/lit/ - Literature

Just a small preface.

The dear, Brown Prince was dead. He had died at Nancy, by that stream called the Meurthe.
The dear Prince had died because he was struck -in the head- with boldness. What an unlucky fellow, and no sooner will he see the light of day again, than he will his own oldness. And now on the ground his golden fleece lay, with no one rightful left to hold it! His daughter could be of no reliance, barely out of her teens. Barely a duchess, and no princess, and certainly not a queen. So it was up to them to maintain the stability that had barely been forged by those bygone Dukes. And although not without quarrel, they'd forged quite the comradery, and that could not be rebuked. Those idyllic leaders whose power had teetered, and filled these Low Countries' with pride. But with their line now at an end on them they could no longer depend; this conclave which would not abide. It was now up to them to resent and resist this prospect of Imperial agency. For they had grown quite settled and used to these men, which were known as the Dukes of Burgundy.