Cingedoz Sagamagjoz - The Narratives of the Cingedos Tribe in Aevos

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

The Cingedoz Sagamagjoz [Common: Great Narratives of the Cingedos] consists of the sagaoz [Common: stories] written by Cingedoz regarding their adventures, heroic deeds, and lived experiences. The great volume is kept tucked away somewhere significant, usually in a hewn shelf in one of the runestones designating their assembly-place or in a clan hall. This prized possession is currently in the Barony of Bodbwodz and can be read by any who happen upon it; the Cingedoz take pride in showcasing their virtue, bravery, and adventure to any who’d be interested to hear or read of it. Learn more about the Cingedoz here.

 

OUT-OF-CHARACTER NOTES

Spoiler

This forum post functions as a record where any Cingedoz characters can write narratives of something they’ve experienced in-game. Readers can leave friendly remarks or in-character replies, observing the norms set with regards to what your character knows of a given situation described in any post. Please, as a related aside, do not leave passive-aggressive “in-character” remarks or rude, snarky, or otherwise obnoxious “out-of-character” posts in this thread. Much obliged!

 

 

Cingedoz Sagamagjoz

Sprækjom for "The Great Narratives of the Cingedoz"

GESTA CINGEDURON

Flexio for "The Deeds of the Cingedoz"

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

 

Whistling gusts blew drafts between the modest cottages and ancillary buildings that dotted the foothills of the Langkettes; Cunimund had finally arrived to the town of Apfelberg and into the shadow of the great castle of Ulrichsberg. He began the ascent of switchbacks that were cut into the foothills and led him to the lowered drawbridge of the castle, taking the time to greet those he passed with his guttural tone. The town and its folks impressed an amicable spirit on the Cingedoz scribe, he found an even greater spirit of camaraderie inside the castle.

 

Cunimund paced into the foyer of Ulrichsberg, the first open space upon entering, and found Heinrich Lothar and Aleksandra Milena being counseled by a host of courtiers. He tilted his karnyx warhorn, that tall instrument weighted on one side with a great bronze bell shaped in the form of a boar with its mouth agape, against his shoulder and approached them.

 

"Wæshæl [¹] good Prince & my Lady Chamberlain, you bade me to ride here. Hope I am not too late?"

 

"No, you have arrived promptly as expected," Heinrich responded before opening a palm to acknowledge Aleksandra. The two dipped their heads slightly before Heinrich continued, "We have been considering what means of reward can match the contribution you have made to the Kingdom. Your fervor in transcribing all manners of documents, be it Royal, Church, or otherwise, has impressed us and has proven invaluable to the machinations of both Government and Mother Church."

 

Cunimund tilted his head, running a hand through his thick locks and letting out a caught breath. He took in a deep breath as he watched Aleksandra reach for a document, rolled and tied off, and handing it first to Heinrich who then presented it to Cunimund.

 

"We deem this a worthy reward for your service, an affirmation of a new barony in which you will be made baron of. We merely require a name for your newly entrusted demesne and your signature," Heinrich said, taking out a writing quill and unrolling the document against a nearby pedestal.

 

"You honor me truly, my folk have been migrating across Aevos since arriving in search for land to settle. I think it fitting to name the barony Bodbwodz [²], 'Raven's Expanse', in honor of one of one our most hallowed heroes Bodbmakos hal'Cingedoz [³]. He is even acknowledged in the lists of veneration by the Canon-church, having discovered this when I was transcribing the Legenda Sanctorum [⁴]," Cunimund recounted as he took the quill and listed the barony's name and signed it.

 

The three of them traded pleasantries as the document passed from Heinrich's hands to Cunimund's. The Merryweather Prince detailed the borders of the newly formed demesne, being a minor plateau nestled at the top of the Langkette Mountains which formed a defensive barrier between the Crownlands with Whitespire and the associated Duchies of Minitz & Stran.

 

"Even though the continent is peopled in the hundreds of thousands and stretches for hundreds of miles, this agreement is certainly fortuitous. That the Cingedoz and the folk of Merryweather become neighbors again after so long, as we once were in Almaris in the days of the Savoyard Kingdom who reigned over the Daelish Isles we once lived upon. Good fortune to you both, thank you," Cunimund remarked, a broad smile stretching from ear to ear.

 

Spoiler

1. Common Translation: Whole Health

2. Barony of Bodbwodz:

3. Bodbmakos Raven Son:

4. Legends of the Saints:

 

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

The winds that carried snow across the Langkettes howled that night. Cunimund leaned against the gusts that buffeted him and upended snow against doors and walls of the crannogs that peppered the mountainside. He held a tome against his chest beneath crossed arms and approached one crannog in particular; using his feet to shovel snow away from its door until there was enough clearance for the door, he opened the door. He crossed into the home, from cold into warmth, the embrace of candle heat billowing through the open door invitingly.

 

Cunimund found Morgause laying in bed and quietly brought a spare stool adjacent to where she laid. He seated himself gently and laid the tome on the bed, opposite where the contour of her form beneath wool blankets began.

 

"Mine apologies dear Morgause, ye' were ta' only one I trust fer' me ta' unload mine burdens," Cunimund began, his gaze drawn to the tome between him and her. The tome, a grimoire more like, had a gnarled leather texture with various foreign embossed symbols and perforated margins with a gothic aesthetic. He traced his forefinger along a particular phrase embossed: Gor Haedus.

 

"I made an exchange book fer' book, one t'at I would hope might grant our kin adventure and boons unimaginable, but one I wos' told will result in me being assailed an' hunted until t'e day I surrender its contents ta' another. . ," Cunimund continued, looking then to Morgause, her face still and her body not shifting beneath the blankets. He ran a hand atop her shoulder, giving it a brief shake. No movement reciprocated his. He stood stone-still and listened. No slumber-driven breath or snore could be heard nor did her chest heave. He took his hand and placed the back of it against her neck; he felt the same such cold as he felt outside the crannog.

