You were speaking of the Freys you wanted dead. Ryman, Edwyn, Emmon . . ." "And Walder Rivers," Daven said, "that whoreson. Hates that he's a bastard, and hates everyone who's not. Ser Perwyn seems a decent fellow, though, might as well spare him. The women too. [...]" - Jaime V, AFFC

Willamen Frey, a maester of the Citadel and the brother of Olyvar, Roslin, and Perwyn Frey. He seems to be minding his own business.

I'm sure there are other Good Freys™ hiding about, but for whatever reason, George seems rather fond of this specific Frey family. Good job, Bethany Rosby.

Why do we suspect Rosby's ward might be Olyvar Frey?

Olyvar is related to Gyles Rosby through his mother, Bethany Rosby.

Some of Olyvar's relatives, like Merrett Frey and Geremy Frey's children, have been fostered with maternal families.

Olyvar's older brothers are either dead, knighted, or serving as maesters, making him the logical choice.

The maester at Rosby, Melwys Rivers, is a bastard son of Lord Walder Frey.

Olyvar was sent away on "duty" before the Red Wedding, which could be both an excuse and a legitimate reason for his absence.

Do we know anything else about the Rosby ward?

Rosby's ward refused to offer hospitality to House Stokeworth.

"Uncomfortable," complained Falyse. "It rained most of the day. We thought to spend the night at Rosby, but that young ward of Lord Gyles refused us hospitality." - Cersei V, AFFC

Why it might be Olyvar: As a Robb Stark loyalist, Olyvar Frey may be unwelcoming to friends of House Lannister.

Why it might not be Olyvar: One doesn't need to be a Stark loyalist to avoid hosting Falyse Stokeworth in their castle.

He's an "ill-born wretch."

She sniffed. "Mark my word, when Gyles dies that ill-born wretch will make off with his gold. He may even try and claim the lands and lordship, though by rights Rosby should come to us when Gyles passes. My lady mother was aunt to his second wife, third cousin to Gyles himself." - Cersei V, AFFC

Why it might be Olyvar: Despite Olyvar being a legitimate child of Walder Frey, and House Frey's power and prominence, the house has a low reputation in Westeros.

Why it might not be Olyvar: "Ill-born" could mean lowborn or illegitimate.

He's not of Gyles Rosby's blood.

"No children of his body, but there is a ward . . ." ". . . not of his blood." - Cersei IX, AFFC

Why it might be Olyvar: Olyvar is not a direct descendant of Gyles Rosby.

Why it might not be Olyvar: Olyvar has Rosby blood through his mother.

Is there anything else to consider?

Not Olyvar: Olyvar would not be the first in line to inherit Rosby; legally, his older brother Perwyn should come before him.

Yes Olyvar: The author may eliminate around 30 Freys from the line of succession, possibly saving Perwyn, Good Frey™, for a larger castle that sits on the Green Fork.

If it's not Olyvar Frey, who the hell is it?

STUMPY'S THOUGHTS:

You guys have the opportunity to do the funniest thing ever by making this a tie vote.

VOTE:

I welcome discussions. Feel free to reblog, respond, or challenge my perspective—I won't be offended by any of it.

Please note, if "no" is the eventual winner, or if it's competitive, a second poll will be conducted to determine the proper location.

NEXT THEORY:

Ned Stark + Ashara Dayne = Jon Snow (N + A = J)

[Main menu]

[lego-man-speer]

Nuremberg Defendants: Part 4, Julius Streicher - Editor of Der Stürmer

The next part of my Nuremberg Defendants series! Click the links to read my previous posts (+ my post about Rudolf Hess)

Rudolf Hess

Alfred Rosenberg

Joachim von Ribbentrop

Baldur von Schirach

-Julius Streicher was born on the 12th of February 1885 in Fleinhausen. He was the youngest of nine children, the son of a primary school teacher.

-From 1904 Streicher would follow in his father's footsteps and become a primary school teacher. He was known for his short temper and dictatorial demeanour.

-Streicher married twice in his life. In 1913 he married Kunigunde Roth. Their marriage produced two children, Lothar and Elmar, and they remain wed until Kunigunde's death in 1943. In 1945 Streicher married his former secretary, Adele Tappe, and they remained wed until Streicher's death.

-When the First World War broke out in 1914 Streicher served as part of the 6th Bavarian Reserve Infantry Regiment. He was awarded both the Iron Cross 1st and 2nd class and was commissioned as a Lieutenant. Despite these awards he had poor behaviour in his military record. When the war ended he returned to teaching.

-In 1919 he joined the Deutschvölkischer Schutz- und Trutzbund (German Nationalist Protection and Defiance Federation) - a right-wing association that aimed to agitate the new Bavarian Socialist Republic. He also joined the German Socialist Party, but his anti-semitic rhetoric roused opposition against him, thus forcing him to leave. In 1921, Streicher joined the NSDAP and persuaded many of his followers to merge with the party also.

-After taking part in the Beer Hall Putsch in November 1923, Streicher was suspended from his teaching post. For the next few years he would lead a local organisation of the temporarily outlawed NSDAP. From 1924-1932 he held a seat in the Bavarian Parliament.

-He founded the weekly newspaper Der Stürmer (translated as “the attacker” or “the stormer”) in 1923. The newspaper reached a peak circulation of 600,000 in 1935. His newspaper was characterised by its anti-semitism (with frequent caricatures of Jews) and pornographic obsessions. A very common theme was the sexual violation of ethnically German women by Jews (in a speech he was quoted to have said that “the semen of a jew gets into a German woman's blood during sexual intercourse and thus poisons her soul”). He would use this to publish semi-pornographic pieces and images of degrading sexual acts. Streicher's unusually vulgar anti-semitism was criticised by many within the Nazi Party, however the content of his newspaper played an important role in labelling Jewish people as sub-human, and this would pave the grounds for future atrocities against Jewish people.

(Some excerpts from issues of Der Stürmer, featuring the typical antisemitic caricature.)

-Hitler declared Der Stürmer as his favourite newspaper, even going so far as to have each weekly issue posted in glassed-in display cases for public reading.

-His publishing firm made him a multi-millionaire. Along with his newspaper, the firm released three anti-semitic children's books, used to indoctrinate the youth into Nazi ideology.

-With Streicher's pornographic obsessions, it should come as no surprise that Streicher was rumoured to have been a sexual deviant himself. Rumours were spread by Göring accusing Streicher of having raped political prisoners. He was also rumoured to have been having extramarital affairs.

-His disagreeable temperament made him an enemy to many in the inner circle (especially Göring - he had forbade his own staff from reading Der Stürmer), and some party leaders did not consider him sane. His reputation as Gauleiter of Franconia (a position he had held since 1925) gave him the nicknames 'Frankenführer' and the 'Beast of Franconia'.

-Streicher's fall from power began during the aftermath of Kristallnacht in 1938. The Jews within his Gau were coerced into selling their properties or to cede their businesses to Streicher or to people named by him. The compensation payments were in many cases less than 10% of their real value. Later at the meeting of leading Nazi functionaries (12th November 1938) an investigative commission was set up which found corruption - the commission was concerned over the fact that Streicher personally enriched himself. He was also punished for spreading rumours that Göring was impotent and that his daughter (Edda Göring) was not conceived naturally. Streicher was also accused of adultery, several attacks on other Gauleiters and striding through the streets of Nuremberg while cracking a bull whip.

-On the 16th of February 1940 he was stripped of his party offices and withdrew from the public eye after being brought tot he Supreme Party Court and judged to be 'unsuitable for leadership'. He was prohibited by Hitler to enter Nuremberg, but was allowed to retain the title of Gauleiter and wear the uniform. The role of Gauleiter was not filled until 1944. During that time Hans Zimmerman (1940-1942) and Karl Holz (1942-1944) served as acting Gauleiters until the role was officially filled by Karl Holz. He held the role until his death in 1945. Despite Stretcher's fall from power, Hitler still considered him a good friend.

-Streicher was arrested on May 23rd 1945. He was found in his 'escape location' in the Alps. He presented himself as a painter named 'Sailer'. He was captured by American troops, led by Major Henry Plitt (who was Jewish). News began circulate that the biggest Jew baiter had been arrested by a Jew. While under allied interrogation he gave the impression that he was mentally confused.

