"Hold fast! Bershion is with us. Let his tempest fury lead our victory!" - King Francois Desramaux I, before being mortally wounded at the Battle of Pelari Fields, 4th of Geshan, 243 PR.

1st of Berso, 346 PR,

The new year has begun, and already the first flurries have begun to dispatch themselves over the once grassy hills of the Desramaux Plains. Will that be renamed too? I certainly do not know, nor, I suppose, do I care. Father is going through with planning the wedding. I gave him my acceptance, though I retain my hesitations, as is my rite.Uncle Thierry has not been quiet about his displeasure over the entire ordeal, as if his opinions held any sway over the direction of the Dynasty. Perhaps when he was younger, and my father was still only a boy. He had inherited young, too young, many believed. Will the same fate befall me? Father is not old and sickly, but I catch him acting differently from time to time. More irritable, less cordial with the servants. The wedding is taking a toll on him, I know, but this seems like something more. The wedding is planned for the 1st of Darsu, to allow for a beautiful spring wedding. Hopefully the last snows will have melted by then. I still have yet to meet my betrothed, though I am told this is normal. I am both eager and terrified.

Phillipe placed his pen into the ink well and blew on the pages of his journal, the black liquid sinking into the paper as it dried. He had kept this journal since he was a young boy, though by now he was on to his fifth volume. He'd always found it curious, the idea of keeping a journal. Writings of a personal nature that were never to be shared with the rest of the world. A good way to think through difficult decisions with oneself, but there lies the threat of a cacophony of self-assurance that could lead to arrogance or false conclusions. Thank the gods none will ever read these. Not that the contents were embarrassing by any means, but they were meant for Phillipe's eyes only.

Placing the journal into the bookshelf by the previous volumes, Phillipe ran his fingers over the spines holding the papers together. Twenty-two years of life summarized in five volumes, had he really done enough of note in his life to warrant this? I shall either die a failed experiment, becoming forgotten to those after me, or live on as a great founder, forging an empire worthy of the title.

There was a knocking at the door, startling Phillipe out of his mind finally. He took a moment to reorient himself to reality, fixing his collar and draining his glass.

"Yes?" Phillipe asked of the knocker.

"It's Mathi," said the higher pitched voice of his cousin Mathias, called Mathi to differentiate him from his father, Uncle Mathias.

"Come in, come in!" Phillipe exclaimed with enthusiasm, allowing his shoulders to drop to their natural stature.

The door swung open as the shorter brunette gentleman made his way into the bed chamber. His eyes were a deep blue, brown hair cut close to his scalp with the beginnings of a beard taking shape around his jaw. He wore a simple orange tunic with golden stripes, a black jacket held him together, though unbuttoned, and dark brown leather boots with bright red tassels hugged up to his knees, completing the ensemble. Mathi had a curious taste in clothing.

"To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you this morning?" Phillipe asked as he greeted his cousin with a hug. Mathi stepped away and made his way to the windowsill. He reached his body out and grabbed a handful of snow from the trellis, fresh from the night before.

"I have energy to burn." Mathi said as he whipped around, hurling the snow balled up at the some-day king's head.

"Be careful you maniac!" Phillipe kept out of the way before brushing the snow away from the bookshelf.

"And I knew you would be the best person to look to at alleviating such a problem." Mathi smiled as he hid more snow behind his back.

"How did you imagine us doing so?"

"The only way how, a ride through the countryside, perhaps even a race?" Mathi finished forming the snow behind himself into the perfect throwing material.

"While I would enjoy nothing more -" Phillipe began before suffering the consequences of Mathi's craftsmanship. He brushed off the snow from his jacket and stared at his cousin, attempting to hide his amusement. "While I would enjoy nothing more, I don't think my father would be very happy with me leaving today."

"Why is that?" Mathi planted himself in the desk chair, slouching back and crossing his stretched out legs.

"Because, there are wedding plans being made today. We are to look over table clothe patterns, organize the final guest list, and begin creating the seating arrangements starting 'promptly at 9.' If we are to be married in four months, there is much that must be done."

"We're to be marred in four months? This is news to me."

"No, I am to be married in 4 months. As my groomsman I would hope you knew this." Phillipe smiled at Mathi's confusion and excitement.