 

Tears welled from the Waxtolangoi's [¹] eyes and streamed drop after drop down his cheeks and into his unkempt beard. The brydal [²] spoke true, verily I will lose those closest me. My relations perish around me as I must too. He choked on his hiccups, gasping as he tried then to restrain his emotion. He reached for the tome and brought it against his chest once more; it was little comfort for the sorrow that erupted from him. The march of mine own ruin is set, as sure as death came to Morgause, I must march on with valor and little regard for the inevitable end.

 

"Mine kinswoman who death has accepted, who has crossed ta' threshold between t'is mundane an' ta' next, be brave in t'is new transition. Know t'at I will raise a cairn [³] and see ye' properly buried therein. Thank ye' fer' bein' mine rock ta' confide in when alive, mine comrade on t'ose spear days, ye' were heroic in aiding Whitespire when ta' oceans upended itself against t'ose white walls. I name ye' Aingidnemetoi [⁴], ta' be known til' ta' spokes af' time stop turnin'!"

 

Spoiler

Thank you for being an incredible player for the Cingedoz and I pray you have great success in your career endeavors @far1ca!

 

1. Elder

2. Orc

3. tomb, mausoleum

4. Honored (for their) Protection

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Cunimund sat with Ogmios, Abdur Razeeq al-Mona, and Yorvill Amethil, surrounded by the runestones in the centre of Bodbwodz. The group bantered and exchanged conversation; the Qalasheen merchant brought forth a pouch of minas and tossed it to Cunimund, a share in profits from the merchant whom the Cingedoz supplied books to sell on his travels. Yorvill loitered and read from a thick tome, the Cingedoz having welcomed him to read from the old book that once belonged to Brennus the Bard.

The tap-tap of an oaken cane cut through the laughter and loud conversations, hushing voices and drawing glances. An aged Highlander approached the runestone circle, aided by same such cane, and greeted those sat around the assembly place.

 

“Waeshal! Welcome!” Cunimund exclaimed to dispense with the pause caused by the elder’s approach.

“Hail and whole health to ye’. A’ come with purpose, if ye’d have me,” the elder replied. Cunimund stood up, his posture straight and stout and his demeanor shifting to one of solemn respect. The elder approached closer and followed suit.

“I will have ye’ good lad, mine name is Cunimund af’ ta’ Cingedoz tribe. Address me yer’ purpose an’ I will aid ye’.”

“I come seeking mine people good Cunimund.”

“Dictate fer’ me wot’ ye’ know af’ yer’ people, be it little or a great deal. I may be able ta’ help ye’.”

“Mine name is Cadwalla. I remember a tribe ‘round me, but like dark shadows they are. Mead in our bellies and good cheer, good warmaking too. I spoke to a weird sister of the woods who showed me this place, told me that the last bit of my past belonged here? She may have meant trickery by her enigmas, but. . ,” Cadwalla ended his details by withdrawing a bronze amulet, geometric patterns carved against its round shape – a Daelish token. He flipped it up and towards Cunimund with a flick of his thumb.

Cunimund traced the patterns with the nail of his own thumb, blowing away debris lifted from the amulet. “T’ese markings remind me af’ ta’ old home af’ mine tribe, before mine birth by a mere few years, upon a spit af’ islands where ta’ Cingedoz fished fer’ pearls and amber,” he returned Cadwalla’s belonging and continued:

“Our tribe, ta’ Cingedoz, once resided on ta’ islands first known as ta’ Daelish Isles and renamed ta’ Vistulian Isles. We co-existed wit’ ta’ Daels an’ ta’ Radaghastians, t’ough now ta’ other two tribes have withered an’ been incorporated into our own tribe. T’ose were good years, mead aplenty, but peppered between t’em were war years. Our isles were split asunder by one such war, t’en plague followed. We migrated from ta’ isles once disease set in. Gaisorix wos’ ta’ rix [¹] who settled ta’ tribe on ta’ isles; Brennus, his son, led t’em on a migration from them.”

Cadwalla leaned forward, clawing a hand through his ratty beard, “Yer’ retelling speaks ta’ me like some hidden memory friend. ‘Haps the weird sister spoke true.”

“Good Cadwalla, I wager ta’ story ye’ describe makes manifest yer’ kinship wit’ ta’ Cingedoz. Ye’ are welcome, o’ tribesman af’ mine, I embrace ye’ as such an’ it is mine honor ta’ welcome ye’ back wit’ open arms!”

Cunimund stood up, planting the bottom end of his karnyx into the loamy soil to support him upward. Cadwalla followed suit with his oaken cane. The two men embraced, patting each on the back like long lost brothers reuniting after a time. Praises and elation erupted from the small gathering and Cadwalla followed his first embrace with one with Ogmios. A few more tribesmen and women came out of their crannogs and hovels and bade Cadwalla welcome.

 

Spoiler

Translation:

1. Common: Leader, ruler

Thanks for the RP @Sweet Nerevarine @Chrisoulis777 @petaltothemetal@siglms_!

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮
 

Hanseti suffers an encroaching cold, the bitter reach of unrelenting ice, as was told to me by the guest I hosted in Bodbwodz. Cunimund kicked his feet out to spread the thickening snow that the heavens layered across the streets and atop the buildings of Valdev. He had struck his banner before entering, initially not to provoke fears that he came to the capitol with hostility, but in the moment, it served well to keep the natural heat from his body from being overthrown by the invading cold.