-At Nuremberg he was indicted under counts 1 (conspiracy) and 4 (crimes against humanity). He had the lowest IQ among all of the Nuremberg defendants (106) and he was shunned by the other defendants.

-While imprisoned at Nuremberg he was labelled the 'dirty old man' of the prison. He would supposedly flush his prison toilet and then proceed to wash his face with the toilet water. He also made claims of mistreatment by the Allies. He claimed that they ordered him to take off his clothes and leave him naked in his cell for days; burned him with cigarettes and making him extinguish them with his bare feet; allowed him to only drink toilet water; made him kiss the feet of black soldiers; and beat him with a bullwhip. He also claimed that he was spat on and his mouth was forced open to be spat in.

-Streicher was theatrical on the witness stand and would answer questions from his lawyer with diatribes against Jews, the Allies and the Court. Streicher also complained that his judges were Jews. He was frequently silenced by court officers. More evidence of his eccentricity comes from prison psychologist Gustave Gilbert who claimed that Streicher believed that he had the ability to smell blood, and Streicher claimed that the leader of the SS (Heinrich Himmler) was “of negro blood”.

-Most evidence against Streicher at Nuremberg came from his newspaper Der Stürmer along with his speeches. Streicher claimed to have known nothing about the Holocaust and claimed to be merely a “nature lover who only wanted foreigners out of the country”. Prosecutors argued that he was an accessory to the Holocaust and was therefore just as guilty as those who actually ordered the exterminations.

-Streicher was acquitted on count 1 of the Nuremberg indictment but was found guilty on count 4. He was sentenced to death by hanging.

-At his execution he shouted the Hitlergruß from the bottom of the scaffold. His last words were “The Bolsheviks will hang you one day”. When the hood was placed over his head a muffled “Adele, my dear wife” was heard. Streicher died aged 61 and reportedly “went down kicking”. He could be heard groaning after falling through the trap door. It took him around 15 minutes to die.

OBLIGATORY MENTION: This post is purely educational and is in no way supportive of any right-wing ideologies.

[cloudberry-sims]

Together they have 3 children- Hamon , Andwise and Emmete.

Hamon is the oldest and the strongest, with a slight temper. He enjoys poking fun at his little brother Andwise , who also gets easily angry.

Andwise has little patient for his brother and find his jabs at him infuriating and irritating. To say that they do not get along at all is a understatement...

We have already met Emmete , the only daughter of Jeb and Nanss , as she is the romantic partner of Lothar Vanderling. A charming girl who often tries to mediate her big brothers conflict.

[lotharx]

starter for @prcspero.

where: nornwatch tower

when: after zee last night bestie

note: continuing our harrowing meetcute

Lothar had kept quiet the majority of the troupe, a reticent bystander who remained seemingly unfazed as more were culled by the elements, as starvation and disease took over. The Ax had some sorry knack for observation, he noted the few faces he'd recognized as witchers pulled them through the tunnels, up to the surface of Hrimthur's Wasteland; desolate, gelid and unforgiving. He spoke nothing of his recollections, his findings, how the biting cold became unbearable and though Nornwatch Keep was likely surmised as this solace from the frigid air, it too would soon be unbearable to live within. Sanctuary was a loose claim for the place, it spoke more of a prison, a final resting place; a beacon that stood more as an omen than a salvation. Blighted trees swarmed the tower and vermin scuttered by as an epidemic swiftly took hold of those weakest within the troupe's ranks. Lothar had his satchel, though it had special mushrooms and a canteen for water, it was void of anything that would aid in his survival through genuine starvation or disease and he kept mostly out of the way. He was not a healer, he'd been preened off of loss and violence, the scene before him was familiar enough but it etched a palpable memory. Famine, disease; Horsemen who reared their ugly heads and laughed at those who thought they could beat the call of Death.

Lothar did his best to aid where he could, but it seemed futile as more succumbed to the blighted world around them. He learned again to sit by and be an observer, idle hands calloused from the carved wood of an axe.

They'd spoken not a word to each other since Iskaldrik had fallen; a seemingly meaningless interaction swept further under the rug by the violent trek into the Wastelands. The troupe had once been a vast summary; children, miners, royalty and witchers. A hefty group of people which allowed even Lothar to blend within the masses. It warranted any avoidance as coincidental but the other had proven himself to be more than some Iskaran drunk as he flanked many who needed aid. He'd done more for the troupe than Lothar felt he was useful for and the brute berserker was teetering some line of envy as he felt more coded to violence than healing.

"He lives," it's the first words spoken to the other since he'd seen them drunk and mindless, living off the spoils of Bjarnheim and it's merchants. A nod to the state in which he last saw the other and a cruel tease to how a battle had forced the other to attention.

[agentrouka-blog]

Did Old Nan and Beth Cassel survive?

GRRM somewhat emphasizes the fact that some Winterfell residents survived.

"No," said Lame Lothar. "The women and children hid, my nephews Walder and Walder among them. With Winterfell in ruins, the survivors were carried back to the Dreadfort by this son of Lord Bolton's." [...] "I cannot speak to that. There is much confusion in any war. Many false reports. All I can tell you is that my nephews claim it was this bastard son of Bolton's who saved the women of Winterfell, and the little ones. They are safe at the Dreadfort now, all those who remain." (ASOS, Catelyn IV)

Lord Wyman nodded. "The tale you tell is one we all have heard, as full of lies as a pudding's full of raisins. It was the Bastard of Bolton who put Winterfell to the sword … Ramsay Snow, he was called then, before the boy king made him a Bolton. Snow did not kill them all. He spared the women, roped them together, and marched them to the Dreadfort for his sport." (ADWD, Davos IV)

There's reason to hope and we haven't seen any bodies.

[lesmerovingiens]

chlothar i: overview

(sometimes spelled clothar, lothar, or clotaire)

chlothar was the king that first grabbed my attention when I was learning about the franks. To give you a quick view of his character--he killed two of his nephews (who were still children) to remove the possibility of them growing up and making a claim on a portion of the kingdom. It wasn't even his own idea, it was his brother Childebert who had originally pitched this scheme.

The impression most seem to get from Chlothar is that of a scheming, amoral king, doing whatever needs to be done to seize and hold onto as much power as he can. This strategy seemed to work out decently well for him, as he did outlive his three brothers and in turn obtain all of their lands and more.

Chlothar was the youngest of Clovis' sons, inheriting the smallest share of the kingdom upon his fathers death. (Clovis had his lands divided among his four sons, rather than choosing a single heir. I will discuss this more in the future)

He would have been a teenager when he first became king, over the region of Soissons. Over the next 50 years, Chlothar would accumulate six wives, nine children (and probably more that were not legitimized/documented), and the lands of Orleans, Reims, and Paris. Around 558, he would gain his father's title, "King of All Franks"

Chlothar frequently teamed up with his brothers to subjugate neighbouring peoples like the Thuringians and Burgundians. He also teamed up with his brothers to attempt to wrest power from his other brothers, or sometimes was the one being teamed up on.

Chlothar's wives:

After the death of his brother Chlodomer, he married his widow Guntheuc as a means of obtaining his assets.

His second wife Radegund was a Thuringian princess, who he took as a war prize when she was still a child. She would go on to found her own monastery and become an influential religious figure free from her husband.

His wives Ingund and Aregund were sisters. Gregory of Tours describes a story where Ingund asks Chlothar to "find a suitable wealthy husband" for her sister. Chlothar then decided he would be a suitable husband, and goes ahead with marrying Aregund.

->E.T. Dailey's biography of Radegund makes an interesting argument for these two women not being "official" queens at the time, instead given the title retroactively, since they were the mothers of the kings that Gregory lived under.

His wife Chunsina is mentioned one entire time in The History of the Franks as being the mother of his son Chramn.

Finally, he took his grand-nephew's widow Vuldetrada as a wife for a very short period of time, because the church got so mad at him about it that he annulled the marriage.

Another event that contributes to Chlothar's infamy is the murder of his own son. After accumulating a large portion of land on his own, Chlothar's son Chramn sought to break away from his father's control. He even teamed up with his uncle Childebert to attempt this, but was unsuccessful. What ensued was a war with his own father, where he fought with his half brothers and was eventually chased into Brittany, where he took refuge with their king Chanao.

