The Crowning of the Grafin

The day was overcast as it often is in the early spring days in Lystadt. The ornate coffin of Eberhard von Heidrich sat on display in the public square, arrayed with red roses and guarded in vigil by the Knights of the Inevitable Truth. Several commoners of the city surrounded his remains, bent in silent prayer. On horseback, Hezke von Heidrich, the only daughter and eldest surviving child of our former Sovereign, approached. She appeared especially weary, doubtless from days of travel. Even her muscular warhorse behaved with unease as she dismounted to receive the formal bows from the Knights of her Order. She handed off her mount and refused escort up the long stairs to the Paper Keep, which she ascended with great heaviness in her stride.

At the castle, the Herzog Sewolt von Fafnir, greeted Hezke, flanked by his retinue. He is an older man, but has bright, clear eyes and stands with the posture of a soldier. He offered his condolences and confided that Hezke’s father was a dear friend, and trusted confidant. He expressed how he has always valued the loyalty and trust of Heidrich, and respects Hezke as a soldier. He spoke at great length about legacy, future generations, his efforts to preserve the power and dignity of Fafnir, and his hopes for his eldest son and heir, Wernher von Fafnir. Lord Fafnir clasped her right hand in both of his for many long seconds, conveying much with his eyes before breaking the moment with a subtle nod. He and his companions exited the hall, leaving her to greet her mother and brother. The reunion between them was tender and even I struggle to put it into the words befitting.

In the morning, the funeral was conducted, and commoners from the entire city and surrounding villages turned out, packing the streets to get a view of the casket being carried to the chapel. On her journey into the church, Hezke looked no more rested than the day previous, but she carried herself with great purpose. After the funeral, the Bishop of Lystadt calls Hezke’s mother forward and offered the crown that Hezke’s father wore to her. She took it and then carried it through the streets in a procession towards the Paper Keep, flanked by Hezke and the Order. Upon a castle balcony that addresses the town square, a ceremony took place wherein Hezke was asked to kneel before Sewolt and he offered her the crown in exchange for her sworn oaths of fealty, which she made before the assembled crowd. Once the formalities concluded, she was flooded by various requests and appointments as the council attempted to learn her will and best execute her intentions in Lystadt after she returned to Stragosa.

Shariqyn: Ettiquette towards Wives (translated)

Text translated from Shariqyn to Rogalt:

” Women are the greatest of treasures, and men who marry must lavish them in comforts and luxuries. In Shariqyn society, a man is incapable of having honors for himself – he only gains esteem in those things he gives to his wife, be they directly useful such as fine clothing, or symbolic of some accomplishment, like a stone that may only be found in the place he has conquered in war, a man’s social value is reflected most strongly in the ways he can grant these things to his wife.

A Shariqyn man, aside from showing his devotion to his wives through presenting them with wealth and comfort, is in many ways judged by his diction, that is, his choice of words, in relation to their women. For example, a man who bestows wealth upon his wife, but does not listen to her advice and does not tell her he appreciates her council, but instead disregards it, is seen as a poor husband. Should he use language that is ambivalent or lacks appropriate enthusiasm, his wife or others observing a conversation between spouses may take offense. Other women are often warned and the man, more often than not, ceases to be able to find another wife, regardless of his wealth. Other men also look down upon the man as he has failed to fulfill his duties to his wife.

A Shariqyn man who has recently married is required to remind his wife of his affection for her no less than once daily. The most common form of this is simply words of praise followed by the statement ‘al enahim ebi kali ehr’ which roughly translates to ‘an oasis in a sea of sand’. In the days of nomads, a life which some still endure, oasis are the life’s blood of the dessert. An oasis is that which gives life where there is otherwise none, similar to how a wife may give a better life to her husband and bring new life into the world of his blood. Even after the two have been married for many years, it is important for him to remind her of his affections through words and actions lest she cease to give him council or heirs.