He saw the lights of candles and heard the cacophony of tavern talk from one building and entered there. Huddling masses shivered in throngs inside, little in the way of expected merriment could be heard or seen. Bowls of borscht were passed hand to hand, shaking despite an otherworldly warmth present inside. He looked from face to face, finding nothing but sullen looks and furtive glances. The Cingedoz reached for his karnyx warhorn, bringing its ivory mouthpiece up to his lips and seated himself between the two halves and halls of the tavern.

 

A series of bugles cast forth from the bronze bell of the karnyx. The initial tune sounded like a forlorn dirge but was followed with uplifting blasts that sounded almost like challenges from the bronze bell fashioned in the shape of a boar’s mouth agape. The continued playing, growing more defiant and determined, drew the attention of one woman in particular who sauntered over to sit next to Cunimund. She held a babe in her arms which the Baron jestfully made a face at before bringing the karnyx away from his lips and welcomed the woman and child.

“Krasiva [¹] tune you play,” the woman opened with, smiling between her babe and the Baron.

“Och, krasiva indeed. Where did ye’ learn t’is word?” Cunimund asked, his wide eyes betraying his surprise.

“I have a dictionary on Sprækjom [²]!” the woman exclaimed. Cunimund slapped a hand against his folded knee, doubly surprised.

“Hwaet anuanju? Hwakin Cingedoz? Hwakin ogbiju havalonek?”

“Anuanek Morrigan Hargrave, eigi Cingedoz, ju?” Morrigan replied after a pause.

“Well met Morrigan, mine name is Cunimund. Even if ye’ are not Cingedoz, ye’ speak ta’ language well!”

“Have you any interest in other languages Cunimund?”

“Yes, it is often t’at mine tribe learns ta’ languages across ta’ continent ta’ aid t’em in trade. Our forefathers in Almaris spoke languages from Elvellyn ta’ Hyspian,” Cunimund replied.

“Where in Aevos has your tribe settled? I believe I’ve seen you and a few of your kinsmen here before,” Morrigan asked, motioning with her free hand in a circle.

“Mine tribe has settled atop ta’ Langkette Mountains in Aaun, but ye’ve probably have seen me here before. When we first arrived in Aevos, I had lobbied yer’ Koenas fer’ permission ta’ raise a runestone here in Haense – as an indication to mine other tribesmen t’at Haense is safe ta’ adventure through and aid and t’at our goods were accepted in ta’ markets here.”

“Then you must be familiar with the Haverlock family?”

“Af’ course! Mine ward is Olenna Haverlo-,” Cunimund replied before a regal figure approached him and Morrigan. Morrigan stood up with a quickness and Cunimund responded in kind, the two of them bowing respectfully to the approaching third.

“Mine koenas! I came here ta’ Valdev ta’ offer mine laboring hands an’ working body ta’ aid ye’ in clearing ta’ capitol af’ ta’ sky-fallen ice,” Cunimund offered with a second bow.

“A glad tiding, I am come to gather able bodies to clear the ice, starting with the ice precariously near to spearing this tavern in half!” Koenas Amaya Milena announced, the middle of her sentence more loudly pronounced for others in the tavern to hear. Cunimund reached through his deep pockets, bringing out a chisel and small mallet. What works for limestone works for ice!
 

 

Spoiler

Translations:

1. Common: beautiful

2. The language (conlang) of the Cingedoz:

 

Thanks for the RP! @sarahbarah @TheBigBubbles @Caedis 

 

[Sweet Nerevarine 133]

 

"Woe to the man who wanders the Wiccewoldz [1] withoutten much wisdom. Many an ælfen or afgudeignatos [2] lingers in its neuks, waiting, then springing outwith their hiding holes to make mischief upon the minds of men unprepared. If ye go there, to the realm of wicce, heed this: remember that The Deiwo [3] is, in His greatness, unimaginable. Nought can compare to He. Though, wicce-ones often desire nought else but to lead His creations astray. Like a gnat landed on something far greater than itself, we are too small to witness The Deiwo. Even the behemoths of the Wiccewoldz are too small to behold Him. Guard yer worship from all others but He: even if they should tower above you in might, they are nought in His presence."

 

When Cadwalla wandered this plane, guided by his auld teacher, it at first felt like falling from a ship into the tides. During a great and terrible storm there is a rumbling of the waves, a roaring of the rain, and then a muffling of things as one sinks beneath. The cold embrace of water quiets the chaos of the surface, so too did it here. Out in the darkness of this place, a pair of serpentine eyes gazed aimlessly across its vastness. Cloaked in vaporous shadow, the eminent form of some giant lyften [4] adder slid through the celestial stew, oblivious to the Cingedoz in its midst.

 

This part of the Wiccewoldz looked like a night sky, disturbed only by the presence of the great snake. Here Cadwalla floated, he swam in it like an ocean, yet breathed in its emptiness like air. The stillness of this grand abyss choked the air with an overwhelming quiet. Though at last, breaking this dreadful silence, a voice called out a warning: an ancient ken would come to the man, though the price was its selfless application. This knowledge of Wicce could not be used for foul purposes, else a terrible punishment lay ahead.

 

Now the great adder's eyes turned to Cadwalla, ravenous, full of hungry intent. Its maw retracted, its fangs gleamed a ferocious light across the otherwise black plane. No matter how hard the robed sage thrashed against the wicce waters, he moved but a fraction of the velocity at which the celestial snake was fast approaching. Until, like a vole caught in its jaws, it seized upon him and swallowed him whole.

 

Beneath the shade of an old oak, his guide closeby, Cadwalla returned with a bellow from the Wiccewoldz. The message was as clear as the sage was shaken. He hoped the beast, The Deiwo willing, would never be seen again. Though, time would tell.

