Proper War: A Regencia Story

27th Mar 2025

Chapter 9: Shattered Path

20th Mar 2025

Chapter 8: The Price of a Crown

The Yule’s Eve Ball should have been a celebration—a glittering event where lords and ladies basked in candlelight and luxury, where wine flowed as freely as whispered intrigue. But here, within the gilded prison of Brewwick Estate, the night has turned into something else entirely.   The long-lost Queen Anne and Crown Prince Alistair have spoken truths laced with quiet desperation, revealing the Brewwicks’ cunning trap: a contract—binding, legal, inescapable—forcing Alistair into marriage, ensuring Regencia’s throne will bow to Brewwick ambition. Only a single loophole remains. If Alistair is wed before dawn, the contract dissolves into nothing. The hour grows late. The stakes have never been higher. And it is Dove who has stepped forward, voice steady, gaze unwavering, and offered a single word that might change the fate of a kingdom.   Meanwhile, Dominic stands alone in the lion’s den, a private meeting with Duke Brewwick unfolding in careful words and measured silence. A powerful ally, a deadly enemy—or something in between? Dominic must tread carefully, knowing that one wrong move could mean more than the loss of a deal—it could mean war.   Elsewhere, Elinor lingers at the edges of the celebration, missing the one person she would have wished at her side. Dahlia’s absence is a thorn buried deep, a reminder that even amidst the grandest halls and the finest silks, she is still alone in the choices she makes.   And Bridget… Bridget watches. The air around her hums with something unnatural, something old and fey-touched. A patron unlike the celestial she once imagined now walks these halls, draped in mortal finery, lurking at the edges of her faith. She knows she must not falter—but in the face of something so otherworldly, so consuming, even the most devout can question.   The clock marches toward dawn. Shadows stretch long across marble floors, and the weight of choice presses heavy upon the night....

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Journals

• A Series of Scratched Out Letters Found in Dove’s Notebook Alidove

6th Mar 2025

Chapter 7: Contractually Obligated

27th Feb 2025

Chapter 6: A Yule's Eve Ball

As the year draws to a close, Regencia prepares for Yule, a festival of warmth, reflection, and divine reverence amid the deepening cold. Traditionally marking the longest night of the year, Yule is a time of both solemnity and revelry, where families and communities come together to honor the turning of the seasons, the enduring flame of life, and the will of the goddesses.   Yule in Regencia is a night of fire and frost, wisdom and revelry, fate and forgiveness. Whether through joyous celebrations, eerie omens, or unfolding intrigue, this season offers a perfect blend of warmth and danger.   When the Sterling Family received the last-minute invitation to House Brewwick's 'Yule's Eve Ball', however, they knew this year was going to be unlike other Yuletides!   The Brewwicks... still teetering between proving themselves allies or enemies for House Sterling... could not simply want to host a wholesome holiday gathering in honor of the season... right? Only fools would walk into THIS ball without BOTH eyes open....

