u/Slow_Kick5525

Image 1 — The Limonia Family 1341-1350
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Image 3 — The Limonia Family 1341-1350
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Image 14 — The Limonia Family 1341-1350

The Limonia Family 1341-1350

War and plague turned into a terrible decade for my poor sims.
As always, you can see my tree HERE
My character cards are made with help from AI. I know some people have problems with that. I don't personally have a problem with it, and I just think it is nice to only have to write the text, and not spend time on the rest.

Thank you so much for reading and commenting on my stories. Losing potential storylines has been one of the hardest parts of this decade, but I consider myself lucky that I haven't lost my main characters - yet.

Let's get to it.

Richard and Bridget

The 1340s brought both hope and heartbreak to Richard and Bridget’s household. In 1341, their son William was formally betrothed to Hayden, and the two married the following year, marking the beginning of a new generation for the family.
In 1344, Hayden became pregnant with their first child - the first baby born into the next generation of the family line. But joy quickly turned to grief. In 1345, the child was stillborn, casting a shadow over what should have been a hopeful new beginning. The loss weighed heavily upon the entire household, who had all looked toward the child as a symbol of the family’s future. Hope returned in 1346 when Hayden gave birth to a healthy daughter. They named her Mary, and for a brief time it seemed as though the family had finally found happiness again.
But war and plague soon shattered that peace. In 1347, Richard departed for France to fight in the war, leaving his family behind as England slowly edged toward catastrophe. Then, in 1348, the Black Death struck the household. Little Mary and her uncle Stephen both died from the plague, devastating the family and leaving deep scars behind.
The losses did not end there. In 1349, Richard himself fell in the war before ever meeting the grandson who had been named after him, while Bridget succumbed to the plague shortly afterward. Yet even amidst grief, life endured. That same year, Hayden gave birth to a son. In memory of the family they had lost, the child was named Stephen.
Now, with much of the older generation gone, William and Hayden must carry the family forward alone, raising their surviving son in a world forever changed by war, plague, and loss.

The Fisherman’s Hut

In 1346, Geoffrey finally completed his apprenticeship as a fisherman. Seeing potential in the young man, Alex offered him and his future wife the empty retirement cottage beside the shore until they could afford a home of their own. In return, Geoffrey would help with the household and work alongside Alex on the fishing boat. Geoffrey gladly accepted, and soon afterward he married Judith, the great love of his life. Coming from a fishing family herself, Judith quickly became a welcome help to Alice, who had long carried much of the household’s burden alone.
But peace did not last long. In 1347, Geoffrey was sent to France to fight in the war. Shortly after his departure, Judith discovered she was pregnant. In 1348, she gave birth to a healthy son. Knowing how much Geoffrey loved and respected his father, she named the boy Richard in his honor.

The following year brought more loss when Alex succumbed to the plague in 1349, leaving the family shaken. Yet in 1350, Geoffrey finally returned home from the war. With Gilbert still too young to take his father’s place, Alice began speaking of Geoffrey possibly inheriting Alex’s boat for the time being and teaching Gilbert the trade when he grew older.
After years of war, plague, and grief, the little fisherman’s hut once again stands filled with the sounds of family, the sea, and the hope of a future not yet lost.

Bowman Manor

During the 1340s, Bowman Manor appeared stronger than ever. Walter Bowman ruled the estate with an iron grip, determined to secure the future of the family through his eldest son and chosen heir, Henry. In 1342, Henry was formally betrothed to Mihaela Bishop, and in 1344 the two were married, strengthening the manor’s position during increasingly uncertain times.

In 1347, Walter and his son Adam departed for France to fight in the war, leaving Henry to oversee the estate in his father’s absence. Later that same year, Mihaela gave birth to her and Henry’s first child, a healthy son named Walter after his grandfather. The birth of little Walter II seemed to promise stability and continuity for the Bowman line, even as dark rumors began spreading across Europe. But those hopes quickly unraveled.
In 1349, news arrived that Adam had fallen in the war. Soon after, the Black Death reached the manor itself. Henry and his younger brother Roger both died from the plague, leaving Esther and Mihaela alone with two-year-old Walter II as nearly the entire male line of the family collapsed around them. In the middle of the grief and chaos, Mihaela discovered she was pregnant again.
The final blow came in 1350. After years spent waiting for his return, Bowman Manor finally received word that Walter himself had fallen in France. His squire rode through the gates carrying only his lord’s banner, while Walter never returned home. The man who had ruled the manor through fear, ambition, and absolute control was gone, leaving behind a shattered household and an uncertain future.
Later that same year, Mihaela gave birth to another son. She named him Henry, in memory of the heir the family had lost too soon, ensuring that despite war, plague, and the collapse of the old order, the Bowman bloodline still endured.

Yet with the old lord gone, the future of Bowman Manor remains uncertain. Esther now stands as the last surviving figure of the old generation, while Mihaela finds herself raising the only remaining heirs to a house built on power, fear, and control. Whether the manor will slowly heal under their guidance, or whether Walter’s legacy will continue to shape the next generation, remains to be seen.