 

Spoiler

Translation:

1. Magic-plane

2. Fairies and darkspawn

3. God

4. Sky

 

@JoanOfArc

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

Their eyes met and Haus' gaze spirited Cunimund away; the Cingedoz reeling forward mentally as if being catapulted to the heavens above. A heavenward gallivanting. A celestial tapestry draped across Cunimund's vision from end to end, stars glittered from top to bottom. Gaseous nebulae & hurtling comets gave motion to the heavenly array that the Baron explored. In farthest distance, a tear erasing the dotting stars ruptured the horizon. The fissure was a sliver at first, but slowly expanded as if a longsword cleaved apart the glittering vacuum. Light poured forth, violet and violently shining, which the Baron approached. He eventually passed through the threshold, the purple gleam that momentarily enveloped him dissipating.

 

Instinctively, the Baron reached nakedly for a sword to unsheathe but wasn't there, a spear to pounce with but he did not have. He felt repulsion in his stomach and shielded his eyes though no sun sat fixed above him. Eldritch walls towered and flanked him, appendages haphazard and disjointed reached out for him. Eyes innumerable and lidless stared at him in voyeuristic fashion. The foulest monster immeasurable and imaginable stands to devour me. He looked studiously then to find angelic wings intermixed with the butchery of appendages and heard a chorus like that he heard time and again in the Archdiocese of Albarosa. This horror is a ghastly siren and sight to behold, it is want to attract by its mocking refrain its prey that it intends to lay its many hands on.

 

Cunimund blinked and found the walls of the crannog that he and Haus sat in closing in on him. He jerked backwards and felt his head smack against the wall he was sitting against. He rubbed sweat from brow and forehead and rubbed the same hand clean against the front of his tunic. Haus consoled him and conceded that the Baron just saw what had upended the Silver Sea onto Whitespire and lanced Valdev with ice.

 

 

Spoiler

Thanks for the RP @PrimnyaQuorum!

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

 

 

The two men approached a narrow, decorative bridge spanning across the pond dug neatly in one corner of the Oyashiman-styled villa. One of the men, with a kabuto crowning his head, crossed gingerly to the opposite end and left the other to plant his feet on the end just crossed. The pair held sparring swords as still as the pond's untouched edge beneath them. The only movement between the duelists at first was that of their eyes, tracing each other and their foregrounds; koi fish raced in patterns beneath the surface of the pond.

 

"You both will spar with one another. The first to make contact with the other's body gains a point, the first to three will win. If you topple over into the water, your opponent will also gain a point."

 

The Renshin duelist made his first approach, holding his sword high over his right shoulder and shuffling his feet enough to close the distance between his opponent. His strike bore down against his opponent's left side and his opponent attempted to beat back the blow before it landed against him.

 

"Nemeto ach teutoaju!" [¹]

 

Wood beat against flesh, making for a dull gong. An excited yelp and the men separated.

 

"One point for Mogura-san!"

 

Cunimund turned on the balls of his feet to face Mogura again. He initiated the approach this time, taking a one-two step forward and bringing the sword in a swipe upward and towards Mogura's left hip. The Renshin reciprocated with a block and a lunge forward.

 

"Hwakin ju sin dobre?!" [²]

 

Wood drummed against clavicle, a louder beat. Cunimund withdrew this time no longer with smile, but a mouth agape with aggravation.

 

"Another point for Mogura!"

 

Mogura, on his third approach, closed with greater speed. Cunimund raised his sparring sword while keeping his hips open and balance teetering between both knees; the Renshin's attack came too swiftly for the Cingedoz to respond. Cunimund closed his eyes and clenched his mouth as Mogura sent him careening off the bridge and into the pond below. He surfaced, gasping for air like a fish out of water and with a lilypad resting on his head like a kasa [³].

 

The two met and embraced after Cunimund climbed out of the pond, Cunimund remarking on the martial tradition of the Renshin. Ame, tasked with refereeing the spar, inclined with courtesy and came to Cunimund carrying towels to dry himself.

 

"I've clearly spent too much time fightin' in shieldwalls and naught enough time taking care ta' develop mineself in one-on-one combats. Tis' a honor ta' duel ye'. Yer' sword-strokes fell true t'is day good Mogura!"

 

Cherry blossoms scented the breeze that blew in between the walls that enclosed the Renshin tsuboniwa [⁴], the calm after the combat.

 

Spoiler

Translations:

1. Common Translation: Honor upon your people!

2. Common Translation: How are you this good?!

3. Kasa: Wide-brimmed conical hats https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kasa_(hat)

4. Tsuboniwa: Courtyard, enclosed gardens common in Japan https://najga.org/handbook/courtyard-garden/

 

Thank you to @MCVDK @Astrophysical @Yagi_Kamisama for the fun RP at Midori Kawa!

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

Boisterous banter bounced from person to person gathered in the runestone circle in the centre of Bodbwodz. An Orc proselytized to a Cingedoz; recalling the spirits in his pantheon with glee. A woman shuffled and fidgeted, side-eyeing another of the Cingedoz whose exclamatory expressions were directed to a Lechian.

 

"Latz can name da zpiritz, nub harm in dat."

 

"Are you sure you aren't going to eat us?"

 

"Hah! You hear the word tribe and think us savages?"

 

"Gott mit uns, it is a good night to share with the baronial neighbors of Merryweather!"

 

"I wanted to ask to be sworn in as sheriff o' Cunimund, the recent attacks of the cholerny darkspawn has spurred me on to make a decision. I mean to learn the tradition of the hale Cingedos and to adopt the mantle of culture."

 

Cunimund turned to face his younger counterpart, a fatherly smile beaming. He stood up, going to withdraw a long folded bundle from a nearby earthen-hovel.

 

"Good Wrotek, it gladdens mine heart ta' hear ye' return. It has been years since ye' first replied to mine offer, bidding me farewell as ye' go out ta' learn the letters and ta' manner af' reading and 'rithmetic," Cunimund replied, drawing off the folded cloak that hid the falx in his possession. He motioned for Wrotek to stand, the two men facing each other surrounded by the small company of tribe-guests.