When a woman married to a Shariqyn man gives birth to a child, she is honored. Traditionally, the woman’s bestows a gift upon her just after his child is born. Though no gift can compare to that which she has given him through the growth and birth of his child, it is important that a man give his wife something that has immense meaning and/or value after her first nursing and rest after the child is born. Should she die during childbirth, a single drop of the water which holds the mothers soul is swept over the forehead of the newborn child so that her protection and wisdom may guard over him always. After a woman who has died in childbirth is laid to rest, her husband is required to take a grieving period in which he may not marry again for three months post his wife’s death. The gift he had meant to give to his wife is to be later passed to the child when they become seven along with a story honoring his late wife, the child’s mother. “

Death or Freedom, A Legendary Tale by Clagh O’Mugnahn, True Son of Dunland

To you, my humble reader, I bid welcome and congratulations. You have the pleasure of reading one of the finest works of literature ever to be produced in the world, and certainly the finest in Gotha. For it is I, Sebastian de Aquila, who the people acclaim as none other than the most infamous charmer, poet, dandy and impeccable lover of Costa Luceste; whose penmanship and swordsmanship is unparalleled, whose poise and grace is unmatchable, and whose sonnets and ballads woo the noble ladies of Aquila.

Alas, my humble bibliophile, I cannot once again steal the show, as I did to Gottfried von Laatzen in the summer of 600. Instead I will narrate to you the description of a man who, after sharing an evening sharing glasses of wine and flagons of dark ale, I have come to admire as a man of action, of tenacity, of effrontery, and of intrepid spirit. He calls himself Clagh O’Mugnahn, which he has disclosed translates to “Stone, descendant of Mugnahn,” in Gothic. It is a fitting name for him as he is by trade a miner. You may be tempted to cease your perusal of this document upon learning that the subject is but a common man, but I bid you to continue, as I have seldom met a soul as gilded as that of Good Clagh. And it is known that great deeds often stem from humble origins, as I portrayed in my critically acclaimed drama Blacksmith of Wood.

That night, as the ale and spirits cascaded, Good Clagh regaled me with the origination tale of his surname. It seems that long ago in the Age of Heroes there was a Good King Caomhán and his loyal knight, the seminal Mugnahn, who lived on the island of Íomhair, on which Good Clagh and his house still live. Good King Caomhán’s rule was wise and just and the people thrived under his jurisdiction, but those from without began to grow envious of Íomhair’s growing bounty. All of these ne’er-do-wells coalesced under the banner of Nathair, a sea-captain who had set his sights on possessing fertile lands. The bannermen of Good King Caomhán and Cunning Nathair met on the field of Réimse Glas to decide once and for all who the Lord of Íomhair would be. At this point in the telling of this tale Good Clagh must have had enough dark ale to kill a lesser man, and yet he still continued though I admit that I may have misheard some of the names given in his account due to my own battle with the spirits of the bottle. Continuing on, Good Clagh details how, at the height of the battle, Good King Caomhán is fighting furiously with the Cunning Nathair but ever so slowly, the Good King is gaining the upper hand. Then, just as it seems that the Good King is about to deal the finishing blow, Cunning Nathair transforms into a giant winged blue serpent, who is hereafter referred to as Nathair Gorm. Nathair Gorm regains their advantage, and the Good King is struck low by Nathair Gorm’s devilish form. The men of Íomhair, suffering greatly against Nathair’s Invaders, begin to buckle at the sight of Nathair Gorm and they begin to flee. It is at the point that the Great Warrior Mugnahn, previously defending his lord’s life against the Invaders, shouts a challenge of single combat to Nathair Gorm. The conditions are thus; if Mugnahn dies, his people shall be free from persecution. If Nathair Gorm dies, the Invaders shall turn back and be exiled from this land. Possibly incensed by his recent fortunes and amused by the absurd proposition that the Invaders would agree to the outcome one way or another, Nathair Gorm accepts. These two titans clash and Nathair Gorm is taken aback by Mugnahn’s ferocity. Mugnahn fights with the strength of twenty men, and bit by bit, he is able to pierce Nathair Gorm’s armored hide enough to deliver the final fatal blow. The Good King’s men cheer and Nathair’s Invaders are shocked by Mugnahn’s ferocity but move as if they mean to continue the battle just as it had left off, that is until they look upon the visage of Mugnahn, who has stripped bare and bathed himself in the blood of the defeated Nathair Gorm. The sight was too much for Nathair’s Invaders to bear and they turned and fled back into the sea from which they came.

