The Sea Returns An Iron Crow

[Esterlen 4499]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7aYfjE8h48

 

The harbour at the capital bustled with the tell-tale hum of economy, hook-nosed merchants spruiking their wears before passers-by, gnarled criers announcing the hour's news before the crowds, whores ushering resting sailors into their dens to either perform their services or rob them of their coinpurses. These sounds of industry, never present when the line of Horen ruled over the realm, were likely in part the work of Joseph of Lane, the ambitious Lord Steward who Franz Josef recalled made every effort to improve the human condition during the age when they both sat upon the council.

 

That was many years ago, or so he thought. Prince Franz Josef Carrion had been in a self-imposed exile for the majority of the last fifteen years, cavorting far off in a foreign land doing God-knows-what. A ship, an immense carrack bearing red and yellow sails the colours of a tongue of flame, had begun to make port in the harbour, manuevering deftly between the chalky cliffs that served as an entrance to the expansive dock. At its fore he stood, retainers bearing his sigil all around him, hurrying busily to dock the vessel. He had departed these lands barely a lad of six-and-twenty, and found himself returning to it a warrior of one-and-forty. Broad-shouldered, tall and muscular, he seemed to in many ways resemble his lord father in his middle age. Across his heavy, square jaw was a close-cropped black beard and moustache, and his eyes were a dark and sullen emerald, distinctive of the line of Carrion. He was not pale of skin like his father and brothers, possessing of a skin tone weathered by the sun almost to the point of resembling leather.

 

 

While his hairline had receded somewhat, creating the effect that he was older than he was in truth, Franz counted himself lucky not to share the short stature and prematurely greying hair of his mother's line. The scar inflicted upon him by an apostate mage was still present on the left side of his face. He wondered exactly how long he had been gone - a thought that was swiftly interrupted by the heavy tones of trumpets and drums, the dockmaster having recognized both the sigil borne by the ship's sails and the man who stood at its helm. The crowd resounded with a strange, almost unwarranted joy, for this was not just any man who had returned to them.

 

For Franz was the last living son of the man they called 'Papa Siegmund' and spoke of in reverence. The unbroken blood of ancient Raev ran through his veins, his mother and father's lines the culmination of an ancient seperation and later union of two old bloodlines, of Kosanov and Barbanov. Saints were positioned within his family tree, his blood was by all rights holy. And yet Franz had learnt that in reality, that meant naught. He had left a spoiled princeling ill-prepared for any position at court, who had botched his sole appointment as head of the Faith, and he had returned a just, puritanical man.

 

Some knew him by the name of Radomir, Sigi Reuven, or simply Franjo. Others said that he had become a slaver in the far south and drank himself to death in exile, or that he had become a destitute monk and thrown himself into the ocean as penance for his perceived sins during the times of the Tarus Rebellion. It was almost undisputed that he and his flagship were lost. One thing was certain: the sea had given back to the realm a prodigal son born again from water's salt and steam. And now, like the iron his blade was forged from, Franz did not bend.

 

"A prince, a prince!" The assembly shouted, "God has returned to us the prince!"

[Cracker 4570]

"Franniz the Manniz" shouts a peasant on the street.

 

"Franz the Man" shouts another.

 

But most kept mum as they felt the winds stir and the piercing scent of salt and smoke linger in the harbor air.

[Avacyn 1712]

A plethora of ragged soldiers, they themselves all mismatched patches on a greater quilt, pass through the docks. With a turbulent uproar gathered nearby, the young fair-haired lord raises his gloved fist, bringing his retinue to a halt. Their crimson tabards whip in the salty sea wind, the black ravens embroidered thereupon seeming to actually flap their wings and fly.

"The game has changed, Patriots."

[HappyShackles 886]

Lorethos leans back in his study, examining a map of the Fringe on the table before him. He stands, walking around the table slowly, dwarven, orcish, elven, and orenian assets marked by small figurines. He reaches over, moving several infantry units northward only slightly, knocking over a dwarven and an orcish figurine. "Mm. At a price, though." He removes one of the three Orenian infantry units he has moved, setting them on the side of the table, staring at the theater of war. 

 

Suddenly, he hears footsteps behind him. He stands and turns, seeing his serving girl Maren offering him a letter. "From Uncle Sigi, my lord." Lorethos nods and takes the letter from her, looking it over. He turns back, seeing Tance in the doorway, Maren's eccentric uncle. He nods to Tance and then to Maren, turning back, letting them both leave and waiting to hear the door close before opening the letter. He sits down at the table once again and grin.

 

He moves his hand over to a figurine of the Rex of the Warnation, knocking it over with his finger.

 

He moves his other hand to a figurine of the dwarven Grand King, swiping him off the table.

 

He stands and takes the figure of the King of Oren, and places him on top of Urguan.

 

"The game has changed, gentlemen..."

[Galendar 631]

'Welcome Home... my old master...' Harbinger Phraasner whispers, watching the boat drift in, leaving as it touches the shore.

[JVQ 1719]

Raymond leans on the cold jewel encrusted sword his father gave him. "The game has changed mother fuckers"

((Really well written, welcome back))

[ACanadianCraft (Nate) 682]

"The game has changed, gentlemen..."

 

*Mason promptly goes about changing the game to accommodate House Basileus,

as well as disciplining troops.*

"Prepare yourself, men. It's about to get about 6x more paranoid in here."

[Will (TauFirewarrior) 2466]

"About damn time."

[seannie 7443]

b-but it's april the first i don't like this

[yopplwasupxxx 5946]

"Could be another White Ruse..."

[Z3r05t4r 855]

"Tides are changing." Silus notes, sitting at his drawing table with the schematics of Triarch, the third and for now last steam golem to be built.

[Sneaky 189]

"Well I don't trust it."

[BegginLena 135]

Mikhael spins round in his chair after shuffling many important looking documents, he puffs out smoke from his pipe and speaks in a quick energetic tone,

 

"Ah! ti's good to see borsa Carrion on these shores, the bloodline dwindles with every moment and this is promising news"

[5aml1 2]

Ozmir lights an additional candal and says a prayer thankfully that the Creator returned an old friend.

[Knox213 10]

Welcomes Franz back.