 

"I bid thee ta' uplift ta' tribe, ta' uphold ta' law, ta abide by ta' axioms. Know t'at t'ough all af' ta' tribe keep peace an' maintain order, ta' position ye' know as sheriff, to us uemgutus meaning voice of law that we may have a formal person to keep peace and to hunt after the criminal, the eldritch, and the rude who haunt the roads and the woods and the mountains of our land and neighboring domains."

 

Wrotek bowed just as Cunimund held out the falx; the long blade passing from Baron to the new sheriff. A mixed response ranging from nervous applause from the woman from the sewers of Lurin to rowdy chants from the Orc.

 

 

Spoiler

Cheers for the wonderful RP! @TheGentleDuck @Jihnyny @Calise11 @Mykei

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

Adelheid, Cunimund, Haus, and Philip sat altogether at a table in one of the corners in the meadhall. Stone mugs clinked against tabletop and hands slapped against shoulders and knees as the four bantered and spoke. Cunimund leaned an oil painting gingerly against a stained-glass windowsill adjacent to where they sat, thanking Philip for it while keeping the painting from any of the splashing mead tossed up between the four seated.

 

"And what do you hope your tribe here advances? Will you one day have walls and stone houses spread across the mountain?" Philip asked between sips of spiced mead.

 

Cunimund leaned forward, chortling abruptly. "Fat chance af' t'at! Mine tribe will always be af' ta' earth an' wood. Our earthenwalls do jos' fine. And we dun' have no fantasy in our minds ta' be a vast folk buildin' beyond our need. We have always been few in number an' comfortably so!" he exclaimed.

 

 

A young Cingedoz page and another his elder entered the meadhall; the youth held a letter scrunched underneath a closed fist. The older Cingedoz, Owain ap Fawr, folded his arms with a look of mischief. Ambactorix, the page, unfolded the letter and held it mockingly like a Heartlander herald holding a scroll to read from.

 

"His Lordship, Cunimund hal'Cingedoz, Baron of Bodbwodz," Ambactorix began, cheekily reading in a higher pitched voice the end of the sentence, "and his esteemed pedigree. . ," with a wiggle of his eyebrow as he looked first to Cunimund and then to his three other guests. Cunimund playfully acted as if poked in the gut, responding with an upright middle finger and a tongue partly stuck out. Ambactorix and Owain jovially did a quick square dance, facing each other and calling each other Lord & Laird; the dance done not of malice, but of jesting. Cunimund clapped a tune for the dance, slowing down as Ambactorix waved off his comedic skit and read the full contents of the letter in plainer tone.

 

"They have t'eir traditions an' ways jos' as we have ours good Ambactorix an' Owain. They've dun' no deed whereby t'ey act to pry us from our own tradition. I dun' want any af' ye' lot calling me lurd or laird or any such title, I am merely a waxtolangoi or rix, but lord such titles o'er ye as if I expect ye' ta' kiss mine feet. I wouldn't even kiss mine own feet!" Cunimund counseled after Ambactorix read the letter in full, the end of his statement spoken in a lighter tone.

 

"Richard wos' a good man. A man one could count on whether in battle or in distress. I wish his family none but ta' best."

 

 

Spoiler

Blended together a response to this post with some recent RP! Thank you to @JustAngel69 @cherrybud @PrimnyaQuorum @Beri for the recent RP & to @FireAGN for addressing the letter to Cunimund.

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

A pack of children, under the watchful supervision of Cardinal Arnaud, had gathered at the bar and handed off to each other banter and drinks; they extolled the holiday of St. Godwin's Day and challenged each other to tell tales intended to frighten. The children gawked at Cunimund as he entered the Whitespirean tavern. Cunimund wore his bear-helm, a boiled leather helmet with a bear head mounted over the skullcap and an accompanying cloak made of bear fur skinned from the neck to the midsection with bear claws on both ends. The Cingedoz Baron took a seat and wrapped himself with the fur cloak, acknowledged first by Philip Laurent.

 

"Have you a spooky tale to tell Baron?"

 

Cunimund stood up then and leaned his head forward. The bear-helm cast a shadow over his own eyes as he lined it up straight on his head. His fingertips had a painted mint green hue where they met the helmet's surface. He swiftly leapt from his corner of the tavern to the bar, resting his hands on the shoulders of two of the children sat there. The fur cloak rolled over his hands and draped over the children's shoulders. What looked smooth of the fur cloak felt prickly against the skin and against clothing. One of the children gasped and expressed dread as if a spider teetered up and over their head.

 

 

"There once wos' a mighty bear whose hide was needle-bare an' sharp to ta' touch like t'at af' a porcupine! Ta' bear could swaddle no cubs fer' its hide wos' too barbed, it left ta' ground beneath it torn as if toiled by farmer's plow. Threes would be scored by its needle-bare fur!"

 

The other child whose shoulder the bear fur spilled onto winced and let loose a piercing shriek. Cunimund shrank away, a finger instinctively plugged into his affected ear. The fur felt smooth again to the touch. Philip comforted the panicked child and the other children gathered at the bar were stunned.

 

"Very spooky, ea liked it!"

 

"Thank you!"

 

"It vas niet true zhough, zhe bear und zhe prickly hide?"

 

Cardinal Arnaud looked at Cunimund incredulously as the question was posed to him. Cunimund shook his head, running his two hands against his enwrapped cloak and held out his palms; they looked smooth and without abrasions or cuts.

 

"Nay! Ta' tale is merely made up an' mine fur is actually as smooth as one might expect. I slew t'is bear onta' Aaunic highway near ta' mountain pass between Minitz an' Whitespire after findin' ta' bear near ta' accostin' two travelers. As fer' how I made ta' fur appear so like mine tale, ahm' a magickal Bard! Ta' Cingedoz have an affinity fer' ta' magickal Bardic arts."