It is my opinion that such an outlandish tale cannot possibly be anything but a child’s fable, with a narrative structure similar to Certainty Of Eternity, but Good Clagh told the tale with such impassioned zeal that I could naught by be impressed. Having at this time been into our cups for some while, I bid the Good Clagh good night and slipped silently into a slumber, but I hope to have the pleasure of dining with the True Son of Dunland once again.

The Observer, Aab’oran Bariq Primer

As those who are familiar with His teachings know, insight was distilled into 142 Precepts that form the foundation of our understanding towards greater enlightenment and the advancement of our Eidolon.

While enumerating and expanding on each precept might provide progress for one already familiar with the teachings the purpose of this pen is to serve as a primer of some of the basic concepts core to the teachings of Aab’oran Bariq.

From that foundation, we will attempt to draw on metaphor, simile, and imagery to help illustrate to those who may not possess an appropriate perspective. That position, the intention to gain perspective, will be referred to as The Observer and will serve as our medium for exchange.

Conceive of, if you will, a feast before you. From end to end is the longest table you can imagine and arrayed upon are all the options to eat that you can both imagine and can not. Dishes lost to time or yet to be thought of, as well as food that exists but yet you have no knowledge. This feast and the food presented is the Verge of your Observer. You can not see more details from your Verge than you are able, unable to perceive what is at the endless terminus of one side of the table nor the details of the dish piled behind others just in front of you. If you choose to remain stationary then your choices are finite but not any less gratifying. From your position, you select an item and you may find that perhaps the fruit you sought has rot on the side which you could not view thus making you ill. Or the fruit was obscuring the pastry you wish you had known about. Selecting the fruit that makes to you ill may mean that you can not select the pastry, or it may mean that while you can still have the pastry your taste of it is soured or compromised because of your illness. This is the seminal issue with the single perspective Observer and why the ultimate goal of pursuing one’s Eidolon is key to Bariq.

Continuing from the example before, previously your Observer was stationary and permitted only their single Verge. But if you allow your Observer to travel, as many of us do, then you will find that it opens up the entire possibility choices within the feast. Now your only limit is the time it takes to travel and inspect this never-ending feast. As such we arrive at our next concern. The meals within the feast do not remain in place nor are they ever present. You may have an option for a roast but that roast will go cold with time and deprive the meal of satisfaction or the unseen hands of fate may remove the cold, or even fresh, roast and replace it with some other item. This means that after long or even unending scrutiny you decide you wish for that roast is may be cold, moved, or simply no longer present. So how do we accomplish our seemingly endless choices, we must create new Verges to share the burden of our hungry trial. When we look up from the table we realize that we are not the only ones around the table. In fact, there are dozens if not hundreds of mirrors of ourselves also looking for the perfect meal. While we all may vary from slight changes to radical anomalies what we all share is a single mind as to what we would find to be our perfect meal. So we begin to coordinate, to call out to one another to gain the advantage of time, distance, and perspective. No longer operating within a single Verge we magnify our pursuits many fold, but we still find limits.

Expanding on the limits described previously, while we have found a unity of purpose our methods are crude. Shouting to one another can create a cacophony that is almost as unhelpful as it attempts to further our goals. Perhaps we must carry the perspective of our Observer over a great distance which compromises time and risks clarity. Thus the concept of Meditation develops. The practice of rising above the din at the tableside. You gain an advantageous perspective that grants not only greater personal view but also clarity among your peers. You can be a single focal point to collect and disseminate the options of choices before you. If others also join you then your relays of information grow in clarity and can travel more quickly to all the endless edges of the feast. But tragically none can remain in meditation forever. While you search for your perfect meal you also must feed and rest yourself. Thus the chain of communication breaks and the collective loses your perspective and personal knowledge when you lower yourself requiring others to learn what you once knew and piece together your progress until you return.