The war ended with Chlothar himself defeating both Chanao and Chramn in battle, after which he would have Chramn stranged to death and burned with his family in a cottage. What a supportive father!

Chlothar lived into his 60s (a big deal for the time, giving him the epithet "the old") and died from a fever (sometimes people say it was out of remorse for killing Chramn--Gregory even describes it happening exactly one year after the death of Chramn). Gregory attributes some very conceited last words to him:

"What kind of a God kills such great kings in this way?"

[idrellegames]

Hi, I have a few asks! Hope they're not too much to answer!

What types of weapons do the Erebian League use? I'm thinking scimitars, rapiers..? Maybe poison-coated?

Can a magic-user give up their magic willingly? If so, then how would they be treated in society afterwards?

Out of the Origins you can choose from, who has the worst/best relationship with their parents? (excluding the Child of the Streets since they're an orphan/don't know their parents) I think the Child of the Sea hates their parents the most- they were sold off like a piece of merchandise for Gods sake! (Wayfarer curse reference!)

What age do Wayfarer's usually join the order? How long do they train for before graduating?

Which is the hardest magic sphere to master?

Are bloodbinders exclusive to those of Melusine ancestry- since only Rhodarth and Iaera have been mentioned to have this power and they're both of Melusine ancestry.

Which Origin is likely to receive the most discrimination based on where they are from?

Are Atheists rare- most of the characters mentioned seem to be religious- and if they are, then how are they treated?

Is there any way to find a loophole in a blood oath?

Most of these are answered in the text, either directly or in the subtext.

1. Daggers and throwing knives. As demonstrated by Malsara.

2. No. You can't "give up" magic.

3. This is best left to player imagination and headcanon! How your MC feels about their family and their parents is up to you.

4. There's no standard as it depended on when they joined. But they were usually recruited as children and would graduate in their late teens/early 20s. The MC and Aeran are around 12-14 in the Prologue.

5. They're all difficult to master. The vast majority of the population don't have a grip on the full extent of their abilities because they don't have the training. Not every person who can run can run a marathon.

Of the six spheres, Dispersion is the least understood. Most practical research is focused on teleportation. There are a subset of people who can use it to see briefly into the future (augurs - you can meet one in Episode 2), but the applications aren't thoroughly researched. Similarly, there are aspects of Illumination magic that go unresearched and unexplored. The sphere deals in illusion and perception magic and the predominant focus on the crafting of illusions and manipulating the vision of others. However, manipulating emotions falls into the sphere's domain. Most lightseekers stay away from this aspect of their magic because it is frowned upon culturally outside of specific professionals.

Beyond that, combinations of different spheres for Dual and Triple attunement are even more difficult to master as there are very few people with this level of inherent magic and spheres interact in unexpected ways when you have access to more than one.

6. No, they aren't. The Corsida Brightblades (the largest contingent of bloodbinders in the world) are based in Corsida, a former Lotharic city-state now under Imperial rule. It is located on an island in the Lotharic Sea and very close to Maira, a melusine city below the waves. Many of their members are melusine as a result.

As a side note, Iaera is being re-worked. I'm not sure if they will be a character in Wayfarer.

7. The Wayfarer is going to receive far more shit for being a Wayfarer than where they are from. Child of the Wilds does get some minor flavour text in regards to their accent (since Artanis is considered a backwoods Imperial province), but I wouldn't go so far as to call it discriminatory.

8. I've answered something similar to this before - what gives you the impression that most of the characters are religious? As I said in the previous ask many characters may be culturally religious and participate in religious events, but that doesn't necessarily mean that they believe in gods. Belief and faith lands in many different places across the board.

9. Possibly, possibly not. But a named character who has been introduced is trying to find one.

[mamomare]

* TW: This post contains mention of characters who died during pregnancy/childbirth and suicide.

The dawn of a new century brought with it the winds of change. Alfred and his new bride, Anna, forsook the silk trade to move to Henford-on-Bagley to pursue nectar making. The move did not bring the family luck and on her 20th birthday, Anna lost the battle to typhoid and passed. Alone, and on an abandoned farm with almost no funds, Alfred had to work hard to rebuild his home and his family. Eventually, he met the humble Celestina, who was able to give him two heirs before, in 1409, he too was taken from this life. Going into the 1410s, our two main households - the Brookers and the Cliffords- must fight to keep their legacy alive, as there are very few eligble heirs remaining to pass on the family name. Meanwhile, the new families of Shaw and Bigod are blessed with a number of children to carry on the family name. Come 1420, will we still be able to call this the Brooker legacy?

Marriages [4] 1401 - Alfred and Celestina Brooker 1405 - Walter and Colette Clifford 1406 - Philip and Mary Brooker 1409 - Humphrey and Eva Beaufort

Births [10] 1401 - Adelaide Bigod 1403 - Petra Shaw, Leif Brooker 1406 - Adrian Bennet, Jeremiah Bigod, Dorothy Shaw, Marigold Brooker, Wymand Clifford 1407 - Sigrid Clifford 1408 - Wilkin Shaw Deaths [15] 1400 - Edmund Brooker (Dysentery), Fulke Brooker (Influenza), Anne Brooker (Typhoid) 1401 - Emil Bennet (Pneumonia), Solomon Bigod (Dysentery) 1404 - Theobald Brooker (Malaria) 1406 - Fray Bennet (Typhoid), Ricard Shaw (Hypothermia) 1407 - Walter Clifford (Stroke), Marion Brooker (Drowned), Malota Bennet (Diptheria) 1408 - Malyna Clifford (Heart attack), Philip Brooker (Suicide), Mary Brooker (Childbirth) 1409 - Alfred Brooker (Horse injury) * Babies that never were [9]: Aline Brooker, Erika Bennet, Florian Bennet, Edme Bigod, Osric Shaw, Pascal Shaw, Euphemia Brooker, Lothar Brooker, Orvin Brooker Family Tree at 1410

Gameplay

The Brooker Estate (1410)

(Still a work in progress!)

[squadron-goals]

The mother about the boy Manfred

Manfred had a particularly good, healthy nature from childhood on. Nothing bad could stick to him. Not even the vaccines caused the usual short illness - neither at the first nor at the second and third vaccination. I can only remember one instant that he got sick – with measles – otherwise, to his detriment, he never had to miss a day of school. He had a wonderfully skillful body. When he did somersaults as a very small boy, he never used his hands to do so, he put them tightly on the seam of his trousers. When he was eight years old, he once had to pick apples from a big old apple tree that no one else could reach. Afterwards he didn't come down the trunk, but let himself down on the outside of the branches. We watched him, but no one felt that anything could happen to him. It looked so skillful. In general, I loved watching him do daring things. I have never forbidden my children from doing so, because I remember from my own childhood how much I had loved to be wild and free, and how annoying it was for me to be restrained and to have to behave in a civilized way.

Once my children and I were in Zinnowitz. Manfred and Lothar were eleven and nine years old. The pier led quite far out into the sea. One day I went for a walk. Some ladies came towards me all excited: my boys were running along the railing very fast, it was hard to watch, I should come soon and forbid it, otherwise they would fall into the water. I had to laugh, because I knew that they would not fall. I think people thought I was a very careless mother, but I had the firm conviction that children can only be skillful if they are given every conceivable physical freedom of movement. They must learn to judge for themselves what they are capable of as early as possible. An anxious mother is a major obstacle to the good physical development of her children. Of course, minor incidents happened. Once - we went for a walk in the forest - Manfred stands on a footbridge. He says to Lothar: "Watch out, I'm going to fall into the water.“ Immediately afterwards he disappears in into the black water. When I got there, he was already standing on the bank covered in mud. We went to the mill. There he was bathed. Then - wearing only a shirt borrowed from the miller's wife, with his cadet's coat over it, barefoot - he continued the walk with us. Then came the return journey, which took an hour. It was a cool summer day. He didn´t even get a cold.