"I'm to be your groomsman? This is exciting! Well, that's enough planning for one day, come, the horses are ready." Mathi began to make his way of the room before stopping to turn and see if Phillipe followed. "Are you coming?"

"I told you, Mathi, I can not." Mathi frowned at this. He pressed his hand to his lips and pondered for a moment before finally speaking.

"What does it matter if you are there or not?" Dumbstruck, Phillipe stuttered out his response.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, your father and King Jurrien are the ones planning all of this, aren't they? Let them worry about which table gets what clothe and who will have the displeasure of being seated with Uncle Thierry." Phillipe thought about this for a moment. He did raise a valid point. This entire opperation was his father's idea, his father's creation, and his father's desire. It was not his desire, or idea to marry this Biljvank Princess, nor was it his idea to create a new dynasty. Why should he have to waste his time before the day? All other decisions were being made for him already, what input could he actually provide?

"Very well then, a quick ride." Mathi smiled and gleefully walked down the corridors with Phillipe to their trusted steads awaiting them outside. Marius was a white Vaafian, a taller horse with a black mane and tail. Phillipe had learned to ride on Marius when they were both only children. His father had thought it best for him to learn on a horse that was still learning to be a horse, as he put it. You'll learn together, grow together, and create a bond that is unbreakable. This horse will be yours, loyal, and strong. Of course, he was right. Marius was a strong horse, and would not let anyone but Phillipe ride him. Jean-Claude tried once, but was quickly thrown, breaking his left arm in the process.

Mathi rode a smaller but bulkier Shelviran with grey and white stripes and a long braided mane. Beatrice was her name; she was one of the sturdiest mares in the royal stables, and most stubborn. She'll let anyone get onto her, but she won't budge for anyone but Mathi and his father, and even they sometimes have trouble getting her to move if she's not feeling up to it at the time. Atop their respective horses, the two men road out along the King's road, with the cold wind snapping at their backs and their horses hooves crunching through the foot of snow that covered all the eye could see.

The countryside was a beautiful shade of bright silver as the afternoon rays reflected off the surface of the crisp white fields. For miles and miles there was nothing but thick snow covered with a thin layer of ice, rolling over hill and valley. It was clear, sunny days like today that Jolijn loved to take her mare, Erika, out for a ride along the King's Road, no matter what season it was. She chose to ride south from Biljrend, the esteemed capital of her families kingdom. Eleven generations of Biljvanks have ruled from the Golden Rose Throne seated in the Rose Garden Keep high above the sprawling city of Biljrend. 

I shall be the last. Though the details were still not set in stone, what was certain was that Jolijn would rule from Biljrend and Phillipe from Desramaux City. A strange arrangement, for spouses to rule from opposite ends of an empire. Nevertheless, while a Biljvank would not sit on the throne after her, her descendants will, as the two thrones would rule together, creating two capitals for the empire. Every other monarch would rule from Biljrend, wearing the Rose Gold Crown.

Jolijn stared off down the road towards Biljvoort, the nearest township on the southern King’s Road, a two day journey by horse, and not one traveled without companionship in the dead of winter. The bitter month of Berso was often unforgiving, with blizzards and ice storms raging across the Fields of the Biljvank towards Mount Jaap-Jan and its surrounding range. But the winter storms were what provided them with such fertile lands come spring, summer, and autumn. These fields are the heart of my people, everything we have is from this soil. Jolijn stepped down from Erika as she places her hands on the cold ice. Beneath this sheet of hard frozen waste is the life-blood of a kingdom - no, an empire.

”Princess!” A shouting came from far behind her, down the road back to Biljrend.

”Princess wait!” The shouting continued as a tan skinned woman came riding in full gallop along the road towards her. A young Buraddouddo warrior, from the Bloodwood Forests to the south, Layrnwy Fyylewyne was charged with watching over Jurrien II and all of his descendants as repayment to a life debt. Jolijn still has yet to hear the full story from either of them, but it seems obvious her father had somehow saved Layrnwy from certain death many years ago. Ever since the death of Jurran, Layrnwy has often been by Jolijn’s side. 