With a method for a clear exchange of information our greatest limitation appears to be our physiological failings. But even those can be advantageous for those willing to wait. For if you realize that your existence and your perception of time is entirely contained within the measure of your expectations you can free yourself of that pressure. There will come a point when your physiology will break, it will cease to function through misfortune, strife, or entropy and when that occurs the prepared Observer will rise and claim a timeless presence among those who Mediate. Providing an unbroken stream of knowledge and wisdom. With a single perfect gesture, they can relay all they once knew, all they know, and all they foresee. They are the cornerstones to our pursuit of our perfect intent.

Thus within ourselves, we possess everything we need to locate the perfect meal the first time and every time. But we must know what we need before we want something that we are distracted by. We must free ourselves of the confines of our expectations. When we first Observed the table we knew it to be a bounty of food because we were told it was food. But we made the mistake of assuming or someone told us that there were options on that table that are NOT food. This could be the cutlery, the dishes, the candles, or the flame. Once we free ourselves of the expectations of limits we can observe the meal that does not exist as a choice in the first place. We can consume the essence that is the concept of the perfect meal rather than the fruit, dessert, or delicacy of our misinformation.

This is the pursuit of Eidolon and by conducting yourself within the expectations of your Atma you may cloud your possibilities with the tradition, bias, and restrictions yoked upon you by those who found themselves yoked by others not knowing any better. If unclear by not the perfect meal you seek is an allegory for choice. They are the choices that are presented to us each moment and in every breath. Sometimes you will have to choose between your loyal friend or your lover as the hand of a madman swings a blade beseeching you to choose. While limited the pursuit of Eidolon allows you to observe that your options may include to accoste the madman, to deliver news that brings them to their knees or has them weep in anguished regret. The truth is that there are rarely any good choices from our single Verge as a single Observer. We must do all we can to elevate our understanding so as to take the single perfect step and bring out our perfect cascade for then, and only then, will we have walked the path.

On Sin

On Sin

The Pancreator made Humanity with Meaning. Our Meaning has certain qualities one of which is Libertas. Our LIberty is part of us and defends itself. Each of us rebels from the Despair of the World, from the things which would Oppress and Shackle us. Our Meaning demands Liberty.

When we are oppressed by the Sorrows, we assert our Selves beyond any other obligations. Our Assertions remind us of the Pride of being Human, the Ache of Wanting, the Rise of the Blood. These things dispel the Sorrows and Bring Joy.

However, do not be brought low by Vainglorious thinking. The Libertas can become overpowering. It can become a heady wine. When all of us are Drunk at the same time, the world cannot contain it. Let your Libertas flow in small rivers until the day of Completion draws near. The World must grow to join us and until then, the Secret must be kept.
You are the Rose, you are the Dawn, the beauty and light of the world.

For the Conquest of Joy,

Praemonstrator Lumin

Bastione Montcorbier – Gentleman Fencer, Author (Renowned)

Bastione is the master student of renowned sabreur duelist Madame Capitaine Marie du Castellonia, After earning her trust, he became her Second in numerous duels fought from Capacionne, to Hestralia. While traveling with Madame Capitaine he mastered her Art du Sabreur, and is a well known instructor of the style.

He is most famous for penning a manual on the subject entitled Une Introduction élémentaire à l’art du Sabreur which includes instruction on the sabreur, and offers a code of honorable conduct for students, including a set of rules for dueling based on Madame Capitaine’s teachings.

(Awaiting character approval.)