 

 

Spoiler

Tier 2 Bardmancy Event Development Task Completed

 

Blended together the RP from two separate encounters! Thank you to @Saun_399  @Sander  @cherrybud  @Fawnytheturtle@DuhPuhWuh   @JustAngel69 @Periphonics@Balthasar @carebear @Jensen02 @TheNerdocalypse @Cherubnews @imkenobi for the fun RP!

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

OOC Note: This particular roleplay instance is restricted in-game knowledge, not to be meta-gamed.

 

A step through the threshold and Cunimund felt his foot plant, but saw the arch of his foot span towards the visible horizon. His breath caught as he visually experienced himself lurch forward into an archway filled with colorless black. In a split second, he felt a hand against his chest hold him in place as he and Um'thraka shunted through to a new plane. A second after, Cunimund felt himself lean forward half-expecting to fall and his breathing become agitated, excited. The elder Ork appeared next to him, still with his arm braced against Cunimund's chest, unflinching and unaffected by the sojourn between the mortal plane and where they stood now.

 

The first step after the sojourn tossed fresh embers and smote wood up as if the earth beneath him belched the fiery remains of a forest fire. Cunimund's breathing grew exasperated as black dust choked him; his eyes welled with tears agitated by the odious air beneath a forehead already smearing with dust and debris. He closed his eyes and batted his lashes as ash blew with forge-bellowed winds and danced across the ground in front of him in little dust devils and harmattans. The surface of the ground both Cunimund and Um'thraka stood on spread unevenly, alternating in color between pitch black and a rich, striated orange one might see when an ember is fed a blown breath.

 

The firmament above them ran the same alternating colors; the two of them had shunted into a cavern. Um'thraka bade Cunimund to follow, having found a solitary exit from the chamber they just arrived in. The two approached the mouth of the cave by shuffling against the cavern walls towards both sides of the opening. A dull, grotesque drumming echoed into the cavern they shared; its sound low enough to indicate a far distance. They both peered out and onto an expansive plain whose sky glowed a sickly pink and towered overhead starless and unremarkable. The Ork grunted and jabbed a thumb to the horizon where the sky and the open plain met.

 

Cunimund's face sagged with the weight of forlorn and regret. Two-hundred yards from them marched a wicked host. The demons that comprised this host varied in size and in form; some marching on two feet while beasts of burden pulling unwieldy siege engines dragged them on four or eight feet. Some carried polearms and zweihanders with two hands while others carried smaller arms in four hands total. Their bodies were scored with eldritch tattoos and jewelry, some had grotesque horns and appendages of bone jutting out from their heads.

 

Spoiler

@Cloakedsphere

 

For ST Reference:

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

In the space of a single inhale and exhale, a dozen hoofbeats drummed the earth and a half-dozen arrows whistled through the air. A thunderclap and a snap of a burning wooden beam broke Cunimund out of his daze. He instinctively reached for a javelin and held it overhand, yelling a challenge in his tongue before joining the back ranks of the Reinmaren cavalry wedge that narrowed and poured through a narrow street. Drumming and whistling made for a rhythm that the horses seemed to match as they charged towards Frankish horse archers who rode in a Cantabrian circle in between burning hovels; they turned what used to be a village on the periphery of Kanunsberg into a shooting gallery.

 

"Werruekoz ach Frankaroz!" [¹]

 

 

Cunimund watched one of the lancers in front of him buckle and be thrown off his horse; an arrow stuck out perpendicular to its front right leg like a weathervane. He released his javelin instinctively and watched as one of the Franks slumped from his own saddle with a wooden shaft half-buried in his back. The remaining lancers continued their charge, breaking off towards separate targets who feverishly tried to turn their horses and break off from the Cantabrian circle. Cunimund and other horse archers and javelineers in the back rank slowed to navigate the kicked up mud, writhing men, and the growing stream of villagers panicked and escaping burning hovels.

 

 

A woman shrieked as Cunimund's horse reared, carrying a babe and a disheveled blanket laden with belongings. He yanked on his reins, redirecting his slowed steed through the traffic of friend and fallen foe. Arrows continued to whistle past, notably more off-target as the Frankish horse archers' cries grew fainter in the distance. Everywhere he turned, burning buildings blended together in the flame and smoke. He blinked away imagined images of Drauchreich that camouflaged against the very real sight of the Frankish-born inferno; he swore away those memories from his journey with Um'thraka through the Fiendlands.

 

 

Spoiler

Translation:

1. "We (wage) war upon the Franks!"

 

Cheers for the fun event and RP! @Miniguy15736 @Jihnyny @HugoAntero @Jensen02 @FadedMoonlight @MadOne @marikandaperc @Morphine @KillerMaid

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

  

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

Night quiet fell upon Bodbwodz, a starry veil glimmered overhead. Cunimund closed his eyes as he felt mountain air buffet his mantle drawn across his shoulders. The cold feels good against my head after my feet walked the hot ash of the Fiendlands. He stood watch in the tallest of the thatch-roofed towers, striding from one end to one end; keeping watch across the valleys of the Reinmaren and the Crownlands. A cruel death that Um'thraka warned me about is farthest in this serenity. His head swiveled, looking over the meadhall to Sendrenx's woodwork shop, pausing and facing a figure pacing between crannogs capped with fur walking in from the north.

 

"Ormar bjarga mér, this is the most civilized place I've seen!" the figure exclaimed, lofting a hand up as Cunimund made a motion with his carnyx warhorn in hand.