Her full body tattoos took full form as she strode up to Jolijn crouched in the snow. A weaving pattern of vines sleuthed their way along her body, starting from her head all the way down to her toes. Some say the Buraddouddo are born with these tattoos, though that is very hard to believe. Ever a true warrior, she was adorned in her traditional battle armor: a series of interlocking horizontal metal plates along her torso that eventually fanned out into long vertical metal plates at her waste, each one sewn title together to allow for greater flexibility. Her shoulders were guarded by large rectangles made of similar metal plates to the torso piece, though it was made more rigid to better protect from arrows. She did not wear her helmet or mask, said to only be worn into battle so as to strike fear into her enemies.

”You have given me quite the chase this morning, your highness.” Layrnwy said as she stepped down from her horse to inspect the ground with Jolijn.

”I like to keep you on your toes, that way you don’t get bored with your post.” Jolijn smirked as she made eye contact with Layrnwy, who was now brushing her horse after a hard ride.

“With all due respect, your highness, I don’t see how riding away on your own does anyone any good. It can be dangerous out here this time of year.”

”Yes, I am well aware of the seasons Layrnwy. I quite enjoy seeing the sun burst on the ice and the snow that will bring our farmers yields this year.” Jolijn stood and continued to stare out towards the Fields of Biljvank.

”All the same, your highness, you could have been hurt or attacked.”

”By who?” Jolijn swirled her arms to the empty world around them. “The wind? The chill? A touch of snow?”

Layrnwy grimaced and looked back to her horse. She may be the future queen, but she is still a brat.

”What was that?” Jolijn said with surprise in her voice.

“What was what?” Layrnwy gripped her sword as she looked for signs of danger.

”What you just said. I may be the future queen, but I’m what?”

Layrnwy stopped for a moment before slowly turning to face the princess. “I never said that, your highness.”

”Yes you did, I heard you clear as day.”

”I assure you, your highness, I never uttered those words.”

”I see. So then it must have been the empty threats surrounding us that called me a brat?”

Layrnwy released the handle of her sword as she continued to make confused eye contact with Jolijn.

“I never said those words out loud, your highness.”

”What?”

“I never said those words out loud, your highness. I merely thought them.”

Jolijn’s eyes opened wide and then squinted as she attempted to make sense of what had just occurred. 

“You’re lying.”

”I would have no reason to lie to you, your highness, I swear it by the gods.”

A chill hit and ran down Jolijn’s back, sending the hairs on the back of her head to stand upright. I… I heard her thoughts?

”There is a storm coming, Layrnwy. Let us return to Rose Garden Keep.”

”Gladly, your highness.”

The wind had grown to be biting, tearing its way through the young Prince's jacket. With a shiver across his body, Phillipe looked over to his cousin. Mathi, too, was hunched over, tightening his muscles to make himself smaller so as to contain what little heat was staying in his body. Three hours; three freezing hours. What began as a nonchalant ride down the King's Road, turned into a maddening daze of wind and white. After about an hour on the road, the wind picked up suddenly as storm clouds flew over head like a hawk to its prey. Heavy flakes of snow surrounded them, pounding down on their unprepared bodies. They immediately turned around and tried to outrun the worst of the storm, but it became all to clear after thirty minutes of riding that they were off the King's Road. It could have been at any point, perhaps even before the snow came. The ground looked the same in any direction you looked, blankets of white covering all the eye could see - road, field, or hill all appeared the same.

For another hour and a half the two cousins searched in a panic for any sign of civilization. Some where, anywhere they could find egress from the bitter cold that might harbor foes unseen. Finally, Mathi spotted a small light off in the distance. Riding at full gallop on now steeds as exhausted as their riders, the cousins Desramaux made their way into the village of Caillauds, a small farming village about ten miles south of the King's Road. They knew they were not far off, but needed warmth and a roof over their heads. The two rode slowly through the village center; some fifteen cottages, a herald's board, a fenced in pen with a barn, and a larger home that sat at due north off of the village center were all that made up this hamlet. Hoping the larger home to be either an inn or the lords manor, the two made their way to the front door.

A tall and lanky older gentleman in a worn but decorative robe answered the door as they knocked.

"May I help you - my lord!" exclaimed the man, who now ushered the freezing souls out of the cold and into his sitting room where a warm fire was raging. Mathi stumbled over to the fireplace and laid himself down before it. Phillipe took to the armchair to the side of a larger couch, wrapping himself in a blanket that was draped over the back of the chair. It took a moment for the two to look up at their host, all too distracted by their survival instinct to get warm.