The Blacksmith

The 1340s brought growing unease and devastating loss to the blacksmith’s household. Between 1342 and 1345, Hugh slowly began noticing troubling changes in Isabel Hetfield. Her rituals and obsessive routines grew increasingly consuming, and though Hugh questioned Walter about it, he received only vague and dismissive answers. Unable to fully understand what was wrong, Hugh nevertheless became more anxious and withdrawn, often seeming distracted and uneasy, as though he sensed something deeply unsettling beneath the surface of the manor’s carefully controlled image.

In 1343, Richard insisted that young Stephen return home now that he had reached six years of age and was old enough to begin helping on the farm. Maja was heartbroken to lose the boy she had grown so attached to, and his departure left a lasting ache behind.
Then, in 1345, tragedy struck unexpectedly. Hugh died suddenly while traveling on horseback. Officially, it was said that he had fallen, though quiet whispers questioned how such an experienced rider could have met such an end so easily, and there were rumors about Hugh being in a big fight with Walter before he stormed out of the manor. No answers were ever found, and the matter was quickly buried beneath silence.

Life continued despite the grief. In 1346, John married Kaye, a cheerful young woman from a baker’s family, bringing warmth and new hope into the household. Two years later, in 1348, Kaye gave birth to a healthy son named Hugh in honor of the man they had lost. But that same year, the Black Death arrived in England. Simon was among the first victims claimed by the plague, and before the year ended, word arrived that Stephen had also died from the sickness. The loss shattered Maja completely, and she became haunted by the belief that if she had only fought harder to keep him with her years earlier, he might still have been alive. But the plague was not yet finished with the family. In 1349, both Maja and Ralph succumbed to the disease, leaving the blacksmith household deeply scarred by grief and loss.
Yet life endured. In 1350, Kaye gave birth to another healthy son. They named him Simon, ensuring that even after war, plague, and tragedy, the memory of those they had lost would live on through the next generation.

The Brightwell Farm

The 1340s became a decade marked by sacrifice, longing, and loss for Sam Brightwell’s household. Though years had passed since the death of Joan - the wild woman Sam had loved more deeply than anything else in the world - her absence continued to shape the lives of everyone left behind on the farm.

By 1341, Maud had reached an age where many expected her to marry, yet duty kept her trapped at home. With Sam still carrying the scars of war and much of the responsibility for the household falling on her shoulders, she could not leave until her younger brother Nicholas was old enough to take over the farm with a wife of his own. While others around her slowly began building lives and families, Maud remained behind, waiting for a future that always seemed just out of reach.

In 1342, Sam’s youngest daughter Margaret was sent into service with the Bascherini family, a lesser-gentry household enriched through trade. There she quickly adapted to a very different life, learning the rhythms of a noble household while quietly carrying the free spirit inherited from her mother.

Meanwhile, Nicholas grew into an unusual and curious boy. By 1344, he had become fascinated by strange little objects, especially glass trinkets and mechanisms that caught the light or moved in unexpected ways. He spent hours studying how sand slipped through narrow openings or how tiny crafted objects were put together. Though clever and endlessly inquisitive, Nicholas often failed to consider whether the things he brought home actually belonged to someone else. He rarely stole out of cruelty or greed - only because he became so consumed by curiosity that consequences faded into the background.
As the years passed, Sam began looking desperately toward the future. He hoped to see Nicholas betrothed before reaching sixteen, believing that if the boy married young and settled the farm with his future wife, Sam could finally return to France without abandoning Maud to shoulder the burden alone. In 1346, he heard of Liliana, a young girl left orphaned after French raiders destroyed her family. Sam was deeply touched by her story, and took her in. Less than a year later she was formally betrothed to Nicholas.
By 1347, with Nicholas and Liliana promised to one another and Maud growing increasingly capable in the management of the household, Sam finally felt free to return to the war. He did not fight for England alone. Every French soldier caught in his sights became another offering laid at the feet of the woman he could not save. Beneath the discipline of the soldier remained the grief-stricken husband, still raging helplessly against the cruel unfairness of her death. In 1348, experience, skill, and fury proved powerless against the brutal realities of war. Far from the beaches and forests he had once roamed beside Joan, Sam Brightwell fell on a battlefield in France. Yet perhaps death was never the greatest tragedy for a man who lost his soul the day Joan died.
One can only hope that Sam’s bow has finally found its rest, and that somewhere beyond this world, he and his wild beloved Joan are once again side by side - free, young, laughing, and forever competing to see who reaches the shore first.