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13th Feb 2025

Chapter 5: Messy, at the Modiste's

6th Feb 2025

Chapter 4: Decay & Smoke

The night is still when it begins. Unnaturally so. Not even the wind stirs. The only movement comes from the hearth in the grand hall, where the ever-burning log gifted by Balan’s acolytes smolders, its embers pulsing like a dying heartbeat. The gift was meant to symbolize light and hope, yet the air around it has turned thick, stagnant—tainted.   Then, it happens.   A shudder rolls through the manor like a breath held too long and finally exhaled. A strange scent slithers through the corridors, curling beneath doors, seeping into rooms with a cloying, sickly-sweet rot—like flowers long dead in their vases, like wine soured in the cask, like flesh left too long in the sun.   It creeps into lungs as sleepers stir, into throats as dreams dissolve into waking. And then— the first scream.   It comes from the servant’s quarters, shrill and choked off too soon. A sound that sparks chaos.   By the time the household is truly awake, the horror is already inside.   A door hangs open, splintered at the hinges. The night air beyond it writhes with figures—figures that should not be walking. Gnarled fingers scrape against the stone walls as the dead surge forward, drawn by the cursed smoke now oozing from the ever-burning log like tendrils of decay. It coils through the manor like an unseen herald, a beacon to things that should not walk, should not see, should not hunger.   In the dim corridors, shambling figures already move. A footman, still in his livery, his mouth slack, his throat torn open, reaches blindly for another servant cowering in a doorway. The steward lies crumpled at the base of the grand staircase, his hands still clutching at the cold fingers that had dragged him down.   In the dining hall, a thing that was once a man stands amid shattered glass, its fingers twitching as if struggling to recall how to grasp, how to hold—how to tear. Its mouth is full of something dark, something wet, something that drips sluggishly down its chin.   A ghastly chorus rises outside. A moan, low and hungry.   Beyond the broken doorway, the estate grounds seethe with the dead. Some still wear the tattered remnants of their burial shrouds, their fingers stripped to bone from clawing their way free of the earth. Others—others wear the stained, faded remains of Sterling livery. Long-dead servants, guards, even old family retainers who should have been resting in the Divine Estate’s consecrated ground.   And still, they come.   A chill unlike any normal night creeps through Sterling Manor as the full weight of this nightmare sets in. The undead do not march. They stumble. They crawl. Some climb where doors hold fast, scaling ivy-covered stone like grotesque insects, their vacant eyes reflecting the flickering candlelight.   The household is waking to a siege of the damned.   There is no time to ask why.   Only time to fight.

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6th Feb 2025

Chapter 3: The Beacon

Dusk drapes its shroud over Sterling Manor, the last rays of sunlight drowning in the cold embrace of twilight. A hush falls over the estate as the air thickens with an uneasy stillness—an absence of birdsong, of wind through the trees, as if the world itself recoils from what approaches.   They come at eventide.   The first sign is the sound of hooves, slow and deliberate against the cobblestone drive, each strike echoing like a funeral bell. The lanterns of their carriages burn low, casting elongated shadows that creep unnaturally along the path. Then come the figures—draped in Balan’s muted grey and deep crimson, their robes swallowing the light. Hooded heads remain bowed, obscuring faces, but the gleam of ceremonial masks—half-polished gold, half-ashen black—catch the dim glow, reflecting a grotesque mimicry of life and death entwined.   Their procession is silent. Not the reverent quiet of solemn devotion, but something colder—vacant, watchful. They move in precise steps, an unnatural synchronicity at odds with the organic chaos of a gathering dusk. In the growing dark, their presence seems to distort the space around them, as though the weight of something unseen presses down upon their very existence.   At their lead, a figure stands taller, still as a statue, until a single movement disrupts the suffocating stillness. A hand, gloved in ink-black leather, extends—beckoning, demanding. No words are spoken, but the message is clear: They have come to be received.   A gust of wind finally stirs the trees, breaking the oppressive silence with a rustle that sounds eerily like whispered voices. The moment stretches, a breath held too long. The manor doors stand closed. But for how much longer?

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Journals

• Roommates and Calligraphy Practice Alidove

30th Jan 2025

Chapter 2: A Royal Houseguest

Princess Salana disembarks at Regencia’s southern harbor, only to find herself immediately confronted by a reality she hadn’t anticipated: the royal family is gone, her betrothed is missing, and the country is in disarray. Aristocrats should be flooding the ports to greet her, whispering rumors about whether her marriage can stabilize the chaos- this is not the case.   House Vaultsky, acting as seers and advisors, take particular interest in her arrival, seemingly suspicious of her intentions. She’s faced with immediate testing as she must navigate Regencia's political intrigue and convince the nobles of her legitimacy while uncovering what really happened to the royal line—and deciding whether she can carry out her dangerous charade without endangering her family back home.