While at the cadet corps, Manfred got a knee injury. In the cadet corps, Manfred had suffered a knee injury. He had done a "Sturzhocke" (translation not possible as the author can´t find out what exactly that was) without assistance and a piece of cartilage in his knee had torn loose. Every now and then, this piece would jam itself between the kneecap, and then the leg would go uncontrollable to the side. That was bad. Massaging and all kinds of treatments didn't help. So more than a year and a day had passed without the leg getting better. When we were once again discussing what to do and I must have seemed depressed and he wanted to comfort me. He said: "If I can no longer walk on my legs, I will walk on my hands," and like a completely healthy person, he stretched both legs in the air and walked around the room on his hands. We then decided to have an operation, and within four weeks he was fully recovered, and shortly afterwards already jumped out of a window. The suffering with his knee spoiled his entire Lichterfeld cadet days. He did gymnastics and played games there, but of course he was terribly handicapped, and no one there probably guessed how wonderfully skilled Manfred really was. I think later in his regiment they realised it very quickly. I always regretted very much that he didn't get to ride bigger races. On the day when Antithesis was to run his first race in Posen, he rode him across the Russian border.

Manfred was happy and funny, often to the point of exuberance! But on the other hand, he was already very sensible and reasonable at a young age. So I got used to discussing important issues with him and he was often a good advisor and friend to me despite his youth. I often longed to talk about different things with him and most of the time he came up with the right solution.

Manfred was truth-loving. When we sat face to face, I got answers to my questions, regardless of sensibilities, and I rose with the happy knowledge that my son trusted me. I myself believed in him, in his ability, in his reliability and distinction. And I was proud of this son. I was convinced that he had to be recognised, that he would be recognised out in the world. He seemed to me like a rock around which it could surge and wave: He stood firm.

I remember a few other adventures from his childhood. Our housekeepers claimed our house was haunted. Someone once hanged himself up in the attic and a ghost has been going around there ever since. Manfred now wanted to experience this spook. He had the spot in the attic shown to him and then his and Lothar's beds carried to that spot. My daughter and I didn't want the boys to wait in vain, so we decided to do a little haunting. We quietly leveled up and began to roll chestnuts along the floor. Lothar was still awake. He called: "Manfred, don't you hear anything?" Manfred slept soundly; but waking up, grabbing a stick and rushing at us happened within seconds. I had to turn on the light quickly, otherwise we poor ghosts would have gotten a beating. At that time he was thirteen or fourteen years old. When Manfred was ten years old, he wanted to walk through the Moltkegrund (a somewhat gloomy part of the promenade) at ten o'clock in the evening to show his courage. Lothar too. I sent the servant some distance behind to see if they would do it. Manfred walked the whole way calmly, without speeding up. Lothar went too, but needed much more self-control. But he was younger. We often spent our holidays with the grandmother in Romberg, in the countryside. One day One day Manfred could no longer control his passion for hunting, he shot three or four tame ducks that were swimming on the Weistritz. Grandmother told me about it, laughing. These first trophies, three duck feathers, still hang in Manfred's room among all the proud war trophies. I can't look at them without getting emotional.

[tact-and-impulse]

Based on this ask, it’s the childhood friends AU that’s grabbed me by the throat! @shepherds-of-haven, I’ve been waiting to drop this. Below the cut and on AO3 as well!

simple charm

The village was nothing like home. The land was flat and unchanging as it stretched towards the horizon. Rope cordons were tied around the fields of barley and vegetables, struggling to remain green under the summer heat. The dusty wooden houses, clustered together, were giving a standoffish air. People had noticed their arrival, withdrawing into their doors and suspiciously eyeing their elk mounts. Only a slight majority of the locals had white hair; others sported lighter shades or multicolored locks indicating mixed blood. A very different welcome than usual.

“This is Maj?” Halek muttered. His father had told him and Naolin that this was a good opportunity to journey out of Uth Baryd, with a few elite fighters for protection on the road. Father was leading a diplomatic mission, to make contact with a gathering of refugees and reunite with their lost kin. For the future sol and sola, it was meant to be practice for leadership and negotiation.

Halek had taken it in stride, but Naolin was obviously unsettled, knuckles gripping their elk’s reins. They’d never left the Reach before, and Maj was in such stark contrast. Nakedly vulnerable, no defenses against demons, and shabbily built. But the villagers were surviving on their own means. Halek respected that.

From the front, their father called out in Uth, before announcing their small party. In response, one of the older folks indicated to a house, a little apart from the rest. Lothar and Hecathe lived there with their daughter, and they would speak for everyone in Maj.

As they approached, the door opened. The man was a full-blooded Hunter though his age could’ve been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five. A weary expression and years of labor had aged him, and he walked with a slight hunch. He stiffly greeted Yerom, glancing at everyone with skepticism through the formal introductions.

Halek’s attention began to drift and he yawned. He rolled his shoulders, working out the soreness from travel. An elbow jabbed into his belly, as Naolin hissed.

“You shouldn’t be rude, diru.”

“Rude? I’m just tired.”

“So am I, but I’m not yawning!”

“Hey, calm down.”

They looked up, to Yerom’s disapproving gaze. Lothar, however, gave a wan smile. “I suppose you’ve had a long journey.” He invited them inside, calling out to Hecathe. A white-haired woman rushed from downstairs, her hands in a worn apron. She wasn’t fazed by their group, huddling in the cozy living room, but occasionally, she glanced to the upper floor.

“I understand that you mean well.” Lothar said. “But we’ve lived here for years and this is our home, for better or worse.”

Yerom pressed his lips together. “There is safety in Uth Baryd, and you wouldn’t have to fear the Autarchy. You would be with kin.”

“And where was kin, when my father’s generation was nearly wiped out?” He bitterly countered. “Or when my grandfather’s parents were driven out of Haven? We aren’t the only refugees, and we’ve long accepted that we could only help ourselves.”

“It doesn’t need to be that way. Yes, aid should have been provided time and time again, but I swear that we are here to make things right.”

Lothar stared at their entourage. “You didn’t bring many with you. Is the grace dwindling with you as well?”

“We have enough to endure.”

“But it is, and if you’re trying to recruit people, there are none here.”

Yerom tensed. As much as he tried to speak around the subject, the other man had already figured out their real purpose. It was true that they had less exorcists with each century, and the art couldn’t be lost.

Hecathe softly spoke up. “None of us are properly trained and too old to learn. The children are young, but not all of them are full-blooded.”

“It would be good for them to learn about their Hunter heritage though, and anyone eligible can be trained. Your daughter included.”

Now, this brought an odd reaction from the couple. Their expressions shuttered, and Hecathe abruptly stood. Lothar grabbed her hand, squeezing tightly. “You know we have a daughter?”

“One of your townspeople mentioned who lived in this house.”

“Did they say anything else? Who was it?”

Then, Hecathe gasped, looking into the foyer. “Oh, we must have woken her.”

Footsteps pattered. A little girl, younger than Halek and Naolin, dove into Hecathe’s skirt. Unlike her parents’, her hair was raven, except for a pure white streak. She buried her face into her mother’s lap, before sparing a glance to the room. Bright violet eyes glowed with power.

Lothar reached down, to pat her arm. “This is what I meant. Our daughter’s a Mage.”

***

In the Reach, all of the children were naturally Hunters, so Halek was intrigued by the girl. Since the grown-ups were still talking, she was told to give the twins a tour around the farm. That seemed to perk her up, and she opened the back door, looking over her shoulder to make sure they followed. Behind the house, there were fenced enclosures and a handful of other buildings, before the parched land led to the dense evergreen forests of the Shield Peaks. And it was quiet.

Their guide kept moving forward, but her eyes constantly darted to them and unlike their peers at home, she wasn’t awed. She seemed to be figuring them out, with equal measures of curiosity and caution. Naolin awkwardly cleared his throat and even that seemed to put her on edge; she took a hurried step away.

“So, your mom said your name’s Kalmia?” Halek asked.

She nodded, a jerky motion. Then, she veered towards one of the enclosures, setting the boundaries for a group of unruly yellow chicks. She hoisted a sack closer, digging her hands in and cupping what looked like the birds’ food. The chicks began to scream, and she spared an inquiring look at the twins before proceeding to deposit the meal. Given the small amounts, it was probably going to take a while.

Halek drew closer, an armspan away. “They definitely look hungry. Can I help you?”

“...Okay. But you have to do it like this.” She scattered the feed, spreading it evenly. She offered the sack to him, and he took it.

“Thanks.” He tossed a handful, though some of it landed in feathers instead. “Sorry, if I hit them.”

“It’s okay. They eat off each other too. See, over there.” She pointed to a cluster, where the poor target was desperately trying to shake off its siblings.

