RAUÐR-KONUNGR | IAÁ 547

[_Elrith_ 4525]

 

Spoiler

 

 

Rauðr-Konungr

THE KINGSMOOT OF THE RURIKKID

Issued by High Keeper Ellenore av Eiriksdóttir, on the 11th of DONOVANSHARÐHUGAÐR, IAÁ 547, AGE OF DRAGONSFYRE

 

 

His Light wakes the stars from sleep, for dawn reclaims what the Dark would keep

 

I, the High Keeper of our Faith, write this with most solemn heart & the heaviest of hands - within the vaulted halls of the Arinnhölla. I have held this position within our most sacred Hearth for nearly two centuries, & I cannot say that all I have done has been to the greatest benefit of our nation. In the passing of Balon-King, I stepped forth to rule as High Regent of the House of Ruric, Regent of the Ashwood Throne. I wore no crown, sat upon no throne, held no scepter. Only did I claim & hold titles, but words, of our Kingdom. It was thusly dubbed The Interregnum by some; a time period like no other, where the High Keeper held authority so predominately auspicious, it attracted both ire & ridicule by the masses. Though righteousness has often been the declared justification for the High Hearth’s rule over the Kingdom, much animosity remains towards those who claim themselves the Allfather’s Chosen.

 

This all came to a front in the wake of the Kingsmoot of 547 IAÁ, a tradition so infamous & longly engrained in our people, that the very mention of it summons trepidation. It had been nearly a century since a Kingsmoot was held; and the High Keeper’s rule has lasted nearly seventy-six years.

 

A display most dark & sinister was subjected upon those who attended, upon commonfolk & Rurikkid alike. A harrowing revelation. An act so blasphemous & profound beyond even the most fevered imaginings of the mortal mind; we envisioned things none but that fell being dared prophecy, and in the gloom of its raving, there was taken from men that which ought to have remained eternally in lightless obscurity, gifting that which time itself wished never shown. Hopelessness.

 

Yet in the darkness of such terrible desecration, there was an ember within each of us - a light, dim & fleeting - a small thing, capable of great things, yet with such terrible frailty. Look about the Arinnhölla I said, & see all the gathered wicks, all the fleeting lights. In harmonious unison, they were, illuminating black-stone & shimmering off columns gilded in gold. As a whole, it is beautiful, much like the Kingdom & all its souls. Yet, such dark sorcery was cast upon our kind, snuffing out flame, casting away light. Such machinations came to pass, & the workings of Maleficarum had reached their culmination. They were successful in driving our great people apart.

 

Now, those who leave throw both insult & injury upon their own kin. They speak of the Norns as foreign to the nation, but their Chief is a descendant of the line of Edvard, Conan-thegn, & they hold tradition & faith in the Allfather. That I care not for the Nordling people, but they so willingly wish to cast out their own kin for vanity. Haakon & Isleífr both attend to affairs outside the Realm, treating with the Southron in their ambitions & diplomacy, engaging in tourneys & social events, but I should forsake them & their efforts. They speak of ‘lordly’ titles as if they are some sort of anathema but forget that our people have held onto such names for Lord-Purifier, High-Lord of the Ashguard, ‘Laird’, a word of older tongue, itself means ‘Lord’. Those who depart themselves held titles of great import, they were bastions of the Nation! They speak of ‘dark sorcery’ within our lands, yet it was not but two years time ago where I myself fought in melee against a creature of dark-stone, & succumbed to grievous injury upon my chest. So far in their own self-absorption that they cast away the achievements of Lord Ægir, a righteous son of Edvard, in his workings to successfully raise up the Purifiers to glory, where others have failed to raise up arms.

 

In this final writ I speak to Váli, son of Odin, son of Vane, descendant of Frey, of the House of Ruric. Your ambition for the throne was one most noble & deserved, it is by the right of your blood. You are of a line of men like no other, & your humility shows. Yet, when the hour came to a close, when the dark forces of the world which attempted to undermine our great Kingdom, you faltered. You broke under the weight of dark magics, & you stormed out of the Hearth Temple in a rage that the Kingsmoot would be postponed - that you would not be made King immediately. You witnessed a display so grand & illusionary, one which challenged the very beliefs of our Kingdom & our Faith, & could not understand the weight of what happened. Váli Freysson Ruric, you are invested one last opportunity. You called the Kingsmoot with your right as Ruric, & it is yet to be concluded. In three years time the Sons of Thoromir shall come together once more to elect a King to sit upon the Ashwood Throne. Bring no further shame upon your forefathers, Freysson.