"My lord?" the older gentleman stood in the center of the room, Phillipe to his left and Mathi behind him, slowly wrapping himself in the rug that adorned the floor; it was an owlbear hide and therefore very warm. Phillipe looked up and made eye contact with the gentleman. He had a full head of hair, impressive for a man of his apparent age, kept short and combed to one side, on his face was a thin mustache that came out passed his cheeks to fall in line with his ears. Aside from the quizzical look on his face, he also wore the colors of House Desramaux on his robe, it was black with golden embroidery. On his feet were lambs skin slippers with a leather sole and his left hand had two rings on it. One, a golden band presumably for his marriage, and the other was a signet ring, one Phillipe did not recognize - three ears of wheat, in first quarter, second quarter, and nombril.

"You are the lord of this village, I presume?" Phillipe chattered out through cold breath.

"Yes - uh, umm - Lord Sir - er - Sir Jules de Caillaud." A knight, most likely below a Baron who's keep is somewhere nearby, allowing for the Baron to be equidistant from all of the villages within their demesne. He must have noticed the prince's ring when he first opened the door, otherwise how else would he have recognized him?

"Well, Sir Jules, I thank you for your graciousness in letting myself and my cousin in from the storm. I fear we may have froze to death otherwise." Sir Jules bowed cordially, a glint of delight in his eyes.

"Of course, your highness. Any lord would be honored to have you in their home. I am only glad I recognized your signet ring and did not cast you out, like you were some lowly vagabond." He finished his bow and now stood there staring at Phillipe. A moment passes.

"Yes, well, thank you again. Might we stay the night? And, do you have a stable for our horses?" The knight's eyes lit up as he realized he'd not done anything about the horses.

"Yes, your highness, yes of course. Please, take my bed, your cousin may have my son's." He turned to rush out the door to take care of the horses when Phillipe stopped him.

"Wait, Sir Jules, where shall you and your son sleep?" Sir Jules whipped around and blurted out.

"The floor will suit us fine, your highness!" He turned once more when Phillipe responded.

"None-sense. This is your home, we are guests. I shall find comfort on your couch." Sir Jules ran back into the sitting room, his hands clasped together.

"No, no trouble at all. Really, I insist you take my bed. This couch is not comfortable at all! In fact, I - uhh, I've been meaning to be rid of it; yes - err, get a new one."

"It is no trouble at all for me to sleep here near my cousin." Before Sir Jules could protest again, Phillipe motioned to Mathi, now fully enwrapped by the owlbear skin, fast asleep and beginning to snore.

"Very well, your highness, if that is what you wish." Sir Jules made his way down the hall to another room, opened it, and shouted inside.

"Get up you lazy fish! The Prince is here and his horses are freezing outside." There was a small bit of commotion as the recipient of the shouting stumbled out of bed. Rushing out was a younger man of similar stature to Sir Jules, presumably his son. The two men made their way outside, wrapped in fur shawls, to tend to Marius and Beatrice; by now, they were most likely cranky and needing to rest just as much as their young masters. Fluffing the pillow at the arm of the couch, Phillipe laughed to himself, finding humor in the entire situation. His father would not be happy with him, he knew that for certain. But how was he to anticipate a sudden blizzard? Mathi's snoring now echoed throughout the estate, reverberating off of the aged oak that held the building together. 

Despite the end result, it was a much needed day for Phillipe. The first hour of clear riding provided time for his mind to stray from the anxieties of the future. The next three hours of disastrous tromping around continued the respite from thinking of his distant future, but was full of anxiety over his most immediate future. At one point, he had thought that would be it for them. He and Mathi would freeze to death, leaving his father distraught at the loss of his son and only child, the merger between the dynasties now bearing no fruit, and the looming succession disaster that would ensue at his father's eventual passing. Perhaps that will still happen. Phillipe pushed the thought away as fast as it occurred. Dissenters will continue to protest the marriage, but it is going to happen regardless. By the time father does pass, their feelings should have subsided, allowing for a smooth transition as Phillipe took over as emperor of a new sprawling nation. They will have to be all right with it. Closing his eyes, with the image of joined crowns in his mind, the prince allowed himself to fall asleep.

