Writ of summons

The red letter

(The notable kingdoms this article applies to is Valint and Gherwinn, as well as the islands Ellystria and Saixing. Regional variance may occur)
One should always strive to be on time when issued a writ of summons, as few letters carry greater weight than these folded sheets; they create commanders in times of strife, destroys them once they've failed, and is delivered onward to the next -hopefully more successful- recipient. During peacetime, there are a set amount of them in circulation at once, guaranteed by the ruling body and used sparingly. Forgery is met with extreme prejudice; be found in possession of one and you can expect nothing less than being dragged to the capital and executed; this depends on circumstance, however, as an example will sometimes need to be set.
As the name implies, the writ is a request for the recipient to appear before the sender. This will usually be a monarch or court, but other examples range from town governors to favoured lords as the situation demands. In itself, it doesn't say much more than "Arrive as quickly as your legs can carry you. Refusal is not acceptable." Rather, the connotations are what sends hands shaking when holding one of these, the knowledge that whatever comes next will likely decide your life in one way or another.

The general

---

- (This story takes place before the introduction of magic through the death of Laestrygia)
The young lad crashed through the tent opening, mud spattered all over his uniform and panting to regain his breath. "General! A message has arrived!"
He looked up from the maps, gestured for his officers to continue before getting up. He quickly regretted the decision, sinking back down as a stabbing pain pierced his back. "Marcus," he said hoarsely "the war room must not be disturbed. Leave at once."
"I'm sorry, sir. The rider said he was here by decree of the king. He said you must read it at once."
The officers looked cautiously at him, their tired features accentuated by the flickering lanterns. This might very well be the assassination plot the lead interrogator had brought to light; they were not expecting a message from the king. The general felt a nervous roiling in his stomach
"I understand. Send word to the guard chief if you would be so kind, Henry or Edward I think he's named. We might have our assassin."
The Marcus' eyes went wide as platters "You think this is him?"
"I don't know. Now off with you!" The flap swung wildly as he rushed out to find Henry. Or was it Edward? The general had a hard time keeping names in order, especially when he felt anxious.
They tried their best to return to planning, but all of them knew how deadly their opponent was. It was a miracle the plot was discovered in the first place, as no previous interrogator had been successful in breaking the bestial Achamites. They were apparently beaten from a young age to learn not feeling pain, fostered under brutal conditions to never show fear or hesitation. The general shifted his uncomfortably in his seat, trying not to show how nervous he truly was.
His eyes flickered to the report. No conditions could be as brutal as the head interrogators cell, and while the irons heated she used to say that the art of torture was all about learning how far you could take it. The general shivered. After this war, his dreams would be filled with nails, knives, and hammers, and they would terrify him more than the Achamite's whistling scimitar. That man could do such things... it bothered the general. But like it as not, she did what she was here for. And it was for a good cause, surely? It was just that women shouldn't be suited for this kind of devilry; it was wrong whichever way you looked at it.
The tent flapped open again as Marcus returned, accompanied by two hulking behemoths clad from top to toe in plate. Long spilt were the days when he could carry such weight as his back had started objecting twenty years past, but he knew well how impenetrable their armour was.
"Show him in," he said quietly. There was little use in waiting, better to cauterize the wound immediately than to wait around and fully realize what is about to happen. Small droplets started forming on his white brows. Someone muttered a prayer in the back, and the general hoped they would be answered so he could see his home again. A few years in castle Strickmoor, that was all he asked, it wasn't much. To see the boys grow up and get ready for the melee, to sit by the gardens in balmy silence, to feel that calming sense of peace again. It had been long now, too long for a man of his age.
A black-gloved hand reached into the tent and the general steeled himself. The guards moved in unison, and as the man stepped blinking into the light he scarcely had time to react before his face was pressed to the floor. They tussled and clattered for a moment, before the guards pulled him back to his feet.
"Wouldn't you know, he's got nothin"
"Of course I don't!" the messenger sputtered indignantly. Under the suspicious watch of the guards, he produced something from his gilden mantle. The general's jaw dropped; It was a red letter, sealed with the royal insignia, and unmistakably a writ of summons.
Would the king let him go? Tears almost came rolling down, the maps and plans slowly fading out of view. A singular picture had been painted, one filled with golden fields and pleasant conversation in shadowy castle halls. He had served well, even the decimated 101st militia could attest to that, outwitting the Achanid legions in three gruelling campaigns. The fourth was going poorly, admittedly, but with his age... No, that the king would forgive, he was certain of it. He must've seen that it was time for him to retire.
The messenger cleared his throat "Lord Storm, you have been called before the king. We must leave at once."
Storm snatched the letter like a little child, eagerly tearing open the seal and unfolding the contents. He was free! Who cared about manners, he would get to go home again!

By decree of the king, Lord Halward Storm is to appear before the throne at once. Any servant of the crown is obliged by this letter to assist their travel, as are they to provide lodging should there be a need.

— His eminence, king Lucien III

"Lucien the third?" Storm scratched his snowy bear. Something did not quite make sense.
"The king has died." All eyes turned to the messenger. "The king has died," he repeated with frigid confidence "all glory be Lucien the III, conqueror of Achanid."
The room rose in unison, heads bent in honour of the occasion. Storm stared at the messenger, mouth hanging wide open.
"The king is dead?"
"The king is dead."
The letter softly hit the floor. Storm's hands shook violently.

Type

Decree, Royal

Medium

Paper