Halek laughed. “Well, I’ll try not to do that.”

Kalmia peered up at him, before offering a little smile. Her violet eyes were brighter in the sunshine.

“Can my brother join us? He’s dying to, he just doesn’t want to ask.”

“Diru!”

But Kalmia nodded and stepped aside, watching them feed the chicks before she said they had enough. “You can’t give them too much. Thank you!”

“Thanks.” They replied simultaneously, and Kalmia let out a startled giggle.

“That was funny.”

Halek inclined his head towards her. “Yeah, that happens sometimes. We look the same, don’t we?”

“Almost.”

“That’s because we’re twins.” Naolin explained. “Wait, almost?”

She readily said. “Halek’s hair is flat, and Naolin’s hair sticks up.”

Immediately, his hand went to the flyaway strands, while Halek laughed. “She got you there.”

“Diru…”

“Why do you call him that?” Kalmia tilted her head.

“Because he’s the older one.”

“By eight minutes.” Halek clarified. “It just means I’m his big brother. Unfortunately.”

Naolin sighed, an exhale that slumped his whole body. “You’re only saying that because you’re the future sol.”

Kalmia watched them with interest. “Is it fun being brothers? All I have is Zori.” Her earlier shyness was beginning to fall away. “Zori’s my best friend.”

“We can be your friends too.” Halek said and ignored Naolin’s elbow nudging his ribs. Maj didn’t have a council that dictated their schedules, or families jostling their children to get closer to them. It would be nice for once, to actually have a friend separate from that stifling grip.

“Will you come back to visit?”

“I think so. Our father’s planning more visits. Naolin might be a crybaby and stay home, but I’ll go.”

“That’s mean.” Naolin complained.

But Kalmia gave a smile. “Next time, I’ll wake up earlier from my nap.”

“You really shouldn't.” Halek cracked a grin. “At your age, you should nap all you can.”

They talked for a while longer, meandering past the rows of root vegetables and vegetable patches. The barn housed a pair of cows and ten sheep, which Halek requested to see. Kalmia slid the door aside and headed in, with Halek immediately following. Naolin trailed behind, reluctant to pass the threshold.

It was smaller than the elk stables he was used to, but the interior was clean. The animals were resting in their pens, flicking their ears occasionally. Hay was piled about and scattered across the floorboards. Towards the back, there was a ladder leading to an alcove with a window. Halek surveyed everything, asking. “Did you name the cows and sheep?”

“Mama and Dad said I can’t name them. But…” She pointed to the cows in turn. “I think of her as Clover and her as Rosy. Because of their spots.”

“Oh, I get it. Clover has three on her side, and Rosy’s got one round patch on her forehead.”

“Yup! The big sheep I can’t tell apart, but we have one baby who was just born. Here he is.” She went to the edge of the pen, and Halek peered over to see the suckling lamb.

“Cute. Thanks for showing them off.”

“We have cats too, to keep out the mice. I’m not allowed to bring any inside.” She gave a longing look to the alcove.

Halek suppressed a laugh. “Well, we don’t have pets either, if it makes you feel better. Maybe, someday.”

“Maybe. The rest is storage, so we can go back.” When they arrived at the front, Kalmia pointed to the steps. “That’s where my parents found me.”

“So they adopted you?” Naolin mused. “But your birth parents must have been Mages. Do you know anything about them?”

“No.” The word rang with finality, and perhaps, a touch of discontent.

Then, a figure sprinted to them, a blur that leapt for Kalmia in a crushing hug. “Sun above, there you are!”

“Hi, Zori.”

Zori was about a year older than Kalmia, with pale hair pulled into a thin braid, and her dark eyes narrowed at the twins. “Who are you?” She loudly demanded, squeezing Kalmia tighter.

“Zori, you’re hurting me.”

“Oh, sorry!” She let go, but maintained her glare even as introductions were made. “So, how long are you staying?”

“We’ll have to ask our father, but not more than a week.” Naolin replied.

“Huh. Okay.” A dismissive sound escaped her, before she scowled. “Are you sleeping over at Kalmia’s house?”

“Why?” Halek boldly shot back. “Want to join us if we do?”

“I’m asking because you’re both huge! You’ll take up too much space!” 

At that, Naolin spluttered and Halek wheezed. Simultaneously, they said. “We’re probably camping.”

“But it’s not safe to sleep outside.” Kalmia seriously said, like she was repeating an adult’s warning. “Lots of people travel on the road, and it’s dangerous.”

“Yeah, and they came from the road, didn’t they? It’d be dangerous if they stayed at your house.” Zori countered.

“It’s okay, they’re nice.” The sentiment was warming.

“We’ll see about that.” Another evil eye was thrown in their direction. “Anyway, I wanted to ask if you’d pick berries with me. The blackberries are ripe now, and my mom said she’ll make pie.”

“I’ll get some for my mama too. Halek and Naolin, will you come with us?” Her violet gaze was expectant, while Zori made a scrunched face behind her.

“Yeah, sure.” Halek smiled back at Kalmia. “Let’s go.”

The girls grabbed woven baskets, handing one each to the twins, before darting ahead and having a rapid, high-pitched conversation. Naolin muttered in his ear. “Are you sure about tagging along? Zori’s kinda…hostile.”

“I think it’s funny, we’ve never been hated on sight before. Kalmia doesn’t care about whether we’re going to be sol and sola. I’m having fun, and besides, we’ve never gone berry picking before.” He spun the basket in his hands, starting to whistle.

They arrived at the base of a slope, the brambles overgrown and heavy with fruit. Zori and Kalmia immediately began plucking off the blackberries, dropping them into the baskets. Halek imitated them, trying to steer clear of the thorns. One large berry split between his fingers, and he popped it into his mouth. Warm from the sun, the tart sweet flesh easily melted in his mouth.

He wasn’t the only one either. In his periphery, Zori had just crammed a handful past her teeth, and Kalmia was quietly chewing as she filled her basket. The latter met his casual glance, a splotch of purple on one cheek. “Have you eaten blackberries before?”

“The ones that grow in the Reach are smaller, not even half the size. And these taste much better.” He indulged in another. “How else do you eat them?”

“Mama makes jam but I like eating them this way best.” 

It was true, there was something addictive about fresh berries. He could have spent the rest of the afternoon here.

“Ouch!” Naolin’s hiss drew his attention, and he turned to see his brother cradling his finger, blood welling up. Tears soon followed, along with a shriek from Zori, and that put an end to their little adventure. The Black Shield scrutinized the twins’ juice-stained hands, but Yerom was only concerned about the thorn prick. A bandage and salve from Hecathe sufficed, though Naolin’s eyes remained red and he held his hand at a delicate angle.

By now, the rest of Maj was accustomed to their presence, and dinner was held outdoors. Not a banquet by any means, but every household placed a dish among the variety of wooden tables. A bonfire was lit to keep away the biting summer insects, and as the stars peeked into view, friendly conversations rose. Laughter soared, and calls for dancing to journeying songs. There were games that the twins had never played, to Zori’s smug superiority, and she roundly declared she’d teach them. It was fun, but Halek preferred to try a bite of everything. Pastries stuffed with cheese, greens sprinkled with herbs, other entrees he’d never seen before and had to ask Kalmia what was in them. The pie, of course, was excellent. 

All of it was amazingly new. Celebrations at home were repetitive and predictable, but this…he’d remember this forever.

***

Returning home was awful. The Black Shield must have said something, because word quickly spread about the twins spending time with children who weren’t full-blooded. At the end of another boring meeting, the council scrutinized them; Naolin visibly squirmed but Halek glared back. The old people droned on and on, about how it wasn’t proper or whatever to associate with outsiders.

So what? Halek thought. Kalmia and Zori were more honest about wanting to play with them, instead of loitering and whispering and waiting for the future sol to choose them. 

And that was exactly why on their next trip to Maj, he steered the elk towards the Metella house. Late autumn had given the town some color, in fallen leaves and the remnants of harvest. It was in a pumpkin patch, that dark hair was starkly visible, and Halek abruptly pulled the reins taut to Naolin’s chagrin.

“Ugh, I feel sick. Did we have to go so fast?”

“Yup.” He replied, sliding off the saddle. “Hey, Kalmia.”

