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((Haha who did I get with the title? be honest haha. After having an argument over Norland with someone else, I decided that I don’t actually care enough, and I guess I am pretty happy to cut ties with the project at this point. I’m gonna be ending my character’s stories with Norland at this point, enjoy!))

 

Oracle had been mourning for days, she couldn’t let her enemies take her beloved tree, and so she saw to it personally that it was taken somewhere safe, however, during the transportation of the tree, and unforeseen circumstances, her tree was killed during the transport. Stricken with grief, the Dryad mourned for her tree for days and nights, she had been running over the experience of being disconnected with her tree for days, and it was too much for her to bare. She grabbed a dagger from one of the Norlandic refugees and plunged it into her heart. She quickly died, a smile on her face as she joined her tree.

 

Robin frowned and watched as his Norlandic children squabbled amongst themselves once more. The Elf stayed out of the conflict as he had done for every other Civil war. He decided that this time it was enough and he returned to his hunter cabin, moving into his bedroom, he opened his closet and there it was, all of his Norlandic memorabilia. The old Elf sighed deeply as he gathered his boxes of trinkets, his medals, his uniforms, and lastly, his Ashen crown, one of his most prized possessions from his ruling during the Dreadlands. He placed the crown over his head, ready to place it upon his scalp, but he hesitated and shook his head, he placed it with the rest of his memorabilia in his fireplace, he gathered his bow and his shiv and set a fuse, he tossed a match as he wandered off, his entire cabin burning to the ground. Robin would seek a new home.

 

Vladimyr Rosik set off on boat, lead by Albrecht Mournstone who abandoned him with the rest of the Norlandic Refugees to sail somewhere safe. He hasn’t been heard from since.

 

((Sorry for Grammar mistakes, I am sure there is plenty!))

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Kanna Yaander rips her badge from her uniform, tossing it to the ground. The Sheriffs badge being crushed beneath her boot as she walked away from the huts of Nordengrad, shaking her head. “The Clan of Yaander does not recognize this new group as Norland. With no recognized Ruric king or leader the Clan of Yaander will not be renewing their vow.”

 

Kanna would pull her bandana tight, following Robin.

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Antal wanders across Atlas with very little left to lose, his friends and family all either gone or scattered to the winds. The events of the Coalition war continue to plague his mind, causing him to wonder if he could have done more to help save  his people. The names and faces of those he knew haunt him ceaselessly. 

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Gaius Greythorn perked a brow as Kanna wandered off after throwing down her sheriff’s badge.

 

“..Who was that, Halle?”

 

The Vyrannian was clearly confused, having never met or even seen this leader of ‘Clan Yaander.’ He turned towards his daughter while he spoke, then started off towards the gate.

 

“Doesn’t matter much. Back to Caroulstadt, I suppose. Or Markev.”

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Lily Greythorn would sip at her tea, both hands cupped around it like the warmth was life itself.

 

“Yaander?” She’d say to her brother, clearly not minding her own business. “Family of undead who used to live under old Norland. One of them tried to force me to give her bodies under threat of death. Good riddance.” She’d say, taking a sip of the warm tea, enjoying the shade of her favorite leafless tree. “I certainly hope Rosik clan and their demon spawn that latched itself onto the Ashtree under the pretense of being from the All-Father enjoy burning in hell.” With that, she sets the cup down, returning to Markev with Gaius.

5I9NS1O.png

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Ellenore lights a small, wax candle as she gives a prayer to Snow The Magus.

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A giant of a man sits atop a tree stump, mournfully watching a small boat drift over the horizon. Many had stayed behind, but he had been left on this land. His own kin, the Rurikids, had refused his joining. The lot of them couldn’t even be bothered to make a serviceable excuse, he was just too much of a ‘liability’ – whatever that big word was supposed to mean. 

 

However as the fading boat finally left his view, the giant could not help but grin. He stood as still as a mountain for several long minutes before letting out a terrible, harsh bellow. His bout of laughter continued until he was out of breath, and the giant had to prop himself up via his woodcutting axe to keep himself from falling over.

 

“No more stupid little men to tell me what to do. The big shiny is mine.”

 

And with that he headed in the direction that he thought was Nordengrad, but was actually north instead of east.

 

 

 

An old veteran, hiding himself in the fineries of his garments, looks at the war-scarred Nordengrad. He passes a few burned huts, under reconstruction, taking a long moment to look in and around each. He was no looter, though, rather he was searching for signs of migration. However the tracks of thousands of horses and soldiers marred any clear, cohesive movements that may have been imprinted in the dirt. And the city was no longer empty, for efforts to restore it had long been in progress. However, out of the corner of his visage, he spots something ever so familiar. Spinning to the side, and displaying a sartorial elegance befitting his attire but not his age, he catches a better look. There in the dirt lies a small wooden figure, marred by both poor craftsmanship and war. He approaches the figurine, slowly raising a shaky hand to his mouth, cupping it to suppress the urge to vomit. His vast funds had nearly been bled dry by the war, but no money lost was as cruel as this.

 

Forcing himself to pick up the figurine, the old man runs his fingers about its rough surface, gritting his teeth as he pockets it once more. He then swiftly pivots away from the walls of the town, showing perhaps the most discipline he had ever cared to hold himself to. He begins to walk away, but his ever-weak will fails himself once more, and the old man cannot help but pause, taking a long and studious glance back at the town every few steps. It is hours until Nordengrad finally leaves his sight.

 

 

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Ryon rests atop a hill, not far from Nordengrad, and smokes the last of his Nordengradic cigars, reminiscing. How many of his comrades now had shirked their duties and loyalties and flocked to the Imperial banners, like scared and spineless sheep; like Mournstone scum? How many score more had fallen honourably, breaking and not bending before the eternal enemy? And now, who was left? Him, for sure, and one or two more who had stuck about like cockroaches and refused to be squashed.

 

Ryon smirked, discarding the last cigar. Cockroaches didn’t fight back though, and he knew he’d killed more than his share of Imperials. And he’d kill more, and he’d never stop fighting. Standing then, Ryon descended the hill in haste to where he knew his comrades in the Brawms were conducting reconnaissance.

 

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Kenswey would walk into Nordengrad, still wearing his uniform. He scoffed at the sight of the empty and tree-less square. “Quite a fuckin’ downgrade, good job Mournstones.” and with that he’d leave the town never returning.

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