Back home, life continued to move forward in unexpected ways. Between 1347 and 1349, Margaret grew increasingly close to Drake Bascherini, the younger son of the household she served. Both understood that affection between a servant girl and a nobleman was dangerous, perhaps even impossible, but the Black Death changed everything. When the plague claimed both of Drake’s parents, the Bascherini household was left in chaos. Drake and his elder brother Octavio suddenly found themselves responsible for their toddler sister Talia, while suitable brides became increasingly difficult to find among the dying families surrounding them.
Seeing both opportunity and desperation, Drake convinced Octavio that marriage to Margaret would strengthen the household enormously. She already knew the estate, understood the routines of the house, and cared deeply for little Talia. More importantly, as the younger brother, Drake’s marriage to a former servant created less scandal than it would have for Octavio, who still needed to secure a more politically respectable match in the future. And so, in 1349, Margaret Brightwell became Margaret Bascherini.

Yet even as one child found a future, another was robbed of hers.
That same year, the plague claimed Maud before she ever had the chance to build a life of her own. For years she had waited patiently for her time to come - for Nicholas to grow older, for the household to stabilize, for duty to loosen its grip around her future. Instead, she died before ever truly leaving the farm behind.

By 1350, Nicholas and Liliana hurried to marry after whispers began spreading through the village about the two young people living together alone after Maud’s death. Though already betrothed, the growing unease within the village made it clear that promises alone were no longer enough.

Now, with Sam gone, Maud buried, and Margaret living among the gentry, the old Brightwell household stands transformed. Nicholas and Liliana must learn to carry the farm into a new age shaped by plague, war, and loss - while Margaret’s new life within the Bascherini family may yet change the fate of the Brightwell bloodline in ways none of them could have imagined.

Hetfield’s Merchant House

The 1340s marked the slow unraveling of Isabel Hetfield’s carefully controlled world. In 1342, her husband Darien died suddenly within the walls of their own home, leaving Isabel alone with their young son Dayton.
For years, Darien had watched his wife retreat further into strange rituals and obsessive routines. What had once seemed like grief had become something far darker. Objects had to be adjusted repeatedly. Fabrics smoothed over and over. Always three times. Never more. Never less. It was the only thing that seemed capable of quieting the fear constantly growing inside her.

One evening, while Walter Bowman visited the merchant house to discuss business and the future of the family, Darien finally confronted her openly. His frustration and worry spilled over into anger as he begged her to stop the endless rituals that had begun consuming her life. Startled and distressed, Isabel tried desperately to regain control of herself and the patterns that calmed her mind. In her panic, she adjusted one of the hanging tapestries not three times, but four. The mistake terrified her instantly.
As Darien stepped toward her in an attempt to calm her down, Isabel pushed him away in fear. The rushes scattered across the floor slipped beneath his feet, and he fell backward against a heavy oak chest, striking the back of his skull hard enough to kill him instantly. Only Walter witnessed what truly happened.
By morning, the death was quietly declared an accident. Walter ensured that no suspicion ever touched Isabel, and the household moved on in silence. Yet Isabel herself could not escape the horror of what had happened. Darien had died at the same age her own father had been when he died, and Dayton was the exact same age Isabel herself had been at the time. From that moment onward, Isabel became convinced that a curse followed her family - one tied to broken patterns, wrong numbers, and the terrible fear that history would always repeat itself.

After Darien’s death, Isabel withdrew further into herself. In 1342, she made a quiet arrangement with young Matilda, exchanging herbs for baked goods so she could observe the girl closely without raising suspicion. Isabel’s fear of losing control increasingly shaped every aspect of her life.

By 1343, Dayton had become a child, but Isabel rarely allowed him far from her side. She discouraged him from playing with other children and kept him constantly within sight, desperate to protect him from the fate she believed followed her family.
When news of the Black Death began spreading across Europe in 1348, Isabel’s fragile grip on stability weakened even further. Ships failed to arrive at the merchant house, trade routes collapsed, and terrifying stories reached England of entire towns being wiped out by plague. Convinced that danger surrounded them on all sides, Isabel largely abandoned the daily management of the household and sealed herself inside the great house with Dayton. All incoming goods were washed in Four Thieves Oil and locked away in quarantine for forty days before being allowed inside. Whenever she was forced to leave the house, she covered her mouth and nose with silk cloths soaked in vinegar and filled with Matilda’s herbs to protect herself from foul air and sickness.

Between 1348 and 1350, Edward visited the house often, urging Isabel to stop hiding herself away and return to church and community. But Isabel refused to listen. In her mind, her isolation had worked. While so many others died around them, both she and Dayton survived.

Then, in 1350, came the news of Walter Bowman’s death in France. Walter had long been one of the only people who truly understood Isabel’s fears and knew how to shield her from the outside world when her carefully maintained facade began to crack. His death shook her deeply, and Isabel became convinced that the curse she feared upon her family had finally claimed him as well. Yet strangely, Walter’s death also marked the beginning of a slow change. Isabel gradually began stepping back into the world and returning to the business, though her rituals and obsessions remained stronger than ever. She now refused to buy or sell goods if their weight, price, or measurements felt “wrong,” allowing numbers and patterns to dictate more and more of her decisions.