Cradling a gold and green striped pumpkin, she beamed. “Hi! Halek and Naolin, are you here to help us?”

“That was the idea.” Another diplomatic outing, to convince the people in migrating to Uth Baryd. Honestly, with winter approaching, it was a hard sell to Halek. But he wouldn’t complain. It was his only chance to feel like a ten-year-old boy, not a title with the crushing weight of prophecy. And happily, he rolled up his sleeves and joined a Mage girl in the sun-warmed soil.

Gourds were separated from vines, sorted by ripeness and size. Mostly, they did what they were told to by the adults. But Kalmia was pleased by their company, especially because Zori was with her large family. She reintroduced them to the farm animals, including the latest additions. The chickens, now grown, crowded around her legs in a heap of feathers. Hecathe appeared to shoo them away, before offering that they come inside and lend a hand in making dumplings. By the way Kalmia cheered, it was something enjoyable.

The next thing Halek knew, they were in the Metellas’ kitchen, under bundles of dried herbs and flowers. They sat at a wooden table, a large bowl of orange pumpkin innards and stacked circles of rolled dough between them. Hecathe demonstrated how much filling was enough, before saying she’d return soon. It was certainly an interesting task; they’d never cooked before. Naolin was struggling, the dough tearing in his fingers. Kalmia was working patiently, crimping the edges of a dumpling with intense focus. But Halek found a rhythm to the scooping and wrapping, and it was actually fun. He began to fold the sealed sides of his, in his own personal twist. Those were his creations. Strange, he felt prouder about a pile of little dumplings than any test about demon knowledge or marksmanship. But it was a good feeling.

“How are you doing this so fast?” Naolin was in disbelief.

“It’s easy once you get the hang of it. Should I fix yours?”

“No!”

Kalmia noticed, taking one of his dumplings and placing it in the palm of her floured hand. Her face brightened. “They’re so cute! I want to eat them later.”

“How do we cook them?” He was very curious now.

“With butter and greens, or mushroom sauce. Oh, toasty pine nuts too. And cheese! But you can pick.”

“Then, I want to try all of those.”

That made her laugh, and he found himself looking forward to the whole process. With his folding pattern, he tracked his dumplings, through the boiling, sizzling, and plating. Once they were ready, he kept going back for small dishes of different sauces and seasonings, though in the end, he really couldn’t decide on what he liked best. But the ones he made were extra delicious, regardless of what they were enveloped in. He glanced at the others, watching their content expressions as they ate. As soon as they were home, he would make a batch for his mother.

In hindsight, that was probably the beginning of his love for cooking.

***

Years passed, and the diplomatic trips continued. Sure, the council was getting restless that no one from Maj was emigrating to the Reach, but Father insisted this was the right course of action. And once Halek dryly backed him up, everyone’s ears perked at the prophesied savior’s words.

It only made him more eager for these visits. Of course, Naolin never shared in the same enthusiasm, always a little hesitant and looking back at their home in trepidation. But even his straightlaced nature loosened when Halek dragged him over to the girls. Usually, they were found together, in the midst of a small task or the occasional spar with wooden batons. Kalmia always noticed first, stopping to cheerfully bound their way, while Zori trailed after, her hostility congealed into grudging acceptance. 

And while the grownups chatted, they’d embark on an ‘adventure’, as Zori liked to call them. Past the edge of town, the trees found purchase amidst stone outcroppings and climbed the Shield Peaks. Rivulets of snowmelt wound between, like silvery threads. The air was clearer, and noise was absorbed by the dense underbrush. Occasionally, a flap of wings or a small bushy tail would rustle their surroundings, as they searched for just the right spot among the rocks and fallen branches. 

“Alright, let’s stop here.” Zori puffed out, before launching into the setting of whatever they were going to play. The Castigation, and they were rebels gathering a stockpile. Pioneers to the west, lost after a storm. Mythic heroes, fighting demons. To her credit, her imagination transformed the gray terrain into a more exciting scene, of foreboding danger and heightened shadows.

Naolin, unable to resist, pointed out the little inconsistencies with a slight frown. So-and-so wasn’t alive during this era, actual demons would be scarier, things that would earn a flying kick from an irked Zori and he’d flinch. For Halek, it was easier to go along with the idea, at least until it became too complicated. Then, he’d volunteer to be the sick one they were trying to find a cure for, or the injured one left behind at camp. Kalmia would pat his shoulder, telling him not to die in the meantime; he’d have to stifle his laughter.

But most of the time, it was fun. A recurrent theme was slaying wyverns, to coordinate attacks against wings, fangs, and toxic breath. They called out to each other, darting among the rocks and trees. The boys mentioned a Hunter maneuver, tossing their smaller companions at the enemy. Zori absolutely hated it, wrestling away from Naolin’s timid attempt, while Kalmia’s glowing eyes widened as Halek seized her arms. They whirled around, gaining momentum and she gave a stunned cry when her feet lifted from the ground. Of course, he didn’t really throw her, setting her down neatly, but she took the next step, somersaulting and aiming with her miniature shortbow. Then, she beamed and ran to Halek.

“Can we practice it again?”

“Sure.” This time, he grabbed her by the armpits, and she expected it, miming a draw of her absent quiver. Already, her instincts were good.

A measly distraction came in the form of a blow to his side. “Let her go, you huge monster!” Zori was obviously jealous.

“Betraying me at last?” He drawled.

“Alright, no hitting each other.” Naolin sighed, trying to be responsible, as usual. He was forced to parry Zori’s sudden strike. “Hey! Come on, stop!”

Then, it dissolved into a grand mess without a story, and they inevitably grew tired. They’d return from the mountains with smooth rocks or wildflower bouquets, spoils from their invisible battles. Halek pocketed these souvenirs; he’d never recall the rules of each little game but these were enough to remind him of the ringing laughs and shouts.

Throughout one weeklong stay, Zori became obsessed with a new kind of game. If they had a race or competition, the winner could boss around the loser out of the quartet. Typically, this ended up being Zori, who declared herself as their queen, with Naolin or Kalmia as her servants. The latter didn’t act like this was beyond their usual dynamic, tagging after the older girl without fuss, but Naolin complained.

“She’s such a tyrant, diru.” He sighed after another demand for shoulder massages. “Can’t you win one of these contests?”

“That means I have to try.”

It wasn’t until the next day that the reign of terror ended. They hadn’t left Kalmia’s backyard; a recent trade with Norms had gone poorly and tensions were high. A set of old scarecrows became their targets to stave off boredom, and Zori picked up a slingshot. 

“Whoever hits the farthest one gets to be our ruler.” She stuck her tongue out, a pebble pinched between her fingers. It flung wide, scraping the base of said scarecrow before skittering off.

Halek was next, falling short of the closest one. He passed the slingshot to Naolin who gave him a dirty look. His brother really did his best, the pebble cleanly rolling to a stop just in front of the desired target. The wind blew, the stitched face of the scarecrow wobbling. And then, Kalmia took her turn, her face determined. For a moment, it seemed like she’d miss too, but a faint thud and the puff of straw escaping threadbare cloth proved otherwise. A direct hit, right in the chest. She seemed stunned, dazedly accepting their round of congratulations.

“Now, Kalmia’s the Queen and Halek’s her servant.” Zori announced with a glint in her eyes. “So, you have to do whateeever she says for the whole day.”

“Fine by me.” He looked to her, folding his arms.

For a moment, she was stunned. Then, her lips pursed in deep consideration. “Um…can I ride the elk with you?”

“That’s a question, not an order. Your Highness.” He belatedly added, at Zori’s kick to his shin.

“I asked because I won’t be a mean queen.” Kalmia said. “And I still want you to play with me after today.”

Huh. How thoughtful of her. At least, power would never go to her head. “Wise words, Your Highness. Alright, your wish is my command.” He drawled and then lifted under her arms, setting her in the saddle. Ignoring her surprised gasp, he swung his body behind her, taking the reins. A click between his teeth, and they were off.

It was only a lap around the town, so he coaxed the elk into a canter. Kalmia’s wavy hair fluttered, and she tilted her head back to look at Halek. “He’s fast!”

“Too fast?”

