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Rigid words fitting with her rigid poise and face. “Assembled guests, my people,” Eyeing them as peasants, “I bid you heed my words on this final eve of Mægfæge, our grand celebration honoring the Nautrens!”
For thirteen nights and fourteen days, we have observed the ancient rites and partaken in the hallowed festivities that mark this significant occasion. The sacred bonfires burned and great campfire with an intensity to rival the Nautrens' own fierce spirits, their crackling flames of life illuminating the dance as they whirled in homage to our unyielding faith.
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Our cries resonated with the primal beat of our drums, their relentless rhythm a reminder of the ceaseless toil and strength that defines the Nautren way of life and death. On the road, our mightiest warriors clashed in displays of raw prowess, their stone-hewn bodies grappling until only the most indomitable remained standing.
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To all who have labored to ensure the success of our Mægfæge, you have fulfilled your duties adequately. My Kinguin will remember your service. Yet remember - this is but a fleeting reprieve from your obligations. True glory lies in the unending struggle against the enemies of our people.
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In the coming cycles, we must strive to embody the unyielding essence of stone that grants us our strength. We must hone ourselves into instruments of implacable purpose, as sharp and cold as the peaks of our vast plains. Only then can we carve our destiny from the unforgiving rock of fate.
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And so, I decree - may the Mægfæge light a fire in your spirits that will endure long after the embers have faded. May your hearts be as stone, your wills unbreakable as the hill roots. Go forth, and bring honor to the Nautrens.
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This marks the end of my address. Return to your appointed roles with grim determination, and may Kinguin forever stand. “
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She turns sharply on her heel and departs the stage with the precise bearing of a hardened warrior, leaving a palpable chill in her wake.
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And the crowd claps either because they follow the lord magister, Giza clapping for herself the princesses are not, or simply because she is Giza. Next up in facing the fronts of the dreaded, exhausted, and outright sleeping audience, Thean comes munching an apple.
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Her shoulders slumped with dull eyes and voice that reflects the monotone of the thousands.
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“People of Kinguin and from far kingdoms, I suppose I should thank you for attending this dreadfully long festival. I hoped you had fun. It felt like an eternity, didn't it? Almost as endless as the sweetness in the apple and my Sol.”
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She sighs heavily. “But I must confess, I didn’t earn a single treasure or gold. And the only reason I endured this tedious affair was for the chance to spend time with High Princess Sol. Her radiant presence was the sole light in the darkness of my days here. The way her hair shimmers like liquid gold, her eyes sparkle like precious gems... She is perfection incarnate. I yearned to bask in her warmth, to brush against her soft skin as we walked side-by-side...
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Alas, like a setting sun, our time together was all too brief. Now I am left alone once more, my bed cold and empty, my heart aching with the loss of her. Such exquisite sorrow. The pain is almost sweet in its sharpness…
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Ah yes, I nearly forgot. I'm meant to remind you peasants of my existence. As if you could overlook me, High Princess Thean, I shall ask you all to enjoy the pomegranates I graciously blessed you yesterday late evening.”
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She walks off the stage, most graciously did not with her black dress that she borrowed from Sol trailing behind her. The crowd mutters in confusion, but nevertheless, applauds. Last and definitely the least they want to see or hear from. Her frizzled short hair managed to thin out in wires with bulging eyes and a face sliced grin. Showing off her lamprey mandibles.
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“Greetings, my FAITHFUL subjects of KINGUIN~.” The maniac witch raps with clicking teeth and hanging out tongue, “I come before you today to present the findings of my latest experiment, which fortuitously coincided with our annual festival. Hypothesis: By harnessing the untapped potential of reanimated corpses, I could create a live demonstration that would both entertain and educate the masses.
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Methodology: I acquired a sample size of 500 recently deceased individuals, courtesy of the local graveyards and my esteemed colleague, the royal executioner. These specimens were subjected to a proprietary alchemical solution that stimulated motor function and basic cognitive processes. A control group of 100,000, maybe more, living volunteers was selected from the festival attendees.
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Results: The undead specimens exhibited remarkable aggression and single-minded pursuit of living flesh. When pitted against the control group in a specially designed arena, the reanimated corpses displayed a 95% success rate in maiming, dismembering, and devouring their opponents. The crowd response was overwhelmingly positive, with 85% of spectators cheering and applauding the gruesome spectacle.
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Of particular note were the following highlights:
- Subject 17's impressive disembowelment of a portly baker, spilling his entrails across the stage like a macabre buffet.
- The synchronized decapitation of a dozen guards by a horde of ravenous undead.
- The delightful terror in the eyes of the noble ladies as they were pursued by my most handsomely decayed specimens.
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Conclusion: The Mægfæge festival was a resounding success, both in terms of scientific advancement and sheer entertainment value. The experiment validated my hypothesis and opened up countless avenues for future research. Imagine, a tireless workforce that requires no food, sleep, or wages! An army of soldiers who feel no pain or fear! The possibilities are endlessly delicious.
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Recommendations: Increase funding for my laboratory. Provide a steady supply of fresh corpses~
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Thank you for your participation in this groundbreaking study. I look forward to seeing you all again next year... whether you're still breathing or not! Ahahahahaha!”
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Rumen cackles gleefully as she steps away, rubbing her dark hands together. Never did she look at the high royal guests who still eyes the undead that remains on the filth of yesterday.
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Ober strides onto the stage, his steps measured and dignified. The soft golden light from the lanterns casts a warm glow on his chiseled features as he surveys the crowd with a benevolent smile. He raises his hands in a gesture of welcome, his rich velvet robes shimmering with the movement.
