#bezirkland

[ghostjelliess]

Behold, a fantasy map!

[ghostjelliess]

Frederick had been taught to never be afraid, first by the woman they sometimes made him call mother, then by Gammelgeld himself. If he smiled through the various tortures, then the Trukönig wouldn’t try them on his brothers, and that was enough to keep Frederick smiling. It had been enough to keep him mostly drunk by the ripe old age of fifteen, and then enough to dig his way out of the coffin in order to rescue them next, always with that twisted smile. He stood beside Gammelgeld at the parties and danced until his feet went numb. A Graf from his homeland once gifted Frederick a pair of dancing shoes that would let him dance all night, and Frederick had worn them out in a month. Magic rarely lasted long around him. The Graf had wanted an Uradel position he’d mistakenly thought Frederick had the power to bestow, but when they realized how useless the sons of Gammelgeld were, he was left alone by all but his father’s notion of first-borns being selected by inheritance laws.

Frederick investigated magic quietly, picking at the threads of the world, smiling at heavy-lidded strangers while they spoke and he nodded in rhythm to their cadence, and his mind tumbled the glittering questions he couldn’t utter aloud. Where did the magic come from? Where did it go? How could shoes be enchanted to dance, who had paid the price? He picked and picked at every fraying edge and feared nothing as he smiled out at Bezirkland while Gammelgeld cut it into pieces and served it to the Grafs like cake. He dissected those dancing shoes, ripping them apart and piecing them back together, but only learned that their magic was sewn and knotted and bound, like a fabric over the world, and that Gammelgeld was fraying the edges of it. Frederick had asked several servants how to fix a frayed edge and they’d all smiled sympathetically and told him to burn it. Gammelgeld had called him then, if he had time for womanly pursuits and hobbies, then he had time to complete more experiments, to sculpt himself in the image of Gammelgeld—he was little more than a doll for the grown king to throw at walls when he was upset with Reichland trade deals.

Frederick felt no fear when he trained until his arms were too heavy to hold a stein, he felt no fear when he slumped drunk into his worn throne, or when he felt the large hands heaving him away. He felt no fear when he woke in the tight box or when his mouth filled with dirt, he felt no fear as he choked and clawed and coughed his way into the moonlight, or when he began shoveling dirt away from the eleven fresh graves laid out after his. He felt no fear when they lined up to face Gammelgeld the next day, nor when he looked at his body covered in scars ten years later. When the Raven Masters uttered their warnings, when the queen told them they would die beside her, when the tower collapsed and they fell into the rubble, Frederick felt no fear, not a single drop of adrenaline, not a giddy anxiety, or even a warry hesitation. He was falling, then he was dead, then he was maybe not-dead, then he was nodding along to ten faces that looked mildly like his own, some more than others, and fleeing Kronstadt for a place that hadn’t been his home in ages, and still, he felt no fear. 

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[ghostjelliess]

Welcome to Bezirkland, where Gammelgeld the Great has bartered away his kingdom to the Reichlands, the Raven Masters flee the court, and twelve princes are left angry enough to return with an army, the only proper response to their father's cruel iron fist.

[ghostjelliess]

Welcome to Bezirkland, where Gammelgeld the Great has bartered away his kingdom to the Reichlands, the Raven Masters flee the court, and twelve princes are left angry enough to return with an army, the only proper response to their father's cruel iron fist.

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