As trade slowly rebuilds after plague and war, the future of Hetfield’s Merchant House now rests in the hands of a woman caught between fear and responsibility — and a young boy growing up beneath the shadow of the same patterns that once consumed his mother.

The Church

In 1342, Edward took young David into the church as his apprentice, beginning a close bond shaped by faith, discipline, and duty. As David grew, Edward increasingly saw him not only as a student, but as proof that the next generation might still remain faithful in a changing and troubled world.

When the Black Death reached England in 1348, Edward’s faith only intensified. Convinced that the plague was God’s punishment for mankind’s sins, he began preaching strict abstinence, fasting, and repentance throughout the village. To Edward, people should turn away from earthly pleasures and focus instead on saving their souls before death reached them.

After Thomas and Carina married during the plague years, Edward began questioning them closely during confession about the details of their married life, believing it his duty to ensure they did not fall further into sin while God’s judgment hung over the land. Their later tragedy only strengthened his conviction that suffering and morality were deeply connected.

At the same time, tensions grew between Edward and Isabel Hetfield. While Isabel locked herself away inside the merchant house in fear of the plague, Edward repeatedly insisted that true protection could only come through God, prayer, and confession rather than isolation and strange rituals. Neither managed to change the other’s mind.

By 1350, Edward’s faith had become stronger than ever. Having survived the plague alongside David while so many around them perished, he became convinced that their survival was proof of divine favor and a reward for remaining steadfast in God’s path during England’s darkest years.

The Limonia Farm

The 1340s brought both new beginnings and devastating tragedy to the Limonia farm. In 1341, Robert married Fonsa, hoping to strengthen the household after Annas death. Yet tensions quickly formed between Fonsa and Matilda, whose growing independence and unusual interest in herbs and remedies often placed her at odds with the new mistress of the farm. That same year, Isolda was sent away into service with the Davidson family, beginning a new chapter far from home.

By 1342, young David had reached the age of seven and was sent to live under Edward’s guidance at the church. Meanwhile, Robert’s got sick, pushing Matilda further toward her interest in healing. Desperate to help her father, she began crafting herbal remedies and quietly formed an arrangement with Isabel Hetfield, exchanging fresh baked goods for rare herbs and ingredients. In 1344, even Walter Bowman himself sought out Matilda’s help after falling ill. Against all expectations, her remedies worked, quietly strengthening her growing reputation within the village.

Thomas had always been a fragile boy and was often sick because of it. As his health continued to worsen, Robert became increasingly concerned about Thomas’ future. In 1346, while speaking with a farmer from a neighboring village, Robert saw an opportunity. It would be easier to secure a marriage for Thomas somewhere people did not already know of his weak health and frequent sickness. The farmer had a daughter close to Thomas’ age, and before long the two fathers agreed upon a match. Thomas was formally betrothed to Carina.

Then came war. In 1347, Robert departed for France, leaving his family behind. Later that same year, a traveling merchant stopped at Simon’s smithy to repair his wagon and brought terrifying news from across the Channel. A strange sickness was spreading through France, but worse still, the merchant recognized Simon’s family name from conversations overheard among soldiers discussing fallen comrades. Fear spread immediately through the family. Simon desperately questioned the merchant, naming relatives one after another in hope that he might be mistaken. Richard? Geoffrey? But when Robert’s name was spoken, the merchant’s expression revealed the truth before he could even answer. Robert Limonia had fallen in the war.

When Simon walked up to the farm carrying the news, Matilda understood almost immediately that something was wrong. Before the words had fully left his mouth, she collapsed in grief. Fonsa and Thomas, watching silently from the doorway, needed no explanation. Robert would never return home.

The years that followed were shaped by plague and loss. In 1348, Thomas and Carina were married as the Black Death spread across England. Then, in 1349, both Peter and Fonsa succumbed to the plague, leaving the younger generation suddenly responsible for carrying the household alone.

That same year, Carina went into labor with twins. With Matilda’s help, the first boy was delivered safely and quickly baptized Robert in honor of Thomas’ fallen father. But Matilda soon realized another child still remained inside Carina. The second birth became long and dangerous, and despite desperate efforts, the second twin was stillborn. Carina only just survived and was left bedridden with childbed fever for days afterward. Hayden, who had recently given birth herself, helped nurse little Robert while Carina slowly recovered.
The tragedy shattered both Thomas and Carina. Edward had warned that giving in to earthly desires during the plague was sinful, and now the grieving couple became convinced the loss of their child was divine punishment. Though Matilda persuaded Edward to allow the stillborn twin burial in consecrated ground, he demanded that Carina perform a deeply public act of penance before the village so all could witness her punishment and repentance. Carina accepted willingly, desperate to atone for what she believed to be her sins, while young David overheard the entire arrangement in silence. Yet even that suffering was not the end. Only a short time later, little Robert himself died from the plague.