The Clan-less Clan

In the days before Rogalian occupation, when the Dunns were all free men and women, it was only a little better. The clans fought over resources, over love favors, over blood feuds.
One such clan was MacRairich. Long had they been proud healers and fighters, and their clan leader Fiann doted on his daughter, his only child. Brigid was her name, and though she was fair of face, her beauty paled beside her indomitable will. She learned to wield her father’s moor sword with grace and skill, to tend to flesh and bone and heal the damage it caused.
Three men wished to court her, particularly as her father waned in age, each aspiring to rule both their clans. Their aspirations were no secret and the three turned to fighting over who might have the right to wed her in the end. Their fight grew to encompass their clans and before long it had spiraled into something monstrous that men were dying over.
At the final battle, Brigid herself waded into the fray, dealing each man a wounding blow and causing the fighting to cease. As they clutched their wrent flesh, she spoke so that the depth of her voice was carried to all along the battlefield.
“Ne’er once did any o’ ye seek te ask my thoughts on this. Lives ‘re lost an’ blood spilt fer yer foolishness. As men ye sough’ only te bring death, fer tha’s all ye can do. Ye need a woman, one who c’n bring life te rule beside ye, bu’ I’ll ‘ave none o’ it. None o’ you.”
She left the field, left the men with mouths agape and some hope they’d been put in their place.
Upon returning home, Fiann expressed his disappointment that she had not let them fight it out and allowed the strongest to court her. Brigid’s mother had far kinder words, knowing the wisdom her daughter had spoken, for had she not spoken to Brigid’s father in much the same vein when they had wed? And yet she had given Fiann a chance and found him suiting.
So disillusioned was Brigid that she left her homestead for forty days and forty nights, returning more steadfast and stubborn than ever.
Some time after her return, it was noted that her belly was beginning to swell with child. No pleading, no bargaining, no cajoling, nor threats would loose the father’s name from her tongue. As the days came and went and the moon waxed and waned, Brigid and her father argued in a heated fashion, tempers flaring.
Fiann argued about what the babe might be called since none would know the father and a bastard child would bring shame to their clan. She argued that it would take on her name, for was she no less worthy? Was her blood not equally in the child’s veins?
In due time a daughter was born, and instead of calling her Roisin MacRairich in honor of her grandfather, Brigid called the girl Roisin inn Brigid, after herself. Her father raged, howling that without ‘Mac’ in her name that the baby girl would have no clan. Brigid raged back that it was better to be without a clan, for clan allegiance meant clan wars whenever a hot-headed chieftain declared it so and that healers such as they should have no clan allegiance for was not their duty to all who might need their skills? In true temper she declared that if he did not accept her and her wee daughter, she would leave the clan and leave him without an heir, take her daughter and her skills and her moor sword passed down and never return.
Realizing that Brigid would make good on her threat, Fiann relented. Seasons turned and when he passed away, Brigid took control of the clan. She declared that when her daughter came of age they would no longer hold onto a clan name, but would be healers in truth, putting the lives of men and women above the importance of clan allegiance. Furthermore, since one could always be certain who the mother was, but less so the father, a child could be given the mother’s name, for there was no shame in being born of woman, for that is the lot of every babe. Her wisdom was heard and seen and to this day there are those given their mother’s name, healers without clan, a long line devoted to life moreso than death.

Le Sorelle Pirati

A sturdy stonework hut somewhere in La Montanara, Hestralia:

“Why do we live here now papa?”, asked the child, scribbling absentmindedly in the dirt using a stick.
“So, I can work and so we can eat”, replied the man as he dumped a bowl of chopped meat and vegetables into an iron pot that hung from a chain above the hearth.
“There was no work on the island, papa?”
“Not for me, paisano.”, the man muttered as he tossed some dried herbs into the pot for flavor. “There’s nothing good in those islands for us now.”
“The islands have bad-guys, papa?”
The man pushed the pot to a different position over the fire so its contents would boil more gently. “Of course! You know about Le Sorelle Pirati, no?”
“No papa, tell me about The Pirate Sisters!”
“The Sisters Pirates.”
“Cosa?”
The man laughed. “The Sisters are the name of all the islands. The islands, they have pirates, si.”
“The pirates are not sisters?”
“They are all kinds, but yes they have a lot of girl pirates, girl captains, and a girl ammiraglia. I think they have a lot of girl pirates for the same reason you were confused by the name. It is an amusing coincidenza, no?”
“Co-in. Coinzi”, the boy struggled with the word while using the stick as a cutlass and dueling the empty wall while his father smiled.
“Can I be a pirate, papa?”, the boy asked innocently while the man checked on the pot. His smile half faded, and he lied in the easy way that only a parent can, “Of course you can, Sergio.”