The insolence, the complete arrogant, self-absorbed insolence of that boy. It was by now nearly dawn, Yaqshan was nearing the edge of the western horizon, allowing for the sun to slowly rise on that of the eastern. They had been out since Ermac had reached its zenith in the sky, searching the hills far and wide surrounding Desramaux Castle with a retinue of twenty horsemen. They were all cold and exhausted from the night's ride through the harsh snow and wind, their horses included. But, as the sun began to rise, the snow had finally begun to let up. All around the party was miles and miles of crisp white, covering hills, roads, and fields of all kinds. Soon the suns beams would reflect off of the pale surface, providing an even brighter source of illumination for the day. In spite of this, it would still be bitingly cold out, and Francois stormed out in such a hurry he left himself ill-prepared; he could no longer feel his feet or hands.

They slowly continued their return to the castle, seeing its grandeur get slowly closer with each minute. The king had wanted to continue searching, but Captain Jacques reminded him that they might themselves die if they continued the search without rest, which would be a fate far worse for the Dynasty. As if the death of my son isn't? Francois contained his rage at the captain's insinuations, but knew he was only looking out for his king as well as the king's best interests. We will warm up and continue as soon as possible. He is out there somewhere, him and his eccentric cousin. By the grace of the god's they will be someplace warm. The thought of finding them frozen, huddled together beneath a pile of snow sent shivers down his spine. The line of horses suddenly came to a full stop as Captain Jacques held up his hand; there was another rider approaching quickly.

"Halt!" demanded the captain, right hand held out firm with his left resting on the hilt of his sword.

"I have an urgent message for his majesty King Francois III. It arrived late last night while he was out searching for Princes Phillipe and Mathias." replied the messenger. Her name was Penelope, she was one of the regular guards stationed at the castle, often serving as a message runner. She was one of the best horse riders the garrison had ever seen. Captain Jacques took the letter and gave it to the king who quickly opened and read it. It was from a Sir Jules de Caillaud, a knight who oversaw the village of Caillauds some fifteen miles east of Desramaux Castle. Thank the gods! Phillipe and Mathi had found their way to his doorstep around ten last night, cold and frozen from the storm. He has given them warm beds and saw to their horses as well. Safe and sound, warmed by the hearth of a loyal vassal not ten miles from their current location. The king gave a sigh of relief as he read, feeling himself slightly warmer than he was moment ago.

"Captain Jacques, we must turn around and ride for Caillauds." Francois ordered as he turned his mare around and began to ride.

"But my king! The men and horses must - " but he went unheard. The king had already turned his trot into a gallop, kicking the sides of his white beast to go like the wind. If they kept up, that would be preferred, but he would not stop or slow down now knowing where his son sheltered the night.

It took nearly an hour to reach the village proper, his mare Eliza panting hard with his hands frozen clasped to her reins. The sun was warming the day as best as it could in the middle of Berso, barely able to penetrate the wind and provide even a semblance of warmth to the icicle that the king had allowed himself to become. With all of his might, he broke his hold on Eliza's reins and crookedly dismounted her. The door to Sir Jules' manor stood before him, however modest it might seem to a king, it emitted a glow so beautiful, any emperor would dream of holding such a treasure in their halls. Francois knocked. His bones ached, his eyes were dried and stung from the whipping of the wind, and he could feel the growing stiffness in his back. While some may tell him how youthful he still is, he felt older with every passing day.

The door opened to the drowsy and now agape face of an older gentleman, Sir Jules presumably, who quickly ushered the monarch in before realizing he needed to push his mouth back closed. The air was warm, the sent of lavender swept into his nostrils along with the sound of a crackling fire which found its way into his ears. Muffled noises was all Francois could hear coming from his hosts mouth, his heart pounding in anticipation and fear while the rest of his body felt as if it were being swum through as blood began the slow march back to his extremities. Laying by the hearth, wrapped in the warm embrace of a deceased owlbear and still soundly asleep was his nephew, Prince Mathias, or Mathi. Sitting beside him, cloaked in as many blankets as must exist in the entire manor, was his source of anxiety, his source for joy, and his entire past, present, and future.

Prince Phillipe stood instantly as he noticed who had entered the room. He did not say a word, a look of horror stuck to him, no doubt assuming the worst from his decrepit father. A swift scolding followed by a good story that taught a lesson and sent his son into a guilt spiral simultaneously; he was quite proud of his ability to do such things. But that was not what met the young prince as he stood. Instead, Francois approached him and wrapped him as tightly as he could with his weakened, sore, and still ice-like arms.

