Haseroth

A herzlandi youth sat at a cozy desk chair, a candle light besides him as he read the missive. A tall old man stood behind him, reading over his shoulders. The youth smiled towards the bottom then spoke "They're right about at least one thing." Finally, the youth tossed the missive aside, focusing on an increasingly large list of names. The youth began to continue inscribing names unto it while the old man watched.

would not be the first time it happened

A Herzlandi youth consults his cabinet of definitely not aevos warcriminals. He sets aside a few documents, tossing some into the fire besides the meeting table. "Gentlemen we must Make Adria Great Again, and to do such there is certain policies which are paramount." The room fills with the chatter of eager politicians.

"Amen brother!" A Herzlandi farmer calls out from his wage job in the veletzi refugee camp.

Good, add activity requirements and make them severe enough to axe half of the current realms.

"Hang on, so he's sayin the reason why the church cannot investigate Haense, is because they wont allow them to..? Yeah that's definitely not suspicious at all." The man gave a nod to his friend as he shared a drink while reading the fresh piece of eclesiastical drama.

Alarich VON FELSEN. Stares at the notice, he reads it carefully then smiles. "Oh see i told ya." He gestured towards some unknown figure in the back. "If th' Pontiff wants to spend his days nappin', he can resign and go nap all e' wants!" The veteran then turned to face the unknown figure with a smile, though the smile and expression faded into a grim and somber gaze. He muttered "Wir sind verloren...."

"Save the soul of humanity, burn Hokhmat to the ground!" A Herzlander youth decried with zeal as he stared at the poster which had no doubt found itself into his own corner of the world.

"Lose my soul to damnation? Not Interested!" A Herzlander youth declared as he threw an egg at the poster nearest to his home! Splat, the egg slid along the bottom.

(Sean is the PRO of the vassal region, so he technically can)

The Heartlander youth peered as Sir Radmir read the missive. "We have surrendered our homes to demon worshippers?" The youth asked, now his fury had reached a boiling point!

"This is the king who called us.. An accursed culture?" A Heartlander youth asked from the comfort of his tavern work within Numenost. He seemed angered more than amused by the news of the allegations!

this

keep the lock outside of cities but remove it in cities, you address both side's concerns this way.

A heartlander youth had picked up missives after missives in his travels, eventually he returned home and sat before an old desk unfurling them. He began to read through them one by one. Once the youth got to the one he had found about the holy order's crimes, he scratched his head. "They let that creature live? Truly the order has grown soft." He commented simply before tossing the missive into the fire, moving unto the next one.

The Final Watch In the somber grandeur of the royal court, Augustus stood rigid amongst his peers, his callused hands betraying the only sign of his inner turmoil. The Duke Markus, robed in the gravity of his office, recited the terms of Adria's surrender. Each word from the Duke echoed like a dirge in the hollow chamber of Augustus' heart. The old soldier's eyes, which had seen the unflinching truth of war, now beheld the end of an era. With a spirit fractured by disbelief, Augustus returned to his home, the silence of his heavy steps in stark contrast with the chaos that reigned in his mind. He entered the quiet abode, the laughter and warmth of days past haunting the empty spaces. Under the soft glow of the moonlight, he watched his grandson sleep - a young boy blissfully unaware of the shattered dreams of the nation he might one day inherit. Augustus took a quill and, with a hand steadied by resolve, composed his final missive, a letter drenched in love and sorrow. Carefully, he placed the parchment beneath the pillow of the innocent child, a silent hope that one day he would understand. With the first rays of dawn casting a pale light upon the scene, Augustus donned his armor, each piece a chapter of his storied past. Without fanfare, the old guardian of the fatherland embarked on his final journey. Northward he trekked, into the unforgiving embrace of the snowy wastes. The whispers of the wind carried away the tale of his valor, the cold his silent companion. Augustus, the steadfast soldier of a now-subdued Fatherland, walked until the snow and sky merged into an endless white. There, where the world seemed untouched by the follies of men, he vanished, his legacy interwoven with the land he cherished. Never again would tales of Augustus grace the ears of those he left behind, his final march a testament to an unyielding spirit that could not bear the surrender of his beloved homeland. In the northern wilderness, he sought the peace of soul, a means to calm the raging dragon within his heart. No rest would find the soldier however, not until he collapsed.

As someone who has recently come back to this server after many years of hiatus, i am 100% in support of any solution that can centralize rp. I have spent dozens of hours riding through entirely deserted realms trying to find even a singular soul to roleplay with.