 

"That is a first ta' hear, most find us ta' be on ta' precipice af' savagery compared to ta' Heartlanders who live in ta' valleys below from Lemon Hill ta' Whitespire," Cunimund remarked with an inoffensive chortle before greeting, "Wæshæl! No harm will come ta' ye' here."

 

Cunimund looked the man up and down, dressed in thick Highlander garb more suited for winter than for temperate clime. He saw the man drum his fingers nonchalantly against a belt-purse laden with goods near to spilling out.

 

"Ogbiju andlet oiman! We can sit in ta' meadhall down ta' hill a few paces so ye' can unpack wot' goods an' belongings ye've brought an' kick yer' feet up fer' a spell," Cunimund suggested, opening a palm in the direction of the establishment and waving the man through with the other. They both went downhill and reached the meadhall, the pair shuffling through stone mugs until two were found clean and filled them up with spiced metheglin.

 

"Skál!" the man excitedly cried before downing an entire mug's worth of mead. He wiped his soaked beard with the back of a hand and began to undo knots along his belt purse; he had seal pelts, Hyspian bracelets of gold and sapphire, and octagonal coins of no distinct minting. In response, Cunimund stood up and fetched polished fragments of amber, rounded beads of precious coral, hides from bighorn rams, bronzen torcs, and a few books. The two sat at their table, sliding different goods across from one another as they negotiated an exchange.

 

"The goat hide interests me, as does the amber, and the armhringr too," the man said, pointing to the bronzen torcs at the end of his statement.

 

"I'll take ta' seal pelts an' ta' bracelets af' gold an' sapphire," Cunimund said with a tone of agreement. The two exchanged goods for goods, three seal pelts and three Hyspian bracelets for two pieces of amber, two rolls of hide, and two torcs with terminals shaped in the form of crows.

 

"I have one question for you o' member of the Cingedoz tribe" the man began, leaning his head forward and removing his fur cap. He rested it gingerly on the table, the oblique bill facing Cunimund. Cunimund nodded, smiling with the exchange of trade and words.

 

"I want to fight one of your tribe, is this possible?" the man asked, as matter-of-factly as he spoke while trading. Cunimund eyes lit up with full attention.

 

"Would ye' accept me as duel-partner?" Cunimund asked in return. The man nodded.

 

"Let us agree to an arm, a shield, an' a sidearm. Neh' armor an' we shall fight upon ta' earthenwalls facin' Merryweather," the two men nodded as they stood from the table in the meadhall. They went one after the other outside and towards the walls.

 

"I assume like most southlanders, you are disinclined to a fight to the death?"

 

"By mine honor, I accept t'is duel ta' be one to ta' death. Let it naught be known that a Cingedoz warrior flees ta' prospect af' perishing," Cunimund responded. By then, the two stood face to face, ten paces from one another. Cunimund, having chosen a falx as his main arm, brings the blade to rest flat against his nose and his lips embraced against frigid steel.

 

 

"You are the first one down here to gain my respect o' Cingedoz," the man conceded as he removed his lamellar hauberk and woolen undershirt. His torso glistened in the moonlight with a dozen freshly healed-over scars; his arms and legs seemed like vine-stakes with swirling blue tattoos winding around them shaped in serpentine iconography. He held out a round-shield and held a spear underhand.

 

The Baron began the duel with a single step, crouching slightly and holding his scutum shield forward to afford him coverage from neck to knee. He kept his falx-blade upright and behind the shield. His opponent stepped forward in unison, the two soon coming to clash.

 

Metal against metal, Cunimund's opponent thrust his spear forward and struck against the boss of the scutum shield and worked it over the top of Cunimund's shield. The Cingedoz warrior ducked, pressing his right ear against the back of his shield and swiped his falx from edge to edge against the top lip of the shield; his opponent's spear clanked against the side of the shield as the falx pushed its shaft from over the top of the scutum. The opponent sidestepped as Cunimund pressed forward.

 

Cunimund felt the boss of his opponent's round-shield drum him in the right shoulder, he continued with the momentum of his falx-swing and the opponent's hook to spin completely around and bore down falx-steel against spear-shaft. The Cingedoz took the opportunity to press his scutum shield against his chest as the opponent's spear was thrown back. He is smiling.

 

The opponent hiked up a boot and kicked Cunimund with all his northern might. The shield whined, wood warping slightly, as the boot squarely met the shield and sent Cunimund wheeling backwards. The Baron winced, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he was sent flying into the earthenwall parapet; up and over the Baron fell off onto the other side.

 

Um'thraka warned me that death would give chase to me upon accepting his grimoire, but this is a good death. A hale death dictated by honor. Cunimund gasped for breath as the wind was knocked out of him, having fallen off the wall and onto the snow caped ground below. Strong breath came to him before clear vision, a blurry figure grew to nearly encompass his sight. His hands reacted instinctively, gripping a cold shaft of wood that stuck out of his chest. Yellow-green eyes met his as his face froze, a death mask set in rigor.

 

 

"Thank you good warrior. . ," the opponent bore witness.

 

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

Men, women, and horses streamed up through the Langkette Mountains towards Bodbwodz. Ser Ferdinand Barclay led a troop of Minitzers towards the Cingedoz village as towers of smoke teetered with the carrying winds lofted above. The first to arrive crossed themselves and bowed their heads with modesty. A decapitated body with an impalement wound bounced with all its dead weight, having been strung up from the earthenwalls that faced Merryweather. Scattered belongings including two books written by the Baron laid around a slight impression in the ground below.

 

The firefighters passed through the walls and found crannogs, hovels, and towers crumbling in on themselves in a burning inferno. A single set of footprints and drag marks from stools dotted a beeline from the meadhall to the centre of the village. Only the runestone circle stood unaffected, though scorch marks from flame flashes and coughed embers streaked the limestone.