Now, after war, pestilence, and the deaths of nearly the entire older generation, the future of the Limonia farm rests upon the shoulders of Thomas, Carina, and Matilda - three young survivors left to rebuild a household haunted by grief, guilt, and the memory of those they have lost.

u/Slow_Kick5525 — 2 days ago

Thomas I and Eleanor

My family is getting quite big now, so I´ll take them one at a time.
As always my tree can be seen HERE
For some of them, you'll be able to see a Character card if you click on them (Only adults and up, starting in Roberts generation)

Isabel Hetfield

Isabel and Darien Hetfield

Part-owners of Hetfield’s Merchant House

The decade began in quiet grief. In 1330, Isabel and Darien lost their daughter, Margary. It was not a loud passing, but a slow fading, the kind that leaves more unease than sorrow. For Darien, it was something to endure. For Isabel, it awakened something older - a memory of her own childhood, of siblings buried too young, and of the unspoken truth that she alone had lived.
At first, it was grief, but grief, left too long without answers, began to take shape.

In 1332, another daughter was born and given the same name - Margary. Not only in remembrance, but in hope. In 1335, a son followed - Peter. For a time, it seemed as though the past might loosen its hold. The household remained ordered, the business steady, and Isabel carried herself as she always had - composed, precise, unshaken.

But beneath that surface, she had begun to watch more closely. Not only her own children, but the children of others. She asked questions that seemed harmless at first. How they were growing. Whether they had been ill. Whether they slept well. And always, without fail, she returned to the names - especially those that had been used before. Repeated names. Reclaimed names. Did they thrive? Or did they fade, as hers had?

When Darien was sent to war in 1337, the house did not falter. Isabel maintained everything as it had always been. But his absence removed the last quiet counterbalance to her thoughts. That same year, their second daughter, Margary, died of fever. Two daughters. Same name. Same end.

After that, something shifted. Isabel did not weep before others. She did not rage. Instead, she began to refine her attention. Small things became important. Details that others would overlook began to hold weight. She corrected the fall of her son’s clothing more often than necessary. Smoothed fabric that was already smooth. Adjusted sleeves, collars, hems - as though order in appearance might reflect order elsewhere. She repeated actions. Three times. Always three times.

She would smooth Peter’s hair once, then again, then once more - not hurriedly, but with careful intent. Coins were counted, then counted again, and once more, until the number felt certain. Words were chosen with care, and prayers measured, as though precision might protect what remained.

By 1338, another son was born, she chose his name with purpose. Dayton, after Darien’s father - a man who had lived, grown old, and died as he was meant to. It was not sentiment that guided her, but intention. If patterns could be traced, then perhaps they could also be altered.

Later that year, their son Peter died of the same illness that had once taken her brother. With his passing, the past aligned perfectly with the present. Three children lost in one generation. Three in another. And in both cases, one remained.

From that moment, Isabel no longer searched for comfort. She searched for certainty. Her questions about other children became more pointed, though still softly spoken. She listened for signs - illness, weakness, anything that might confirm or disrupt what she believed she saw unfolding. And when she heard of children bearing names once lost, she listened most closely of all. Did they live? Or did the name carry something with it?

By the time Darien returned from war in 1340, the house of Hetfield appeared unchanged. The ledgers were still neat. Trade continued. Isabel stood as she always had - composed, controlled, exact. But he could see what others did not. The pauses that lingered just a moment too long. The questions that circled back to the same points. The careful repetitions. The way her attention settled, again and again, on the smallest details - as though something vital might be hidden there. Her grief had not lessened. It had sharpened. She no longer feared death as something distant. She studied it as something patterned. And though she spoke of it to no one, Isabel had come to believe that what had taken her siblings had not ended with her survival. It had only been waiting. Now, she did not ask if it would return. Only whether she could learn its rules before it did.

Edward Limonia

Edward Limonia

Priest of the Village

In 1337, the old priest died, and Edward stepped into his place without hesitation.
His faith had always been firm, and the role seemed less a change than a confirmation of who he already was.
From that moment, he became a central figure in the village, guiding its people through both loss and life.
He baptized the young, buried the old, and watched closely over those in between.
For Edward, faith was not something to be carried loosely. It was something to be lived, fully and without compromise.

Alice Cartwright

Alice and Alex Cartwright

The Fisherman’s House

Their life began simply, with Ralph born in 1331, followed by Stephen in 1335. But loss came early, and Stephen did not live long, leaving a quiet absence in a house that had only just begun to grow. Gilbert’s birth in 1338 brought some light back, and life continued, as it must.
In 1339, Alice’s nephew Geoffrey began his apprenticeship as a fisherman, tying the family more closely to the trade that sustained them. But in 1340, tragedy struck again when Ralph was killed by a wild boar in the forest, leaving Gilbert as their only surviving son.
Through it all, Alice watched. Not only her own children, but those around her. She noticed the small things others missed - especially in Isabel. The careful questions, repeated too often, circling the same children and the same concerns.
Alice said nothing. But she saw more than she let on.

