STAND OR BE FORGOTTEN

[Masouri 2735]

ISSUED BY 

 

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The streets of the Imperial Capital were finally beginning to settle outside as the last of the merchants left for their homes to be replaced by the quiet, steadfast patrols of knights and tavern-goers. Yet within the small Ruthern abode, it was only getting louder. Karl and Lukas were at each other's throats over something Justinyn had already stopped listening to. He sat at the far end of the table, parchment flat before him, quill in hand - staring down at a blank page. Finally, he slammed his fist down hard enough to send ink skidding toward Karl. 

 

“Enough! Both of you, sit down and make yourselves useful for once in your miserable lives.” Justinyn shoved the blank parchment across the table toward them. “Write. Now.” His eyes cut to Anya, “And you - make sure they spell it right.”

 

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MANY HARDSHIPS HAVE BEEN SHARED BY THE SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF THE RAEVIR; and there will be many more ahead. Many have perished for their pride, whilst others have forsaken it entirely, tucking tail for easier paths - content to forget their roots and dissolve into a world that does not want them and never will. They made their peace, forgetting us, leaving us to the cold and bitter wild without so much as a backward glance. I do not forgive it. I do not forget it. But I am done letting it define us. Not I, nor my kin.

 

Our leaders, once great, have disappeared or forsaken us. The old kingdoms are dead, and they are not coming back. Good. We would not wish them restored; they were weak, and their end was shameless. Never again will we be ruled by the weak and ineffectual. We do not mourn what failed us. We must look forward and build something new.

 

The House of Ruther stands once more as loyal sons of the empire, growing from strength to strength. Our Black Company marches - blades whetted in the wars of the Imperium, in the blood of darkspawn at the Empire’s far reaches. We have earned our place, not by birthright, but by steel. It is not the place of the Raevir to remain at the feet of others, and it is not the place of House Ruthern to watch its kin collect dust while their fortunes rot.

 

So we raise the call. Not to the glory of a dead kingdom. Not to the names of lords who abandoned you. To you, the ones who are still here, still standing, still Raevir in your bones, even if you have forgotten what that means. Come and remember.

 

Join your kin if you wish to make something of yourself. If you seek to build, rather than mourn. If there is steel in you yet.

 

Stand with us, or be forgotten.

 

Spoiler

If you're an unlanded Raevir looking to join a group or to help build something new, please send a letter to Justinyn var Ruthern (@masouri)

 

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Justinyn var Ruthern

[voltic 67]

In the dimly lit tavern, the notorious lightweight Lukas sat drinking his water Justinyn to his side. Justinyn squinted at the seemingly illegible sprawl of text "Write it better." Lukas rolled his eyes knowing his brother can't even read. Pulling another parchment from his saddle bag. Lukas beckoned Karl and Anya over, as the trio slaved over the script the night grew old and Justinyn became impatient. As the tavern keep tried to drag the Ruthern's out long past closing time the final letter hit the page and Lukas handed the finished paper to his eldest brother. 

[_CraftyFox_ 26]

While his elder relatives argued below, Alexei var Ruthern was narrowing his eyes at the tiny character sprawled across his phonics handbook, studying with grave concentration. From time to time his lips moved in silence as he tested a vowel or consonant:

 

"Three vhite volves... fled dyeh vorm vea-ther."

 

A terrible attempt. The ends of his lips curled downwards slightly, the sound of a fist hitting tabletop somewhere downstairs. He began again, his tongue to let go of the old Raevir weight of speech.

[Fionn__TWG 2795]

A young Raevir lad would ride slowly into the capital, his body and soul weary from trying to- and failing - to find a suitable abode for someone of his ilk. Cazsmich rubbed his eyes as he approached the closest tavern, before the bartender, noticing his accent, gave him word of the call. Over a glass of ale, he would write a pen to the Ruthern house, and sent it off before retiring to his room for the night. He’d struggle to find sleep that night, as though he found renewed vigour at the bar.

[ContestedSnow 1435]

Alric, one of many sons of Ruther, nodded slightly as he perused his nephew's call to action, fingers tracing idly over the sabre that hung loose at his side. A cigarette hung in the corner of his mouth, and the Raev stifled a wracking cough as he folded the parchment away.

"Dobry."

 

He was not aware Justinyn had such a grasp on the written word; or perhaps it was Lukas and the others. He did recall seeing them all hunched over the table for something or other. 

[GMRO 6187]

Ailred groaned awake as he recovered from drinking the ***ht before, putting the missive over his eyes to go back to sleep. “I’ll get to it, Justinyn, just give me five more minutes.” 

[garentoft 9265]

"One ought to have suspected that the blood of Ruther would not idle for long," Tomasz hummed as he read over the missive, a faint grin tugging at his features. "The fall of the wretched Crow of Bihar has come to be a boon for nearly all those it opressed - I do wish these Rutherns good fortunes." He placed the missive in a drawer, perhaps until a time where he sought to revisit it.