[Ostara, Main] And Not To Yield

The bubbling energy of the party kept high until the last hours of the evening, before the Spring Queen parted from her revelry to make announcements on the stage of the dance floor. Ivy cracked through stone as a bed of greenery overtook the space in a mossy platform, as Sir Nimbus called for Nate Henley to approach. The rising Spring was asked to take a knee as Queen Philicia outlined his gifts to the Freehold, and his repeated example of fostering new futures. The connections he had mad with others outside his Court, and the bridges he built within their community with the support of his motley was recognized. Buck Chasseur also stepped forward as Searce of the Emeralds, speaking of the roles of Joyeaux before pulling Henley to his feet and a Beastial headbutt. It wasn't enough to stun the Ogre, but he was surprised to see the blood fleck before it turned to gold and sprouted metallic buttercups. Nate's scales took on the same jeweled filigree that Buck's antlers was crowned with as a badge of his new office as the gathering applauded the promotion. 

The festival continued before courts began to splinter into groups for the Dive, officers and Knightsworn heralding entry through the Gates as they declared passage to the Valley of the Dead. Drunken revelers and stealthy trysts were slowly rounded up with the high and cheer of the Verdant Crown; it was time for the solemn Freehold Oath to be renewed.



No matter the time they entered, the Freeholders emerge as one from the thorns to darkness. The mud is barren, blanketed with a heavy downpour that flooded the gathering. Attendees were quickly caked in mud and pelted with the icy shock of winter rain.

The gnarled hands of corpses peak through the earth, grinning skulls gasping for life in the drowning field. Then, the prompt:

All freeholders must plant a seed in the valley to maintain the Oath, into the mouths of bone and teeth.

As the valley is sewn, the Spring Queen emerges from the Hedge, a curtain of light following her procession as she brings the dawn. She carries an egg, in facsimile of the Globus cruciger, and a bough of yew. Her entourage of bloodied, knighted huntsman follow with offerings to the Season and the dead. The valley is now teaming with green over a coat the decayed forms of the fallen.



The Queen addresses the Freehold, in blinding white robes of airy quality. The first thing that is apparent is how small she is: her Knights tower above her, and her voice only carries at the hush of the environment, and the assistance of the wind itself.

The sacrifices of the mundane to feed the power of the unseen, will be a punishable offence that knows no borders.

The demands of the Wyrd will be fed by our own bloodied ambition. Trials of victory will be judged on merit, rather than the backs of the meek and desperate. Rituals of Freehold vitality will be reported to the Archivist for records and continued safety of our dual population.

We cannot wilt in the shadows cast by destiny. This is anathema to the Antler Crown.

A future on weak foundations will only rot our empires, collapsing into a sinkhole that we dug ourselves. This is an age of discovery, and will be rewarded in kind.