"People of Kinguin, esteemed guests from distant lands," Ober begins, his voice resonant and commanding, "I stand before you today to express my deepest gratitude for your presence at our cherished Mægfæge festival. Your participation has brought great joy and honor to our kingdom."
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He turns to face the high royals, seated in ornate thrones on a raised dais. "To our distinguished visitors, the high royals, I offer my most sincere thanks. Your graciousness in attending this celebration is a testament to the strength of our alliances and the depth of our shared history."
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Ober pauses, his gaze sweeping over the princesses. "And to our own beloved princesses, Giza, Thean, and Rumen, I extend my heartfelt congratulations on your magnificent performances during the festival. Your unique talents and dedication have truly elevated this year's Mægfæge to new heights."
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The crowd murmurs in agreement, their voices rising in a soft hum of approval. Ober allows the moment to linger before continuing, a mischievous glint in his eye.
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"Now, my friends, I must ask - what were your impressions of this grand spectacle? Did Giza's fiery dance ignite your passions? Did Thean's melancholic musings stir your souls? And did Rumen's, ah... 'groundbreaking' experiment leave you breathless with excitement?"
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Laughter ripples through the audience, tinged with a hint of nervousness at the mention of Rumen's macabre display. Ober chuckles along with them, his warm baritone mingling with the crowd's mirth.
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"Ah, but let us not forget the true highlight of the festival - the moment when our esteemed baker, in his haste to flee Rumen's undead horde, tripped over his own apron and face-planted into a tray of freshly baked pies!" Ober grins, eliciting a roar of laughter from the people. "Truly, a sweet ending to a thrilling chase!"
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As the laughter subsides, Ober's expression grows more serious. He raises his hands once more, calling for silence. The crowd quiets, a palpable tension filling the air.
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"And now, my friends, the moment you've all been waiting for - the crowning of this year's Mayfairy!" Ober declares, his voice ringing out across the assembly. "But first, to ensure the integrity of our vote..."
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With a fluid motion, Ober extends his arms, uttering silent words. A shimmering barrier springs into existence, encircling the gasping crowd and Fogsight fort. Blaming away the grey clouds and drizzle to make way for the sun on the people’s backs and searing the lord magister’s face. "Now, let your voices be heard!" crying his voice for all the commons to hear him loud and clear. "When I speak each princess's name, raise your hand high if you believe she deserves the title of Mayfairy. Are you ready?"
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The people cheer in response, a sea of hands poised to rise. Numbers forming in the air.
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"First is our most diligent high princess who rules Kinguin by her unmatched stoicism and completely unfazed by any situations. She who allowed the festival to fruition and bring back this ancient tradition, anew. High Princess Giza!" Ober calls out. A smattering of hands lifts into the air, their numbers respectable but not overwhelming. Some from the crowd but all of the high royals raise their hands. Enticing the murmurs and hesitation of some in the commons but Ober quickly finalizes the number. Setting it aside in the air before he calls out the next name.
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"High Princess Thean!" Not bothering to say further
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A slightly larger showing of support with some who were supposed to raise for Giza being counted as a part of Thean’s. Notably, less than half the crowd.
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"And finally,” flattening his own nose as he breathes in, rough and gnarly exhaling, “Rumen!"
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A veritable forest of hands shoots upward, the vast majority of the audience declaring their vote for the maniacal witch. Ober blinks in surprise, a flicker of unease crossing his features before he quickly composes himself. Raising his hands and asking for the crowd to calm. Rumen’s numbers reaching more than Giza and ultimately, Ober’s twisted smile finds reassurance to Rumen who is just as shock as the foreign high royals.
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"All is right after everything that has been done. We have a landslide victory for Princess Rumen," Ober announces, his tone carefully neutral. "While her undeniably perfect performance yesterday certainly left an indelible impression and a new light to Mægfæge. Let it be and let it just be that way.” He says, feeling daggering glares from among the commons and high royals, “We have celebrated the blessing of life by conquering the undead! One that is relevant in the conflicts and wars. Truly a zeitgeist!”
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Indeed, words being used that only leaves the common rabble thinking but nonetheless clapping and cheering. What a load of bullcrap—to the knowing expressions. But many are in a murmur of agreement mixed with nervous laughter sweeps. Ober sighs, a wry smile tugging at his lips.
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"And the people have risen their hands, voted, and so it shall be. High Princess Rumen, step forward and relish your title!"
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Rumen cackles with glee as she bounds onto the stage, her eyes alight with manic triumph. The crowd cheers, some more enthusiastically than others. “Thank you for enjoying the show” Bowing with her short-frizzled hair excitedly swaying. Her crazy eyes seeing the joyous cheer of the fools, and to those who has more thoughts in their head to settle, she flinches her smile wider from ear to ear. “I did not expect to win but thank you!”
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As Rumen cavorts about the stage, reveling in her victory, Ober catches the eyes of the other princesses. Sol and Thean does not bother while Giza watches the sunrise coming to pass the mountains. The high royals watching in confusion, shrugging each other’s shoulders and taking the results as it is before whispering over to GIza. That witch is the new Mayfairy.
That witch, somehow got it. The long unclaimed title, going over to someone who controls the undead. Complete and utter disrespect to the clear memory Isaac is remembering, about the great flame spirit serving everyone warmth with their stories, the clear night sky with beautiful stars and most of all, the caring Nautrens who brings and sustain life. Their celebration…became a popularity and show off contest? The rubble that the walking lord magister is leaving them with. Walking away with his face away from the sun after forcefully parting the clouds. Isaac raises his hand. Calling out “Lord Magister!” in a voice so raw sharp and clear that the old man stops to listen, “This is not Mægfæge!”
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