She shook her head and gave a delighted laugh. In his periphery, he noted that some of the townsfolk were openly gawking at them. It was a relief to return to the Metella farm, and he dismounted, taking Kalmia with him. Despite her unsteadiness once she touched down, she smiled from ear to ear and he couldn’t help returning it in kind. Then, she asked if he could toss her, so she could actually somersault after her landing. After that fulfilled request, she would just look expectantly at him, and he’d oblige whatever she was indicating, making a show of dragging his feet. But then, her purple eyes would shine and he didn’t feel like it was a chore at all.

The last thing she wanted was a cup of fresh milk, but by the way she glanced towards her parents, it seemed like she didn’t want them to know. She didn’t drink it either, heading towards her room instead. Zori was occupied with the scarecrows, trying to improve her aim, while Naolin was being a good little boy and helping Father with packing. So, Halek shadowed Kalmia, his eyebrows raised.

“Are you hiding something?” He stopped at her threshold, peering inside. She had a neat bedroom, though her blanket was askew on her wooden bed. On the walls, dried laurel bouquets were strung on twine, and a subtle fragrance met his nose.

“It’s not bad. I think.” She lifted the blanket. From under her bed, she pulled out a trundle-like box, containing a heap of rags. A stirring movement, and the head of a gray kitten popped out.

“I should’ve guessed. Smuggled it into your room, huh?”

“She was the smallest one in her litter and she wasn’t eating enough. I thought I’d take care of her.” To her credit, the kitten didn’t look starved, eagerly lapping at the milk.

Halek knelt beside her. “You did a good job. Are you going to sneak her into the barn when she’s bigger?”

“Yeah, soon.” She fondly petted the gray fur. “Before, she was too weak to play, but she likes to cuddle now.”

“Sounds like you’re getting attached.” He teased.

With the milk gone, the kitten blinked sleepily and curled into a ball in Kalmia’s arm. She countered. “I don’t care.” She looked unusually unapologetic as she hugged the kitten.

He reached out to scratch the kitten’s head; it was softer than he expected. A vibration kicked under his touch, the purring startling both him and Kalmia before they exchanged grins. Humming under her breath, she tucked the kitten inside the makeshift bedding, and slid the box back. Then, they descended downstairs, about to return outside. Her gaze turned to him, suddenly wide and nervous. “You won’t tell my mama, will you?”

“Nope.” He ruffled her hair. The gesture surprised her, her own hands flying to the top of her head once he let go. Cute. “I can keep your secret.”

“Thank you!” And then, she sped off towards Zori.

On the way back home, Naolin pointed out. “I know you could’ve hit that scarecrow. Why’d you lose on purpose?”

“Maybe, I just wanted to see what it was like, doing things for other people instead. It’s nice.” It was also bitter, with the fact that such behavior would be discouraged in the future. In silent understanding, his brother nudged his shoulder against his.

***

The instructions had been clear. Venture into the Wastes, kill a demon, bring it back. The last step was currently evading him, but he was so tired. Fresh memories continued to taunt him. Bloody chains, crunching bone, that sinister voice. Half delirious, he picked a direction and kept going.

He didn’t even remember collapsing. He only registered feeling colder and colder, the urge to sleep becoming a heavy blanket. And then, something turned his face.

“Halek?”

Violet eyes stared down at him, as a gloved hand brushed the snow off his head. In a winter coat lined with rabbit fur and dark hair flying away from her hood, Kalmia gasped in disbelief. No, that wasn’t possible, she couldn’t be near the Wastes.

“I’ve got to be hallucinating.” He muttered.

“No, you’re not. Let me start a fire for you.” She shook his shoulder, and that kept him from nodding off until she lit a pile of dry kindling. Most likely, she used magic, but he was grateful, warmth returning to his tired body. She opened her pack, handing him a dry biscuit, which he scarfed down. Around them, the deep woods were eerily silent.

“What are you doing here?” His voice was rusty from disuse, and the uneven crack, growing frequent as the days passed, really wasn’t welcome in this moment.

“I want to ask you the same. Were you planning to visit us? We didn’t know.”

“This is near Maj?” Strange, his body must have gravitated to this place.

“A little deeper in the mountains, but yes.”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I set out a few traps. We’re running low on food, since the traders stopped coming.” She hesitated, and then, she rubbed her coat sleeve over her face. Over the fresh tears dampening her cheeks.

“Kalmia, what’s wrong?”

“It’s the Gray Death. I don’t have it, neither does my dad, but…Mama got sick. And I want to find something that can help her too.”

In all this time, he had never seen her cry. The sight was unsettling, tying a knot under his sternum. He dug into his pocket, searching for whatever spare cloth he had, but the only scrap was spotted with dried blood. “Sorry, this is all I have.”

She gave a warped sound, between a choke and a laugh. “How did that happen? Are you hurt?”

“I was. A demon.” And then, he held his tongue; it was an awful tale, and he didn’t want to scare her. “Anyway, it’s dead now and since I forgot to get proof of the kill, I have to find another before going back to the Reach. If I want to.”

“If you want to?” She echoed, flashing him a concerned look. “Are the council elders that harsh?”

“It’s not just them, it’s everyone. They’re expecting me to bring a Cacophant or something that proves their future savior is destined to save the world, or whatever they believe. And afterwards, what else is there but the same? Just…more and more pressure, to make sure the prophecy is true.” He stared into the distance, the freshly fallen snow glittering in the morning. Shaking his head, he said. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter what I think, obviously. But I don’t have to go yet. Let’s find herbs for your mom.”

Hecathe had always been kind to him and Naolin, and courteous to their father. The Gray Death, however, spared no one, and despite the sinking feeling in his gut, he lifted his boots and began searching the underbrush. 

Kalmia trudged beside him, explaining. “She has a fever and she keeps throwing up. I tried cooking soup and that worked for a few days.”

Those words should have been coming from a town elder, not a slip of a girl with a bow half her size to protect herself. “You sound like a grandma.”

“And you sound like a cranky grandpa.” She protested but her voice was amused. Her hood had slipped off; her hair was longer, past her shoulders.

He gave a quick tousle, ignoring the futile scrape of her gloves, and used his stride to his advantage in escaping. He drawled. “Then, if I’m that old, you better catch up.” And he took off, boots crushing the frozen ground.

Her startled bright laugh followed, then her softer footsteps. “Halek, wait!”

And he did have a brief lead, exhaling a cloud of vapor into the cold air. Exhilaration flooded his veins, cleaner and lighter than the survival-based response he was running on for the past few days. Then, the bruised spots on his body flared, his gait slowing. An arm linked through his, Kalmia peering up at him.

“Where are we going?”

“As far as we can.”

They hurtled down the slope, and time slowed. They were aloft, suspended in the air between each step. Pale sunshine spilled into the powdery snow ahead, and their breaths wove around their heads as they gasped. Two kids, running away from their fears. It lasted until they arrived at the bottom, of what looked like an old riverbed, and their footprints stamped divots in the hard ground. 

He braced against a tree trunk, his sides aching, and that was why he noticed a hint of green amidst the rocks. He cleared the crust of snow, revealing a frosted cluster of serrated leaves. “Mint. It should help with your mom’s nausea.”

Her eyes sparkled in recognition, and she immediately knelt. “It will, thank you!”

One small leaf clung to his glove; he shoved it in his mouth, the cool burst welcome. As he chewed, he watched her finish gathering what she needed, then turn to search for other herbs. She must have found something because she straightened and worked on snapping the outer edges of a bush.

What if he never went home? What if he stayed here, content to live in Maj and explore the mountainsides with Kalmia? But inevitably, the elders would look for him, and the Black Shield knew about Maj. They’d sunder the village to recover their beloved savior, and the possibility weighed heavily on his heart.

Kalmia strode over, her pack full of mint and bark shavings. “This should be enough.” Then, she hesitated. “I’m going home; do you want to come along?”

“...I don’t think so. Glad you got what you were looking for, but I still have to kill a demon.”

To his surprise, she took his hand, pressing something within. “Here, this is for you.” The neatly folded cloth was better than what he had offered earlier.

“Thanks. I’ll see you later.” He promised.

She visibly relaxed, nodding. “Okay. Safe travels.” She spared a last glance at him before drawing her hood up and hurrying through the snowy trees.

Once she was out of sight, he opened the kerchief. A dented compass, clinging to its purpose. Wryly, he turned in the direction of the needle and headed north.