Simon Limonia

Simon and Maja

The Blacksmith’s House

Their household grew with steady hope in the early years. Hugh was born in 1330, followed by a daughter, Agnes, in 1333. But that hope was fragile. Their first Agnes was taken by illness while still an infant, leaving behind a silence far greater than the life she had lived. Still, they endured, and in 1337, another daughter was born. They gave her the same name - Agnes - as both remembrance and quiet defiance.

That same year, Simon secured a future for their son Hugh, arranging for him to begin his path as an apprentice in Hetfield’s merchant house. It was a step forward, a sign that not everything would be lost. But in 1338, the red sickness came, and it did not spare them. Both young Agnes and their eldest son, Roger, were taken. With Roger gone, his twin brother John became the heir, and the shape of their family changed overnight. In the midst of their grief, they took in Stephen after his mother’s death. He was still an infant, still in need of milk, and Maja - having just lost her own child - had more than enough to give.

At first, it was an act of necessity. A kindness. But it did not remain that simple. Maja had buried two children in too short a time. The emptiness left behind did not fade, and when she held Stephen, it filled something that grief alone could not. The plan had been for him to return to his father once he was weaned, but when the time came, she found reasons for him to stay. Bridget’s pregnancy became one of them - a sensible excuse, one no one could easily argue against. But the truth was quieter, and far more personal. Maja was not ready to let him go.

By 1340, another son was born to them - Ralph - bringing new life into a house that had known too much loss. But even then, the bond had already been formed. Stephen was no longer simply a child in their care, nor a temporary responsibility to be returned when convenient. He had become part of them. And for Maja, who had lost so much, that bond was not something she would surrender easily.

Richard Limonia

Richard and Mary

The early years of the decade were marked by quiet sorrow. Three times Mary carried a child, and three times she was left with empty arms. Each loss she bore without complaint, but slowly, a doubt took root within her - not loud, not bitter, but persistent. She began to wonder if she herself was lacking, if she had somehow failed in the one role she was trying to fulfill. Still, she endured, holding onto faith and the hope that she might one day be worthy of giving Richard another child.

In 1337, that hope was answered. Stephen was born, alive and strong, and Mary embraced him as a gift long delayed. That same year, with Sam gone to war, she convinced Richard to take in her brother’s children, expanding their household in both burden and purpose. But peace did not last. In 1338, the red sickness came. Stephen fell ill, and Mary, as she always had, gave herself fully to his care. She did not hesitate, did not hold back, and in doing so, she took the sickness upon herself. Stephen survived. Mary did not.

In a world that seldom showed mercy, Mary was gentle.
She was not made for greatness, nor for power, nor for the shifting tides of fortune. Her place was simple, and she embraced it fully: her home, her husband, her children. She loved without measure, and she gave without thought of return. To know Mary was to be cared for, to be seen, to be held in a quiet warmth that asked for nothing in return.
Yet her heart was marked by sorrow.
Again and again, she had carried life within her, only to feel it slip away before it ever truly began. Three times she had prepared to be a mother, and three times she was left with empty arms. Still, she did not turn bitter. Still, she did not question. She endured, as she believed she must, trusting that all things were as God willed them.
When at last a child lived - a small boy with steady breath and warmth in his skin - she saw it not as chance, but as grace. A mercy granted after years of quiet devotion. She held him close, certain that she had finally been deemed worthy of the life she had so long prayed for.
And when sickness came, as it so often does, she did not step back.
She did not think of herself.
She did not weigh risk or consequence.
She simply did what she had always done.
She cared.
She held him through fever and weakness, through restless nights and shallow breath, offering what comfort she could, as if her love alone might be enough to shield him from the world’s cruelty.
The child lived.
Mary did not.
There were no accusations in her passing, no anger, no cry against the heavens. Only the quiet ending of a life that had been spent entirely for others.
Some would say it was God’s will.
Others might question why such a woman was taken at all.
But in the small house she left behind, her absence would be felt in ways no prayer could fill.
For kindness such as hers does not linger in objects, nor in walls, nor in the rhythm of daily work.
It lives only in the hands that give it.
And when those hands are gone, the world grows just a little colder. 

Her death left more than grief. It left a void in a house already stretched thin. Stephen, still in need of milk, was taken in by Maja and Simon, and Richard, faced with the weight of his household, had little choice but to marry again quickly. Before the year’s end, Bridget became his new wife, bringing order where there had been none.

Meet Bridget Limonia

In 1340, Bridget gave birth to a daughter, Agnes, offering the household a fragile sense of renewal. That same year, Richard’s father, William, passed quietly in his sleep. His life had been one of endurance rather than ambition, shaped by caution and the need to survive.

That same caution had long frustrated the next generation. Richard had inherited his father’s careful ways, rarely risking more than was necessary, never straying far from what was known to work. For William II, coming of age in a harsher and more demanding world, that restraint could feel like limitation rather than wisdom.