 

 

 

Spoiler

Incredible Roleplay. To help keep the awesome combatant's identity secret to avoid metagaming, his RP name is omitted from the narrative post and crossed out from the screenshots provided. I've had a blast since returning to the server and being able to introduce an incredible cultural entity that is the Cingedoz, but I intend to fade back into the sunset playing more of a window dressing character in another nation. I intend to keep contributing by bringing more and more lore in-game through Minecraft book transcribing, but I will no longer play a leader whether of a nation (like back in Aegis), or a settlement, lair, or cultural group.

 

If anyone is interested in taking and leading the Cingedoz, feel free to hit me up on Discord! Likewise, there is a potential idea that me and a few cats are playing with where the Cingedoz would be revived as Undead thralls. If you like this idea instead, hit me up!

 

Have a wonderful day and have fun playing the game!

 

[Ibn Khaldun 7729]

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮

Spoiler

 

 

 

The sound of a mallet echoed.

 

"Pray for us!"

 

"Bidjanek GOD abo aingidiz!" [¹]

 

With three more corners came three more strikes of a mallet whose refrain was both 'Pray for us!' and a foreign refrain in a guttural accent. The Priority of St. Jude swelled in numbers that evening; the recesses of its church and feast hall filled with members of the Order, clergymen & women, and families from the surrounding Veletzian country. Odoacer found a windowsill to sit on and thanked those members of St. Jude who ferried lemon cakes and sandwiches on platters; he bowed his head as he accepted what food he could get his hands on.

 

"Are you from around these parts?" a short, stout man asked Odoacer; he approached him with his own share of meal and looked Odoacer up and down.

 

"'Fraid not. I suppose I've no home at present having newly arrived here in Aevos. I lived in the village of Brigwindosdur in Almaris; a snow-packed hamlet that was founded above the cavern-pass into the Dwedmar colony of Khron'hundmar," Odoacer answered between bites. He chuckled and blew a few crumbs of cake as he saw the stout man look confused at the strange name for a village.

 

"It means White Hill Village in Spraekjom, it is the language spoken by a tribe I once belonged to - the Cingedoz," Odoacer followed.

 

"Cingedoz! I like them I do, my best mate Cunimund is one of 'um!" the man exclaimed. A woman dressed in clergy garb approached.

 

"You niet heard the news? Cunimund ist dead," the woman confided. The man looked between her and Odoacer, his face sorrowful. Odoacer offered nothing in reply save for a thousand-yard stare that seemed to bore through the wooden walls of the feast hall.

 

"How did he die?" the man asked.

 

"Slain and beheaded, I fear perhaps by vampyres," the woman answered.

 

Odoacer took in a sudden breath, his awareness returning in a rush. He craned his head to look for the Grand Master and whistled in his direction to call his attention. The man and the woman watched as Odoacer met the Grand Master halfway, withdrew his falx, and knelt with its blade against the floor. Some in the feast-hall turned and watched the strange exchange.

 

 

"Justice must be wrought from eldritch hands. I, Odoacer, pledge myself to your Order. I cast off the mantle of arrogance and self-conceit and swear to serve humbly you and your Orden-members till my dying breath. I will hunt all that is eldritch and evil, the dēofoloz [²], endlessly for having ensnared my kinsman and slew him," Odoacer pledged sternly, his forehead embracing the warming surface of the falx-pommel.

 

He saw from the corner of his eye the stout man mimicking the same action as he; the man named himself Boon in his own same pledge. The Grand Master looked between Odoacer, Boon, and a scroll passed to him from a youth who darted back through the feast-hall crowd. Odoacer and Boon stood as the Grand Master motioned them to.

 

"Come to me the next Saint's night that I might accept your oath in full," the Grand Master explained, pausing before hoisting himself up on top of a table and announcing "Lemon Hill is under attack!"

 

As quickly as both church and feast hall filled, it emptied. Odoacer jogged to a nearby stable and asked the stablehand to hasten preparing his horse. Within the hour, a column of knights, spearmen, and archers rode away orderly from the Castle Priory towards Lemon Hill. With night fully cast across the sky, navigating became difficult until Odoacer saw a burning barn like a beacon attracting him and the soldiers like moth to a flame.

 

The contingent divided into three, Odoacer and Boon following the lead of a man who asserted a command; the pair followed Sir Gaspard in a right flank around the burning barn to find themselves face to face with Korfiz af Død. Odoacer withdrew his falx and held it over Sir Gaspard's shoulder like a billhook while Boon held his spear and watched the back and flank of their smaller unit. Sir Gaspard led the charge with Odoacer and Ser Bronwyn just behind him. Korfiz bashed Sir Gaspard back with his shield before Odoacer had time to bring the falx down to stop it; Odoacer took a one-two step as he lowered his falx to line up a thrust against Korfiz's collarbone.

 

 

"Nemetagh Bodbmakos, lǣstanosju ek! [³] Venerated Bodbmakos, inspire my blade to heroic deed! For Cunimund!" Odoacer exclaimed & Boon repeated.

 

Korfiz fell backwards as two soldiers came behind, one tugging him back by the chainmaille shirt and the other lunging for his eyesocket. Both Odoacer and the other soldier skewered the Undead peon, Ser Bronwyn cut into his thigh. Their enemy began to fall limp, folding at the joints lifelessly. Everyone recoiled away from the burning barn to their left as the roof collapsed in a last gasp of smoke and embers.

 

 

Spoiler

Translations:

1. Common Translation: I pray to God for His protection

2. Common Translation: demons, devils, evilspawn

3. Common Translation: Venerated Bodbmakos, (you) help me!

 

Thank you so much for the RP @Petsch2k & co.! Absolute fun and cheers to all those who attended the event at the Order of St Jude Castle Priory! @Myochii @milkyi @FashionBeard @Onnensr @ookipi