"You're safe." Francois uttered, quietly but just loud enough for Phillipe to hear.

"Y-yes, father. Sir Jules was kind enough to provide us with safe shelter." Phillipe began saying quizzically before returning the embrace to his father. The two men stood there for a moment, partly because of how concerned the king had been about his son, and also because he was so incredibly warm. Finally, Francois released his son and took a step back to look at him.

"Why in the name of Dekinhold did you go out riding last night?" Francois assumed his normal parental tone, with a hint of relief still present.

"We had not intended to be out in the storm. We didn't even know there was going to be a storm before we set out."

"Ah, you didn't think. Why am I not surprised?" Francois produced a grin as he said this.

"I am relieved to find you safe. But do you have any idea how dangerous it was for you two to be out riding on your own? Weather aside, the roads can be dangerous for lonely riders. You've put everything we've been working towards at risk with this stunt. You could have died, we could have been digging your bodies out of snow and ice right now instead, had it not been for your luck in finding Sir Jules and Caillauds." The relief had now left his feelings, letting the sternness of his voice take over the words that left his mouth.

"I know father. Sir Jules will be greatly compensated for his duties to - "

"Forget about Sir Jules' compensation. You put not only your lives at risk, but the life of the Desramaux Dynasty and its future in grave danger as well." He stared his son down now, remembering all of the anger he had felt all last night. The fire that kept him warm enough to continue his search.

"You shall not leave the castle until the wedding date." Phillipe gave an expression of terror at his father's words.

"Two and a half months? I'm not to leave at all for two and a half months? Father this is insanity. I need to explore, get to know my people!"

"Yes, and you sure got to do that this time didn't you? Got to take a short trip out into the country to talk with your people, see how they lived. Not just a joy ride with a relative who's never had any real responsibilities to the realm?" Both Phillipe and Francois glanced over at Mathi, who was still blissfully off in distant dreams.

"Mathi is a good friend, father. And more than that, he has always been a wonderful confidante when I've needed one. He's certainly heard me out more in the past few months than you have." Francois clenched his fists, finally having regained control over them, though feeling was not all there yet. He closed his eyes tight, feeling them stick to his eye lids and then slowly loosen as he grants them the sweet moisture of tears.

"You could have died, Phillipe." the king's tone having found its way back to a land of calm and flowing brooks. He could tell his words hit his son, putting him into a more pensive state than usual.

"You're right, father. It will not happen again." This response surprised Francois, having expected another excuse or a defense for his actions. The king allowed his shoulders to relax slightly as he looked down to the floor and then back up to this sons eyes.

"Well, good. Now, let us return home." Francois turned to Sir Jules, who had been hiding just outside of the room the entire time.

"Sir Jules."

"Yes, my lord-err-my king?" the nervous knight replied, having clearly never played host to anyone above the rank of Baron.

"Would you send for a carriage? My mare is quite exhausted and, frankly, so is her rider. I should like to stay here and keep warm until it arrives to take us."

"Of course my king!" Sir Jules exclaimed as he ran out of the house, most likely to his messenger. Francois looked to his son, then to his nephew - such a peaceful lad - and finally to the couch. Feeling his bodies rebellion against his abuse of it return once more, the king slowly made his way to the couch and took his seat. The cushion beneath him gave way slightly to his lighter frame, providing a comfortable place to rest. As he allowed his body to rest, he began to feel the unintended consequences of having ridden so hard, for so long, in such cold. A slight tickle began to form in his throat, taunting him, goading him into hacking and wheezing. He muscles continued to whine at their abuser, feeling weaker and heavier all at once. A pounding like no other found its way between his temples, like a giant pounding on the door to the keep.

"Father, are you all right?" Phillipe had come closer now, observing his father's body break down as it came to a stop for the first time in twelve hours.

"Yes, don't mind your old man. I'm simply tired from the nights journey. Come, sit beside me, keep your father company." Phillipe took the seat beside his father, removing some of his blankets and placing them firmly around Francois. Their warmth was a river down his back, sweeping the cold away. The comfort of the couch, the warmth of the fire and blankets. Francois felt his eyes grow heavier and heavier, until finally, they won.