He did return to Uth Baryd, demon bounty in tow, and once he deposited it at the Mornhaven Gate, the first thing he asked was to send another diplomatic mission to Maj. To bring supplies or food, anything to help. The council argued back, a clamor of reedy voices, and the deep-set frowns didn’t waver. The city walls were barred, preventing even the merchants from entering. They were afraid. Think of the infection, they said, as if the village wasn’t living through it. Cowards and hypocrites. The roads froze over, and while the city seemed to exhale a private sigh of relief, Halek counted the days to spring.

However, the next letter from Maj came before the snow melted, and in smudged ink, Lothar’s handwriting flatly conveyed that Hecathe was dead.

***

Almost a year passed, after the old bats were replaced by slightly less old bats, when Yerom contacted Maj again. Halek noticed the flicker of surprise on his father’s face, at the response. But there was no argument, since they left by the end of the sennight.

The village was dustier and quieter, cloaked in twilight. At first, Halek wondered who the elderly man exiting the Metella house was, before he abruptly realized it was Lothar. The man was bowed under the weight of grief, shuffling with dull eyes. He swayed, looking at their procession without reacting. And then, the door opened, candlelight streaming around a silhouette.

Hurrying towards them, Kalmia carried a shawl. Her legs were longer, her skirt above her ankles, and her dark hair spilled past her shoulders, the white tress tucked behind her ear. She slowed to a stop, draping the fabric over Lothar before making the familiar Hunter greeting gesture. “Welcome.”

Then, Yerom spoke to Lothar, in the careful tone of their initial acquaintance while the Black Shield dispersed to give supplies. Halek gave the elk’s reins to Naolin, heading to Kalmia. She was standing rigidly, her head slightly bent. This formality was appropriate, she’d be like the daughter of a First Family according to his lessons, but he loathed it.

He closed the distance, ruffling her hair and grinning at the odd squeak in response. “Long time no see.”

And then, it was his turn to be surprised. She leaned in, clasping her hands behind his back in a full embrace. “Thank you for coming.” Just as swiftly, she let go and her face turned aside, before he could say anything more.

Slowly, the rest of the town became aware of their return. While the Black Shield was forced to answer the torrent of questions, Halek and Naolin retreated. At least, Zori didn’t care about why they were gone; she had undergone a growth spurt, her pale hair shorn on one side. Still, her love for adventure hadn’t wavered at all, and her first demand was a scavenger hunt. But Kalmia had changed. She didn’t look as aged as her adoptive father, but her eyes contained a new depth, piercing through the make believe scenarios.

After the events of his trial, Halek wondered if that was also reflected in his face. Demons and death had taken their childhood innocence. These small games felt…hollow. But Zori was determined to distract Kalmia in her own way, and she beckoned the twins; so they played anyway, clinging to what remained of sweeter memories.

Fortunately, Maj was open to future visits. Unfortunately for Halek, the council decided it was time for him to delve into preparing for his destined role. Naolin was assigned to conduct diplomacy instead, while Halek remained in the Reach to study and spar.

…If they could tell the difference. Just like when they were kids, Halek coaxed and prodded his brother into swapping places.

“The council will notice, won’t they?!” Naolin protested. “Come on…”

“I’m going to sacrifice the rest of my life to serving them, so just let me go.”

Ultimately, he had his way. He had to restrain himself from whistling, his brother didn’t, but he was thrilled by the successful deception. The whole way to Maj, the Black Shield soldiers didn’t realize they had the wrong twin. However, upon their arrival, violet eyes seared into Halek. During a quiet moment, she murmured to him.

“Did you skip your training to be sol?”

“What are you talking about? I’m Naolin, the younger and more obedient brother.”

“If you say so.” But she knowingly smiled. “Then, you can help me with sorting the vegetables. I’ll show you how to pickle them.” And happily, he followed in her wake.

The peace of mundane routine was a magnetic force, drawing him again every time the delegation left. Naolin complained that the elders were bound to catch on, though they never did, and it continued until the summer before Kalmia’s Flower Day. Kalmia was born in deep winter, about a month following the twins’ birthday. Not that Halek was anticipating that year’s grandiose celebration, with the impending betrothal.

“You’re getting married?” A flower slipped between her fingers, and she hastily picked it from her lap. It was an idle afternoon, the two of them enjoying the crisp mountain air and watching the drifting puffy clouds. “What do you know about her?”

“Not much.” He shrugged. “She’s from another clan, somewhere with a lot of powerful families. She’s a few years older. Supposedly beautiful.”

“Is she nice?”

“Who knows?” He sourly retorted. He wasn’t thrilled to be married off for the sake of producing more full-blooded Hunters, more bodies to fight demons. The future was a bleak image of sitting on a pedestal, looking down on opaque silhouettes like salt pillars, their hands blindly grabbing for a savior.

Something ruffled his hair, and he glanced upwards, to find the circle of elm and edelweiss. It was a simple charm, evenly made and sweetly fragrant. What were the meanings again? Elm was for warding, especially against demons. Edelweiss was for strength, or devotion? In the corner of his eye, Kalmia was somber, but when he turned to her, a shy smile was on her face.

“You’re always welcome in Maj, whenever you want.” Then, she resumed crafting another flower wreath, a pink blush flooding her cheeks. “As long as you send a letter first, we'll know to prepare your room!”

The village was nothing like home. He could place his hands on the dark soil, watch the green things grow ripe, and work as an ordinary person. He’d learn to cook dishes from across Blest, and share them in a cozy kitchen adorned with dried herbs and flowers. If only he was born here, if he wasn’t the future sol-  

All stupid and pointless, he berated himself. Out of reflex, he wanted to run away, to nip temptation in the bud. But the clouds shifted and sunlight beamed down as she perfunctorily crowned herself with violets. Staring at her happy face, he said instead. “I’ll bring you something for your birthday.”

She tilted her head, the blossoms catching. “Why though? You don’t have to. It’s enough if you’re at the party…and awake when the cake’s cut.”

“I might just take a nap under your table for that.” He tousled her hair, pulling away before her fingers futilely tried to stop him. While she hastily shook the petals out, he smirked. “Well, if it’s good cake, I’ll try to be there.”

Kalmia laughed and the image was burned into his memory. His hand still carried the aroma of violets when he left.

***

But a winter storm locked down the Reach, and when the sky was clear again, the messenger birds brought the terrible news. Demonkind had returned to Blest, rampant across the continent. Then, word came that it started in Maj. And it was completely massacred.

Halek ran.

He took only the essentials, a ration pack and his spear. He made for the stables and steered his elk on the familiar path. It was a hard ride, but he was numb to the bitter cold and winds. He was purely focused on the road to Maj.

And then, the destruction was laid bare in front of him.

He was dragged back to Uth Baryd without a struggle. He didn’t have the energy to fight off the Black Shield, and the elders’ chastisements washed over him. The first day of his confinement was hazy, as he cycled through horror, rage, and anguish.

Then, he opened the thick books of exorcisms and forced himself to read through the crackling pages. The mourning period had already begun, but he was allowed to attend the lighting of the pyre, a mass funeral in the name of Maj. He went through every name and face, and when a violet ribbon was tossed into the flames, his vision blurred.

“Diru.” Naolin pressed a handkerchief into his palm, but he ignored it, listening to Father’s words about the return of demonkind. The fallen would never be forgotten, as martyrs engraved in the annals of Hunter history. But it wouldn’t bring any of them back.

“I can’t promise anything.” He murmured, and he wasn’t even sure to whom. “But I’ll try not to let this happen again.”

Days turned to weeks, then to months and years. Their home expanded, with Hunter refugees and their families. The elders griped, but vacant houses were filled and there was no complaint regarding more fighters. Halek and Naolin came of age, and the engagement to Moonsilk was finalized, though any opportunity to delay the wedding was readily seized. He became sol, not the best one by any stretch, but he mustered the effort if there was an Endarkened. He owed that much, in the name of an obliterated town.

Sometimes, he looked out at the southern mountain peaks, until the shine of snow was too bright to endure. His attention would catch on the rare sight of purple fabric, but it was never the right shade. When the laurel bloomed, he’d take a flower and count how many days for the petals to brown, hating each time how short it was. 

And deep within his chest of drawers, a locked box protected a simple charm of elm and edelweiss.