———————————————–
Organization: THE SISTERS PIRATES
Type: Outlaw
Ties: Many formal and informal throughout Hestralia (and likely beyond).
Tier: 4 (estimated)

History:
There are those (especially that live in the islands in question) that believe the recovery of humankind started from the aftermath of the Age of Witchkings in the islands called The Sisters. These are remote enough to not be easily reached by unskilled navigators, and small enough that they could be reclaimed one by one. This allowed the fledgling new civilization of human refugees from the ancient disaster to raid and conquer their way into the continent and establish the nations we know now. Interestingly, the same remoteness and beliefs about the history of The Sisters is assumed to be why they were the last to join the Unified Hestralia, and even to this day often ignore the rule of Aquila. It is also known that the reason the Sisters Pirates are often held in a degree of reverence is the belief that they are continuing the lifestyle of the original warriors and raiders that launched the recovery of humankind so long ago. (This savage time before the Age of Heroes is poorly understood, and nearly undocumented.)

The Sisters Pirates have been involved in almost every major conflict accessible by sea in the eastern part of the world. They have been known to appear and turn the tide of a battle, but also to betray a side they were hired to fight for. The motivations of these pirates would seem to be strictly profit motivated, but there is some evidence they work, in a roundabout way, to maintain the freedom of Le Sorelle.

The Sisters Pirates are organized loosely after the model of a naval fleet. There is an admiral that rules over the whole organization, four commodores with logistical and political duties but no fleets of their own, and a lot of captains that command everything from whole battlegroups to individual ships.

Lady Vera Septwood

Vera Septwood (holy name: Valeria), Born Lion Age 582
3rd child, 2nd daughter of Lord Klaus Septwood, Lord of Zeestadt, and his wife, Lady Ursula.

Siblings:
Elias (heir of House Septwood), Born Lion Age 577
Lilli, Born Lion age 579
Cord, Born Lion age 584
Hans (soon to be anointed as Father Cornelius), Born Lion Age 587

Vera is known to be kind of heart, but with an adventurous spirit unbefitting a Gothic Lady. There have been reports of misconduct at court, rumours of unsavory friendships, and it is said that there were many sightings of her sneaking out of the Salt Keep in Zeestadt unattended as a child.
Currently there are no bids for her hand in marriage, as her elder sister is yet unmarried. She is residing in Stragosa per her father’s allowance and is expected to remain there until a bid for her hand is made or her family calls her home.

Glasmalerei Guildmaster Goswin Schubert

Guildmaster of Glasmalerei Guild of Rosenberg

Guildmaster Goswin Schubert known to be an incredibly pious and kindly man, whose father was a lowly shoemaker.

Goswin was born in Rosenberg to Ernst and Elke Schubert. Ernst was a kindly and generous man who took great pride is his craft. Young Goswin dutifully followed his father’s instruction and by the age of 9 was of considerable skill. His hands were not yet strong enough but his agile mind compensated. He described tools and implements which would help him to compensate for it. His father commissioned a blacksmith friend to make a couple of them to humor his son. To Ernst’s amazement they worked as Goswin had described. Although it took him longer than a more experienced apprentice, is results were of very high quality.

Ernst praised his son at guild meetings and several older members started using the implements to help them as the strength had started to leave their own hands. Rumors of the young prodigy drifted in Merchant circles and eventually reached the ears of Guild Master Monika Weber, who was then the Guildmaster of the Glasmalerei. She knew Ernst to be a humble, and devout man. If he was moved to such praise then there might be more to it.

Guildmaster Weber, often attended convocation in peasants garb. The purpose was twofold. Firstly, that she might be able to remove the mantle of office and focus on spiritual matters for a time, secondly to be better positioned to hear the voice of the people unfiltered by their compulsion to respect her office. She had been keeping a watch on young Goswin when an event unfolded that would forever change his life.

