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THE EVERMORE CYCLE


Mickaelhz
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Barend Den Ruyter, clothed in his freshly polished shining Myrinian armor grins widely uppon the missive issued by his Lord and Savior Marquis Balthazar II and nods firmly as he raises a mug filled to the brim with ale"Das fokin roiteh, will teach dem greenskins teh fok with Myrine!"

 

At the same time Barend exclaims such a slowely insane going Witchdoctor going by the name of Al-Uk'Lur sits creating powerful hexes fueled with the power of the Spirits he praises.... this to only be interupted with such a missive the Shaman snapping right his head as he growls and curses out the mail boy in ancient blah reading over the missive now his focus was disturbed "Wagh wiff Myrine eh? Wub zkahin glob kauzed diz zkah"

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"About time, M'Lord." said Rolf the Peasant as the demands were read aloud in the square of Myrine. A proud smile formed over the Farmer's face as he went to prepare his Myrinian armor for battle.

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The nomads laugh around their fireplaces hearing of the news from the Southlands. 

 

"The people of the citystates are eager to show themselves as strong, yet they hide their actions through Mafia and bandits" 

 

The discussion often tells about how they cannot fight for themselves and they hire warriors or go with their faces covered by masks and hoods to try to terrorize others. 

 

"The cursed men of the south have a problem with their own egos. Being crushed and defeated by incredible defense, their chieftain himself had to negotiate for the freedom of his warriors! Bending the knee to free them. It was only a couple years ago they attempted a full rally and faced their humiliation. The soft men with their fragile egos must try to bare their fangs to gain notice among contemporaries." 

 

But the Crux of the thing remained. These were cursed men who scorn the gifts of their skyfather. 

 

"They hide their faces, curse their cattle, and warhound just to show the power of a suppressed and cuckholdic people who are not free to serve themselves. Just toil to bring kingdom to their lord. Instead of erecting stones to please the skyfather, or conducting sacrifices to increase their herds, they seek blood which was already claimed, and will find themselves unsure when the truths of their being are revealed. A trapped people bound by many chains. Most of the chains, invisible" 

 

 

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"Balthazar's watchful gaze spread far and wide, truly the best way to end such pettiness from orcs." Chimed the Aediles.

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Moss just stares at one of the many missives posted around Myrine that read off these terms and demands. As usual, he can understand none of it, and just passes by to walk back to the tavern.

In contrast, a short, ugly goblin sees the same declaration tacked up by the great notice board in San'Velku. He takes one look at it, sighs, and takes off for the forge. Wars like this were fought with weapons, not words...
And by Gentharuz, he could make weapons.

 

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Miqdad reclined himself against the neck of his horse, seated firmly in his saddle upon reaching Myrine. He often visited the marble city; a friendly wayfarer who often brought some knick-knack to part with in return for minas. He overheard discussion related to Balthazar's missive and brought himself to sit upright in his saddle again. He recounted a recent incident, either to Elric Duskbloom who commonly loitered the town square, or to any in earshot:

 

"The Orcs have been antagonizing this here town? I remember that one of their own accosted me the other day. God be my witness, he decided to tell me to make love with myself after I challenged him on account of his claim of being rich. I thought he would swipe my. . ." Miqdad pauses, his hands clasping together as if gripping an odd-shaped object, "knick-knack, something or other, off of a rotting beast. Anyways, good on you all for wanting to put them in their place. I'll keep an eye out when I ride these roads in case any of these Orcs decide to be highwaymen."

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The notorious bandit, Skorkon'Ugluk, gasps at the missive. Without recollection of his involvement, he simply offers a shrug as he brushes his bull. "Zureli it am juzt agh natural for an orc tu tayk frum our lezzurz. Livez muzt be taken agh offered tu da zpiritz, or elze we tu zhall zukkumb tu irrelevanz."

 

He looks up from one bull to another, this one constructed from crude brass as a fire rages beneath to heat the metal. It's eyes glare back at him with hunger and hate. "Qarkah makez demandz. Mi muzt zubmit. It iz da will ob da Uzg."

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