Between Mary’s quiet doubts, Richard’s steady caution, and the shifting needs of a growing household, the family was shaped as much by what they held back as by what they endured.

Sam Brightwell after returning from the war

Joan and Sam Brightwell

Joan and Sam’s life was built on something deeper than duty. They were not simply husband and wife, but equals in spirit - both strong-willed, both bound to the land, and to each other. Their home was not always orderly, nor always approved of, but it was alive in a way few others were.

Children followed in time. Nicholas was born in 1331, Margaret in 1334, and their household grew around them. But Joan’s place in the village extended far beyond her own home. She was known as a cunning woman, just like her mother had been. Called upon in times of birth and sickness, trusted where others hesitated. She worked with herbs, with knowledge passed quietly from one generation to the next, offering what help she could in a world where help was never guaranteed.

In 1337, that life ended abruptly. Joan was killed while warning the village of approaching raiders, her death as swift and unyielding as the life she had lived.

The salt spray stung Joan’s face as she tracked a stag near the cliffs, far from the disapproving whispers of her in-laws. But the movement she spotted on the horizon wasn't prey—it was the dark sails of French raiders, their oars cutting through the grey December surf. While others would have frozen, Joan’s wild heart raced with purpose. She swung herself onto her horse, galloping toward the village to sound the alarm. She was a silhouette of defiance against the winter sky, a warning cry already forming in her throat. She never saw the scout in the treeline. The French arrow found its mark, a cruel sting of iron that unseated the bravest woman in the county. As the world faded to the sound of the approaching tide, Joan didn't feel fear—only the fierce satisfaction that her horse was already thundering into the village square, riderless but carrying the silent warning that would save her husband and her people. She died as she lived: under no roof, beholden to no one, and faster than the wind. 

Her loss was felt far beyond her family. Where once there had been someone to turn to in moments of fear and uncertainty, there was now only absence. For Sam, the loss was not something to endure quietly. It burned. He left for war soon after, driven less by duty than by the need for vengeance. His children were taken in by his sister Mary and her husband Richard, who kept both the children and the farm going in his absence. When Sam returned in 1340, he came back alive, but not at peace. The war had not given him what he sought. Joan was still gone, and the need for vengeance had not faded with time or distance. Some bonds do not end with death. And Sam carried his with him still.

Walter Bowman

Walter and Esther Bowman

The Lord and Lady

Their house was built on power, not comfort. From the beginning, Esther learned that her place was not to question, but to be perfect. Every word measured, every action careful, always watching for the smallest sign of displeasure. For in Walter’s house, failure was never without consequence. Their second son, Adam, was born in 1330 and died the following year. Walter did not mourn as others might. His grief turned quickly to anger, sharp and searching, settling on those around him - most of all Esther. From that moment, she understood that loss would not bring them closer. It would only make him harder.

Another son, also named Adam, was born in 1333, followed by a stillborn daughter in 1336. Esther endured it all in silence, shaping herself into what she believed he required - obedient, composed, without fault. But nothing she did could truly shield her from the weight of his expectations. When Walter left for war in 1337, something shifted. The house grew quieter, but also lighter. Without him, Esther could breathe more freely. She moved more easily, spoke without hesitation, and for a time, the constant tension loosened its hold. Yet even in his absence, fear remained. Their eldest son, Henry, was growing - and in him, she began to see too much of his father. The same sharpness. The same potential for cruelty. She could not help but wonder if she had brought another man like Walter into the world.

In 1338, their youngest son, Roger, was born. But Walter was not there to see it, and when he returned in 1340, his attention was not on the younger boys. They held little interest for him. It was Henry, his eldest, who mattered - the one he could shape, the one who would carry his name forward.

Yet even as he stepped back into his role, Walter noticed something else. Isabel had changed. Others might not have seen it, but he did. After all, he knew her better than anyone. He noticed the questions she asked too carefully. The attention to small details. The sense that something beneath her composure had shifted. He said nothing of it, but he saw it clearly, not yet knowing what to make of it.

Robert Limonia

Robert and Anna Limonia - Main family

Their household grew in both hope and hardship. In 1330, Anna finally gave birth to a son, Thomas II, followed by Isolda in 1333 and David in 1336. Children came, but so did loss - and each loss left its mark not only on the family, but on the shape of their lives.

Among the children, Matilda stood apart. Wild where others were careful, she found her place not in the house, but in the forest. Under Joan’s influence, she learned the ways of herbs and plants, moving with ease among things others feared or did not understand. Robert saw both strength and danger in her. He was torn - between letting her remain as she was or forcing her into the role the household would one day demand of her.

Thomas, by contrast, was often unwell. His sickness came and went, never quite taking him, but never fully leaving either. It weighed heavily on both Robert and Anna, who could not ignore the fear that their only son might not grow into the strength required of him.

The years were marked by loss.