On this day, Guildmaster Weber had decided to follow 12 year old Goswin home. She did so from a distance so as to remain unobserved. It was a difficult rainy season and the streets were a muddy mess. A peasant woman, heavy with child, tripped in the middle of the street. As expected, young Goswin hurried over to assist her. As he helped her up, he politely asked how she fared. She said she was well and thanked him. Young Goswin looked at her feet. Her muddied toes poked out through worn shoes. Goswin asked her if she’d do him a favor and she replied that of course she would. He then proceeded to remove his own boots and asked if he could have hers.

“I could never young master,” said the woman.

Goswin replied, “Please ma’am. It’s not just a matter of charity. I’ve never seen their like. I’m a shoemaker’s apprentice and i’d they’ve given me an idea.”

The woman eventually relented and blessed him as she walked away with a fine new pair of boots.
As Goswin started off home, barefoot and with worn shoes in hand, the disguised Guildmaster stopped him.
“young man, why did you trick that woman into taking your shoes?”

Goswin studied her for a moment and then responded, “the almighty calls us to be charitable and help one another. It was not simply a trick ma’am. I provided her with a compelling argument that was based in truth. Seeing her shoes did create an idea, for a simple shoe, that would be more readily afforded by those with less coin. I can’t estimate the value of that idea, as i have yet to put it into practice. I wanted to repay her, and she’s a poor woman with child. I assessed my boots to be both something she needed and fair trade. I have other shoes, a walk home in the water will remind me of the blessed life i lead never having wanted as does that good woman. Although my father will at first be displeased he is a good man, and might have done something similar were he present. I feel confident that it will be well. In the end, if nothing else I feel that i have at least attempted to honor to the leonem I wear about my neck.”

The Guildmaster smiled, and said, “you seem to be a good hearted young man.”

Goswin then replied by saying, “May I ask you a question … ma’am?”

the Guildmaster then smiled and replied, “of course. I have pried into your moment, there is no reason I should not return the same.”

Goswin then assured his position as an apprentice under her direct tutelage by saying, “Why does a woman of your station pretend to be poor?”

Taken aback she responded, “how is that then?”

“Well m’lady, your hands are rough as one who works, but there are the ink stains of one who often writes, or likely signs, documents on your fingertips. The ring on your right small finger is diminutive, but of goodly value. A memento I suppose. Though tarnished, your Leonem is of outstanding craftsmanship, and your meticulous enunciation is of one who speaks often and well. You smell of summer flowers and your clothes though of poor quality are very clean. Lastly, i point to your shoes, the topic of our previous discourse. My father’s work is better, but Master Klines work is very highly regarded and demands a high price,” he said.
The feat of mental acuity might have been enough, but the fact that the boy’s tone was not one of chastisement, or denigration at all. He was simply, being inquisitive and denoting the things that had caught his eye.

“I am Guildmaster Monika Weber, and I have a desire to make you my apprentice.”

Goswin replied, “I see. I’d like to finish the work on these new shoes, for the people, first and then, of course, my father must approve. It’s a great honor and I suppose we both know he’d agree,” he smiled, “thank you for the opportunity Guildmaster.”

The story of Goswin’s giving the unknown woman his shoes is well known. Although it is retold that the Guildmaster happened across him by chance, and the subsequent conversation is known to only a very few.
Guildmaster Goswin Schubert rose slowly through the ranks of the Glasmalerei Guild. His relationship with Guildmaster Weber grew throughout this time. Often they were referred to as the Mother and Son (of the Guild). In her last decade of service he was her right hand and he transitioned smoothly into his position.

In his time he has innovated several aspects of the Guild’s work. Not only refining processes at the higher end of the spectrum, but also creating a much easier to produce product that is more readily accessible to lords of lesser means. He is much loved both within the guild and throughout Rosenberg.
He has continued the tradition of attending convocation in unassuming clothing, and it has become a common practice throughout the guild.

Although he has had several apprentices during his career with the guild itself, he has not selected one since the passing of his dear friend Guildmaster Monika Weber.

Since becoming Guildmaster he has spent 1 week, every 3 months, with the Cyanihim Order of the Sacred Glass.