ALTAR UND THRON (THIRD EDITION)

[BuilderBagel 1203]

 

THE BALANCE DISTURBED

ON SORCERY AND TRIBAL WISDOM

 

It has long been the custom of our folk to hold fast to the earth beneath our feet, to take counsel from the fire in our hearths and the honor in our blood, rather than from spirits, wizards, or otherworldly mutterings. In recent moons, however, our tribe has observed a creeping enchantment—not of strength nor truth, but of spellcraft and illusion.

Reports have reached the Chieftain’s court of increasing fascination among certain young men and women toward the arts of magick. Once whispered of only in distant corners of foreign courts, the presence of hooded conjurers and self-styled “scholars of the arcane” has grown bolder among our villages and byways.

It is not Reinmaren.

Our ways are shaped by steel, oaths, and the Kanun—not the runes of shadow-scholars.

We recall with solemn reflection the error of Rudolf von Weisenstein.. A good tribesman, a just one, who was deceived by a daemon born under unnatural stars. In his compassion, he erred. In his trust, he was made the fool. Those who traffic with spirits do not come for counsel—they come to change the tribe.

Let it be known: compassion is not weakness, but neither shall it blind us to danger.

 

☩ THE CRYPT AT WICKHOLLOW

A WARNING UNHEEDED

 

In the Franklands, where once Reinmaren banners flew proud before our great migration, there now festers a chill that no hearthfire thaws. A lone crypt, long sealed and buried, has stirred. Folk whisper of a pale ghost, drifting through the thorns like fog.

The wise among us ask—what foul rites were wrought when Reinmar's blood no longer soaked that soil? What hidden evils did the magicians bring forth in secret, when no honor-bound eyes remained to stop them?

The Kanun forbids the summoning of spirits and the consorting with dead arts. Yet what else stirs such hauntings, if not the works of men who would play God with fire and ash?

Some claim these lands were peaceful upon our return. So they were—until strange folk began muttering in tongues not of our fathers, and trailing behind them the scent of incense and rot.

It is no coincidence.

 

NOTICE FROM THE CHIEFTAIN

The Chieftain calls upon all Reinmaren warriors, bailiffs, and sworn men to exercise vigilance and clarity in these troubled days.

Those who speak in riddles, wear robes instead of leathers, or name themselves “sorcerer,” “arcanist,” or “magus,” shall be escorted beyond the tribal boundaries by the sword-bearers of Reinmar. The Kanun grants this duty to all defenders of the folk.

Where law is absent, demons grow.

Where honor is ignored, ruin follows.

Let every tribesman remember: Our law is Gott’s law. Our fire is clean.

 

☩ HERRENMEISTER VARIK STEPS DOWN

 

It was with quiet dignity that Herrenmeister Varik the Elf and longtime steward of the Order of Saint Tylos, announced his withdrawal from the duties of command.

“It has been long since I withdrew myself from the public eye, making token few appearances to sit among the Landtag at Moot,” wrote Varik in his statement. “During my long absence, I have raised a son, tended my family’s land, and managed the affairs of my House. Furthermore, a new era has dawned for Reinmar, one which I feel a new generation must seize.”

The Order of Saint Tylos stands as one of the oldest martial bodies in our land, known for its discipline, integrity, and loyalty to the tribe. The mantle of Herrenmeister is not easily borne, and the tribe extends thanks and honor to Varik for his many years of calm judgment and iron service.

The Herrenhaus has confirmed that deliberations are ongoing to appoint a successor who embodies the virtues of strength and tribal wisdom. No names have been released at time of print.

“Immer bereit,” wrote Varik in closing. We answer: "Always.”

 

BLOOD AND BOARFLESH

The chill morning mist had barely lifted when the boar was sighted—an unusually large beast, with tusks like scytheblades and hide marked by old scars. It charged through the underbrush of Frankland with the force of a battering ram, sending two men tearing through a thicket like parchment.

But the sons and daughters of Reinmar do not balk at wild things.

Hrani, Ludolf the Younger, Siegfried, Valentin, Johann, and Hildegaard gave chase with spear, bow, and grit. The hunt raged from ridge to clearing, until—cornered at last by a ring of spearpoints—the beast made one final charge and was brought low with Hrani’s strike.