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Journals

• Their Happily Ever After Dominic
• Unspoken Salana

23rd Jan 2025

Chapter 1: Yelling at Yuletide

The year is 813 RG, and winter has set its icy grip over Regencia, blanketing its rolling hills and cobblestone streets in a soft sheen of frost. The city of Donlon, the capital of this once-monarchical kingdom, stirs from the turmoil that left its aristocracy shaken and its people uneasy. The events of what the masses have begun to call *The Battle of Beasts* are still whispered about in drawing rooms and taverns alike—a rebellion of blood, secrets, and revelation that toppled the once-untouchable House Shadowby and left a void in the nation’s seat of power.   It has been two months since the uprising, and the dust of revolution has settled unevenly. House Brewwick, Ashton, and Vaneforge, their loyalty to the old crown forged in traditions now splintered, mourn deeply for their losses. House Frost and House Shadowby are all but ghosts of their former selves, shadows that linger only in hushed conversations and solemn glances at empty seats at gilded tables. In contrast, the newly risen House Sterling finds itself firmly in the spotlight—powerful yet precarious, having swum to the surface of aristocracy in the bloodied tide. They may have gained influence, but they’ve also drawn the ire of the old guard. Nobility does not forget.   In the aftermath of the rebellion, the Tower of Gor Captain has seized command of the Shadowcloaks, the elite enforcers of Regencia’s order. In tandem with the High Bishops of Menel and Aino, they have become the nation’s tenuous arbiters of peace, their influence extending across the land as they work to restore a sense of stability. Meanwhile, the Royal Courts of Law, led by the pragmatic and ever-efficient Legaltarians, have temporarily assumed governance, their cold, calculating approach to rule a stark contrast to the chaos that preceded them. Together, they form a fragile alliance, balancing on a razor’s edge as the country lurches toward an uncertain future.   Beyond the estates of Donlon’s upper crust, the Divine Estate trembles in its foundations. With Solomon Shadowby exposed and destroyed, the faithful are left leaderless, and whispers of corruption and necromancy linger around the once-sacred institution. The Goddesses’ faithful pray for guidance in a time when divinity feels distant, their sanctuaries marked by tension and uncertainty.   And yet, for all this unrest, the season carries on. It is December now, and the city has settled into an air of cool propriety, winter’s chill matched only by the sharp stares exchanged in drawing rooms and the faint simmer of plots yet to unfold. Letters sealed with wax carry whispers of alliances and retribution, and the talk of who will claim the empty throne dominates every social call. Some say the crown prince, Alistair XIII, still lives, hidden by loyalists plotting his triumphant return. Others say foreign powers will seize this moment to sow dissent or claim dominance.   It is into this precarious balance that we return. **Elinor, Dove, and Dominic Sterling**, now infamous heroes and symbols of rebellion, find themselves navigating the fraught waters of the aristocracy, where every word and every step could tip the scales between prosperity and ruin. Meanwhile, new faces arrive on Regencia’s shores. From the far southern nations, a foreign "princess" sails into Donlon with purpose cloaked in mystery—her intentions unknown, her identity a secret as sharp as the saber she carries at her side. And among the bustle of the season’s return, **a freshly hired cleric of Aino**, charged with protecting the formidable Aunt Alice, will quickly learn that even the middle class cannot escape the dangerous dance of aristocracy.   Donlon stands at the edge of transformation. The once-indomitable Royal Court is gone, but the question remains: *What now?* With no one to dictate the rules, will the aristocracy unite to preserve its power, or will it fracture further under the weight of ambition, resentment, and foreign threats? The common people, emboldened by the rebellion, watch closely, wondering if their time has come—or if they’ll be crushed under the nobles’ boots once again.   As the sun rises over the frost-dusted streets of Donlon, the towering spires of aristocratic estates cast long shadows, whispering promises of wealth, power, and ruin. What will you make of this new world? Will the tides of change sweep you forward, or will they drag you under?   And so, we begin: Book II of our story—*Proper War*. Let the games, the schemes, and the dances begin.

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