i unironically miss nexus

The Damning hands of Fate As the first light of dawn creeps through the curtains of a small room in Winburgh, the young boy is gently roused from sleep by the clinking of dishes and the warm, inviting aroma of breakfast. Mrs. Agnes, the woman who has been looking after him while his father is away at war, is already busy in the kitchen, preparing what promises to be a nourishing meal. He stretches and makes his bed, the fabric rough under his fingers, a reminder of the many hands that have touched it before. "Good morning, young sir," Mrs. Agnes greets him with her usual tenderness. "Eat up; you need your strength. These are trying times for us all." He nods and eats obediently, the porridge sweet with honey and thick with cream, a small luxury in these sparse times. But even as he finishes his meal, restlessness takes hold of him, a yearning for something, anything, that might break the monotony of these long days. He excuses himself and wanders through the empty rooms of the house until he finds himself standing before the attic door. It's a place he doesn't often visit, but today, an inexplicable urge pushes him forward. The door creaks open, revealing a space draped in shadows and memories. There, in the far corner, lies an object, long and shrouded in cloth. He's seen it before, but today, it seems different—more imposing. He draws nearer but stops short, a sense of unease gripping him. He stares at it, feeling almost as if it's staring back, a predator in the stillness of the attic. His imagination runs wild with thoughts of what it could be, each more frightening than the last. He backs away, leaving the mystery wrapped and untouched, a choice that sits heavy in his stomach as he heads outside. The fresh air does little to dispel the unease from the attic, but the sight of his friends, eager for their daily adventures, lifts his spirits. They play their usual game, pretending to be the soldiers of Adria, defending their lands against the haensemen. The thrill of the chase and the mock heroics temporarily fill the void left by the war. As the day wanes and their game ends, they journey back through Winburgh's streets. That's when he hears him—the old orator, a constant presence these days, his words echoing off the stone walls of the buildings. "The elves, the half-bloods, the dwarves," the orator bellows, "they're the reason our country bleeds! They sit in their high towers, plotting, while canonists spill blood upon fields of roses!” The crowd gathered, offered a mixed reaction and he continued speaking… “Who stands to gain from such endless canonist blood shed? It is them!” The orator shouted in a staged anger. The boy knows he should walk away, but he's rooted to the spot, caught in the web of the orator's words. Each speech is a stone added to the foundation of something dark within him. The orator's voice becomes a familiar refrain, a haunting melody that he can't shake off, no matter how hard he tries. It is not one single speech, but many, over months, over years, that begin to shape the way he sees the world. The faces of the supposed enemies start to paint the backdrop of his thoughts, and he struggles to remember a time when he didn't carry the weight of this newfound disdain. The war is drawing to a close, yet within him, a different kind of battle has just begun. The ideas seeded by the orator's impassioned speeches find fertile ground in his young mind, growing roots that he fears might someday be too deep to extract. As he walks away from the crowd, the old man's words still hanging in the air, the boy can't help but feel like the bloodshed has grown unending. He sits upon the sides of the palisade, perched and able to see down the Hill. His legs dangle while he ponders what is to come. Despite everything, the youth is convinced his father shall soon return and life shall return to normal.

A heartlander youth pushes past a crowd gathered in the square of Winburgh, he watches as soldiers leave the keep, readying themselves to defend home and fatherland. He clasps his hands and prays, prays for gentle rain to wash away the incoming tide of blood.

A poster found itself penned upon the sides of the board within the insides of the Winburgh keep. It read as follows. ADRIA CALLS In these grievous times, when the night seems to swallow our land whole and the relentless drumming of an encroaching enemy threatens the very essence of Adria, we find ourselves at the precipice of destiny. The land that cradled our forefathers, that heard our first laughter and felt our first steps, beckons us with a somber call to arms. It is not merely a call to battle but a sacred summons to uphold the legacy of our people, to guard the sanctity of our homes against the tide of an unforgiving war. Look upon the fields where our children played, the streams where our reflections danced, and see now the shadows that encroach upon our serenity. Our enemies believe they can extinguish the light of Adria, cast us into the abyss where hope is but a distant memory. Yet, they know not the resilience that beats in the hearts of our people, the unyielding spirit that has weathered storms and stood steadfast against the howling winds of despair. Stand now, sons and daughters of the fatherland, for the soil that has nourished your dreams, for the roofs that have sheltered your kin. Though the clamor of war may rattle the stars and shake the foundations of the earth, our resolve must be as the mountains that overlook our cities – immovable and enduring. Each drop of blood shed in defense of our fatherland is a testament to our enduring love, a melody that will be sung for ages to come. We do not shy away from the melancholic truth that many of us may embrace the eternal slumber in defense of our beloved Adria. Our tears will mingle with the blood-soaked earth, a poignant reminder of the cost of freedom, the price of our unshakeable resolve. Yet, let us not don the cloak of sorrow, for there is an unparalleled honor in sacrificing for the sanctity of home and fatherland. To fall in Adria's defense is to rise in the annals of glory, your names etched in the bedrock of history for all eternity. The path before us is wrought with perils untold, and the air is heavy with the somber notes of a requiem for the fallen. But within this dirge lies a powerful undercurrent of defiance, a chorus that rises above the tumult of war, singing of dignity, of valor, of the indomitable will of the Midlandic people. To bear arms in this righteous struggle is to carry the torch of our ancestors, to illuminate the darkness with the fire of our conviction. Now, as the clarion call resonates across our embattled lands, we must answer with a voice that thunders through valleys and over peaks – we will stand until the end. We will fight with the ferocity of the winter gale, with the passion of a thousand burning suns. We will not falter, we will not wane. Our legacy will not be one of defeat and ruin but of courage and unyielding strength.

If you dont like aurum testing then that feels like a great cause to lobby for in roleplay. As some others have stated, it is a ludicrous act and so you may have a case against it in roleplay. I would prefer if people just advocated against it that way rather than having it ooc banned.

Augustus stood in line with his war-comrades ready to fight the fleshtide come the next saint's year. "We shall win or we shall perish, it is sweet to die for one's homeland." He repeated the old proverb.