Witnesses say the boar weighed near twice the common kind. Its flesh was shared in the field with all present.

The Chieftain sends its formal praise to the hunting party. This, he remarked, is the sort of deed “that keeps the blood warm and the people bound.”

A public feast was held in the tavern, and folk say the boar’s meat was smoked and tender, bested only by the honey-glazed roots and six flasks of field mead shared in good cheer.

“Was a good kill,” said a tribesman, grinning. “Boar never stood a chance.”

 

IN PASSING

Wilfred von Kretzen claims to have bred a hen that lays green-speckled eggs. The Chieftain’s Cook has requested samples.

Ottilie found a rock shaped like a stallion’s head. The elders say it’s a good omen.

 

CLOAKED IN HONOR

Not all cloth is woven equal.

A blanket warms the back. A shroud covers the dead. But the Reinmaren cloak is something else entirely. It is the public shape of the tribesman, the daily banner of his belonging.

A cloak tells where a man walks from. No Reinmaren rides without it unless the work is dirty or the morning is rushed. When guests arrive, we set it right upon our shoulders. When we are judged, we wear it still.

An unblooded earns his cloak upon proving his labor before elders. A woman keeps her cloak folded near when the fire dies low. The man who casts off his cloak too quick, or dons strange silks in its place, marks himself odd—and folk speak of it, quietly, near the baking-stones.

In Moots and war-hosts, from feast to funeral, a cloak is what binds the outer man to the inner name. It is not just clothing. It is oath made visible.

As the saying goes:

“A man may forget his spear, his belt, or his coin. But if he leaves without his cloak—he walks bare.”

Let none walk bare in Reinmar.

 

KANUN COMMENTARY

 

“Everyone who thus enters a Reinmaren’s home ought to make a sound and call.”

So speaks the Kanun—not as a suggestion, but as an order handed down from generations of Lawspeakers. For the Reinmaren house is not just wood and stone. It is a realm unto itself, a hearth-circle where blood sleeps, prayers rise, and weapons rest at ease.

To cross its threshold uncalled is not a small matter.

A man’s yard is his outer cloak, and his roof is his crown. The Kanun rightly binds them together—hovel, yard, stable, and the silent corners of a winter cellar—because all of it houses the will of the patriarch or matriarch that claims it.

Thus the law does not ask much. Only that a voice be raised. A name be called. A sign of respect shown. If no answer comes, you walk on. That is how peace lives among kin.

Too often now, some claim forgetfulness. Some lean on the habits of the south, where houses stand open and streets drift into parlors. This is not our way. The Kanun does not tolerate such looseness, for it erodes what makes a tribesman sovereign in his gate.

"From foundations a home arises..."

 Let no one forget what those foundations are made of.

Stone. Wood. Oath. Blood.

 

HERO OF THE HOMELAND

Stanton von Stroheim
Templar of Reinmar, Owynist, and Son of the Soil

In a time when many speak loudly, Stanton von Stroheim walks with quiet certainty. A templar by oath and Reinmaren by birth, he has long stood as a sentinel between the peace of the hearth and the chaos that presses in from without.

Known by those near to him as a man of few words and fewer indulgences, Stanton first took up arms under the banner of Saint Tylos before his twentieth winter. He rose not through ambition, but through steadiness—his sword always clean, his feet firm, his eyes unclouded by spellcraft or flatteries.

Let the young look upon Stanton von Stroheim and understand this:

Virtue does not shout. It stands.
And it keeps standing.

 

WIT & RIDDLE

”I guard without blade, I watch without sleep.

I answer no man, but all men approach me.

I open not for cowards, nor for ghosts. What am I?”
(Answer in the next issue 40 mina reward to someone who guesses it in the ‘comments’ section.)

 

WEATHER AND WARHORNS

Frost clings to the northern stones still; riders to Frankland should tighten their saddles. It is not yet spring on the high trails.

QUOTE OF THE YEAR

“Even Horen who spoke the virtue, falls short of GOD.”

-Bishop Josefina

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