 

AND SO IT SHALL BE, BY THE WILL OF OUR ALLFATHER,

High Regent of the House of Ruric, Regent of the Ashwood Throne, Master of the Order of the First Flame, High Keeper of the Red Faith & the Flame Imperishable, Ellenore av Eiriksdóttir

 

Scion of the Sons of Edvard, Lord Purifier of the Order of the First Flame, Ægir av Edvardsson Ruric

 

 

Spoiler

March 15th, 2025 - 6PM EST is the time of the Kingsmoot

 

[Hawkeye_Gough 624]

Within decrepit northward halls, a briefly mentioned dark statue dreams on. Eventually, messengers bring the news to him, and leave the Lord to dream once more.

"She lives. Good... Until we meet again."

[Qaz_The_Great 1394]

Ægir grimaces at the document, he clearly is displeased by the need for this, yet he offers a nod of affirmation to the High Keeper as he applies his signature.

[Sparkpowder 129]

 A bird crept from out of his shop, feathers sagging low with stress and fatigue. His arms neatly folded behind his spine, wings draped over his shoulders. A parchment captures his sockets, panning them over to inspect the document. He could only offer a slight scoff, pivoting on a heel. Julian's dread only deepened, hanging his head lower in the nation. 
 "Descendants..." He mutters with a taste of disgust, being entirely displeased with the outcome overall. 

[Norgeth 1894]

The Wandering Wisecap, a Gnome of great knowledge and whimsical power scanned over the document, nodding "Hrmm — Tis es guud, oi ahm proud ov moi student" said the little fellow before waddling away.

[helldiving 5793]

"It is the responsibility of each man to stand against the Long Dark. To turn your back when faced with adversity..."

The Konansson commented to the Haraldrsson, as they meditated within the Hearth Temple.

"I cannot imagine it is what the Alfǫðr would want."

@Orlanth 

[Orlanth 4667]

2 minutes ago, Milenkhov said:

"It is the responsibility of each man to stand against the Long Dark. To turn your back when faced with adversity..."

The Konansson commented to the Haraldrsson, as they meditated within the Hearth Temple.

"I cannot imagine it is what the Alfǫðr would want."

@Orlanth 

"Suffer not the unworthy." Azdahir repeated simply.

[sneakybandit 1650]

"Go get em chuck"

[ichigomaster98 966]

The old Ashguardsman is too busy Standing Against the Long Dark and Cleansing the Unworthy in a distant land to witness such shameful displays.

The Peacemaker reads upon the latest news of his son and where once only pride and satisfaction sat now was the beginnings of a throne of disappointment. Perhaps this wrong may yet be undone and the accounts balanced before his only son breaks a multi-generational line of kings.

The Greatest Archer continues to nap, so unimpressed by the events of the kingsmoot and the current crop of evildoers that to them nothing of note happens.

Each hopes for their Great Norlandic home to not be abandoned by its people at the height of its success. A success built upon centuries of hardship and struggle so that one day today might have finally arrived.

 

[AstriaS 4988]

In the afterlife, there came the clacking clatter of rolling dice. At the table was an ivory-masked woman, seated across from an odd, hunched figure - clearly, the woman's elder by many centuries. The game had grown tense, and many of the valiant dead had gathered to observe the players. It was the Elder's turn to make his play, and all eyes watched with a general murmur passing through the crowd as he drew a series of small figurines of carven ivory from the depths of his robe. Arrayed on the board, they appeared to be shaped into the likeness of... questionably-dressed elves.

 

"Those aren't regulation," Remarked the masked woman, promptly closing the game on the grounds of disqualification by technicality. The rule of the High Keeper was secured until the scheduled rematch in three years time. Of course, in the afterlife, 'three years' was a meaningless concept, so who's to say how long that would actually be?

[Ryanark 2738]

"The Long Dark shall not prevail in these halls." Isleífr rasped in the halls of the Hearth Temple, ash collecting at his knees in supplication.

The Norn's face contorted in disdain at a foreign thought that came to linger;

"The weak have always been known to flock to the call of the renegade."

[Werew0lf 24180]

"Throwing a fit and giving up instantly is not a good sign for somebody who wishes to be King," Thor exclaimed, his eyes set upon Conan-Thegn. 

[Crevel 7557]

An Edvardsson Ruric of zero renown born by the name of Tyr would not be seen in Norland, especially not at the Kingsmoot to come, as he is fighting the evil demonkin (Freysson gangstalkers) in his head.