In 1333, Thomas I died:

He would not stay behind.
Though his breath had grown shallow and his body heavy with fever, Thomas rose with the others and walked the familiar path to the church. It had been the rhythm of his life for as long as any could remember - work, duty, faith - and he would not let weakness be the thing that broke it. Inside, he stood among his kin and neighbors, as he always had. A steady presence. A man others leaned on without thinking, because he had never failed to be there.
But the walk home demanded more than he had left to give. It was just beyond the church doors, with the murmurs of the village still around him, that his strength finally left him. The world tilted, his steps faltered, and before any could reach him, he fell.
Hands came quickly - many hands. Voices calling his name. Men and women who had known his kindness, who had relied on his quiet strength. They gathered around him as he had once gathered around them. But there are moments no hands can mend.
Thomas did not rise again.
He died not in silence or in solitude, but in the company of those who had known his worth. A man who had given his life to others, carried from the threshold of the church by the very people he had spent a lifetime supporting.
And though his voice was stilled, his work remained - in the fields he had tended, in the family he had raised, and in the steady way his name would be spoken long after he was gone.

In 1335, Eleanor followed:

She did as she was told.
Eleanor was left to watch the little ones, a task she took to with the quiet sense of duty that had always defined her. While others worked, she remained steady, dependable, and seldom in the way.
When Isolda slipped away, Eleanor followed without hesitation. It was not her place to question, only to act. She found her by the water’s edge, where the stillness of the lake gave no warning of what was to come.
The child fell in.
Eleanor did not think. She went after her, as she would have done for any of them. Small hands grasped, water pulled, and still she did not let go. Somehow, she brought Isolda back to the bank.
By the time help came, her strength was gone. She had done what was asked of her. More than was asked. Eleanor did not cry out, nor did she falter in her duty. She gave everything she had, and in doing so, saved another life. And that is how she will be remembered.

Even as the family endured, life continued. Edward took an interest in David, seeing in him a future within the church - a path Robert and Anna understood would mean losing him in another way.

Then, in 1340, everything changed.

Anna died:

Anna was not a woman of great words, nor of grand gestures. She was the one who made things work.
While others spoke, she laboured. While others rested, she planned. She carried the weight of the household not with complaint, but with quiet certainty, as though it had always been hers to bear. There was always something to be done, and Anna saw to it that it was done.
She knew how to stretch what little they had. How to turn milk into cheese, scraps into meals, wool into something that could be traded for coin. Through harsh winters, heavy taxes, and years marked by loss, she kept the family standing.
It was not luck that saw them through. It was her.
She bore six children and raised them in a world that gave no guarantees. She did not have the luxury of softness, but there was care in everything she did - in full bellies when she could manage it, in clean clothes when there was time, in the way she held things together even when they threatened to come apart.
Her death came not in sickness, nor in age, but in the midst of her work.
She had gone to fetch hay for the cow. The ground was damp from a long day of rain, and her boots were slick with mud. As she climbed, her footing failed her. She fell before anyone could reach her. Her neck broke on the hard-packed earth below. There was nothing to be done.
She died as she had lived - in the work that sustained them, without pause, without witness, without asking anything for herself.
Only in her absence did the full weight of what she had carried become clear. And only then did they understand how much of their survival had rested, quietly, on her shoulders.

With Anna gone, the household stood on uncertain ground. Matilda, though now thirteen, was still too young to take on the full burden. Thomas remained fragile. The younger children needed care.

For Robert, there was no easy path forward.

To keep the farm - and his family - from falling apart, he would have to make a choice he was not ready for: to marry again, not out of desire, but out of necessity.

I'm looking forward to see what the next decade brings.

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u/Slow_Kick5525 — 21 days ago

So I did a thing. Or well I'm doing a thing.. I really like playing ultimate decades challenge, and i really like adeepindigos Healthcare Redux, but I find it a bit annoying not to be able to do something about it when my sims get sick. Specially milder illnesses. I know they didn't have cures for tuberculosis and malaria, but often the woman - or atleast the towns cunning woman - had some sort of remedy to maybe help a little.
So I made a medieval apothecary mod. I´ve made 29 different potions that takes care of all sorts of things. Some only treat symptoms, and others treat mild illness. Some treat bruises and burns, and some just makes you smell nice. Sometimes. Cause it is medieval medicine, and its not always super reliable, so sometimes it'll just make your sim feel worse.
And then I ofc had to make a Belladonna plant, so I could make a Belladonna poison. Drink it yourself, or give it to your annoying neighbor.

I just - finally - finished all my recipes, so I can finally go back to my main save and actually start testing how it works in the game. And maybe someday, if anyone is interested, I can make it public. I already have consent from adeepindigo to let it work with Healthcare Redux.

I guess I´m just pretty proud of myself, and wanted to show people what I did. And hear if it's something people are interested in, or if I'm the only one.

u/Slow_Kick5525 — 1 month ago