Erilobar

Val smiles back to Erika as he irons and folds one of her dresses, humming the tune with her, "Indeed! A whole new world awaits us!" he says

Val is 100% listening to this at 4am in an empty park 'cause he can't sleep.

Brother Berengar starts to hum the rather catchy tune as he shines his shoes that evening.

Turri tilts his head, "Devika?" he asks, in his quiet monotone voice, "What does this say?" He shuffles his very large figure over to the log where she's currently resting. After having had it read to him, squinting at the page, he smiles, "That sounds nice," He says. Picking up his hurdy-gurdy and starting to lumber down the road, he munches on a small morsel of what is left of a Haeseni pasty. "I think I'll go visit them. They sound friendly."

Turri Songbird adjusts his comically small violin as he sits cross-legged on the ground outside. As Katerina walks past, he gives an awkward smile and half a wave. "Have a nice day!" he says with a smile, before starting up a slow tune on his instrument, humming deeply.

yes yes yes. i want

The Sturmholm Folio The works of Vorloin Baruch Vorloin Baruch, shortly after the Athera Expedition Vorloin Baruch, practicing a stage-play With the recent death of poet Vorloin Baruch, it has been requested by his will that his folio be published to the world at large. All that follows is the work of poet, who used the pen-name of Vorloin Sturmholm Editor’s note: For some reason, all of Mr Baruch’s writings refer to himself as ‘Vorion’, instead of ‘Vorloin’. Regardless of whatever caused this error, it has been corrected. ‘Almost all of these poems follow iambic pentameter, and most of them also are sonnets, with three rhyming quatrains and one couplet. Their themes range from loss and death, to love and life. May they strike your hearts, as they struck at least a couple’ - V. Baruch ((Music:)) O Father O Father, years have passed since fall of void, Yet I am left to sit and weep in prayer In days of freedom, Grief I have enjoyed Not, for that was the gift you chose to bear. O father, son of the herons marine Will you still love me as you once did then? To be a stouter son of meager means Or born a lesser prince of greater men? O father, torn from life, curse me now, words born from an acid, venomous tongue Will far outstip those that no longer vow To those whom once you genty, softly sung. They say the blood of covenant should wear Pains fierce; yet still I weep for water's share The Good Men I wonder, where have all the good men gone? I saw them ride unto the setting sun, One which they would never again see dawn, Fighting a battle that is still not won. I ask you, where do all the great kings lie? It is under a pile of ash and ruin Deathless since they were forced to cast the die, They lie, resting beside their royal kin. I pray you, where do all the lost souls go? For we see them no more, eternally They lie, lost in silver linings of snow. Lost to wisps of time, waiting, merrily. We wait for when the time should finally bend To meet again at last: all the good men Katharina’s Song If only the swans were as fair as I, They could shatter the moon with their beauty, They could ensnare the mighty lords on high, They could make Kingsguard flee from duty, If only the swans were as fair as I. If only the autumn leaves had my grace, They’d flutter as if dancers on a stage, They’d rustle as if they’d no other place, They'd read far more than any written page, If only the autumn leaves had my grace. If only the stormcrows could sing like me, They would enchant the creatures of the grove, They would lure sailors, like sirens on the sea, They would be diamond to all those who rove, If only the stormcrows could sing like me. The Sunset I passed through mists, and peered beyond the veil To see thee, at least, what seemed to be. Towards the earth the sun had set her sail, And her beauty almost matched your degree. For first I found the flowering lips of rose When, burning bright, a wildfire they blazed. How could the setting sun compare to those: The memory that shall never be erased. But soon I fell into a tender blue, The eyes which could the oceans entire keep. How could the sky hold a candle to you, When epics could be wrought for those eyes deep? And so I promise: you shall never die If here between these sheets of me you'll lie. Godan’s Muse I've ventured 'cross some cold, bleak, distant peaks, But there is naught to e’er compare to thee. The peerless blue above those velvet cheeks: The moonlight to calm every stormy sea. I rolled on waves and I’ve seen dawnings fair, But their beauty can only ever yield To radiance cast by golden strands of hair: The sunlight to sow every fallow field. I’ve cleft the ocean twain on mighty ships, But thus you made the nightingale cry: None could hope to reflect those rosen lips, A flower to charm e’ery wandering eye Then, since lands and sky all hold beauty, I so conclude that Godan’s muse was thee. The Holes of Wintertime Deep in the holes of wintertime I woke Next to your side, by a warm fire of oak. You whispered so quietly in the cold, From your lips wisps of mist did twist and fold. You spoke to me about the spring softly, Said it was made by the lord above, for me. That he made it so we could gently lie Betwixt these hills until one day we die. Hidden way from the warmth of a summer’s Sun, away from the march of the dummers’ Drums, lying under golden oaken leaves, I told you I love you beneath those trees. And yet at last, when the autumn leaves fell You said you were no more under my spell I thought I’d stay together with you, so fair, But you left me there. Soeng Karoseo And the common translation: A Song of Crows Usaer zezr haulyy haldae haenzi Wiem hag dercurvsk denraat, huil zwyzi Padrevar Ybiseo vzrarev kuz koeng Luzeng weld ag wauldlund: Kholv ag walic They poured ‘cross sea upon coasts haeseni At dawn slaying the weak and lame, then these Sons of Iblees set out unto the king Along woodlands, marshes: cold and soaking. Karos kyghyntae zwyen bottel routae Karos trazk raez humovsk viktry velyae. Krusae vatragan ag Godan zakisk: Kursin ag zvaerd usaer byk drazativsk And as honour demands that war be brought The crows struck out to seize the victory sought. Of hearth and faith they were a stalwart shield: With coats of arms and shining blades of steel. Nat lund vatragano supaes szar triek, Va rotasseran nie vokja byk tuek Tamort lafsk hauchoxtzen, lauderre, herzen. Zejr kvesja, warae laujisk aestbrein Upon the fields of flame their spears did meet And dawn ‘til dusk no army knew defeat. There fell warriors great, peasants and lords Above the mud, where Godan’s heavens poured Wiem mortesk feinvrago, tiz stratlyy rot Ag zinsk maeno weo fitsk dlum supaes Got They broke the horde, the rivers stained with blood And sang of men who gave their lives for God. ‘May the storms part in your passing' - Sturmholm family proverb

Highlander 10 USD

Please don't make me do this Woman's world 9 USD

Highlander armour: 6 USD It's a woman's world: 6 USD

Vorion scratches his head, and wonders why Buck had to nail the news to the door of his own room.

Vorion watches Buck intricately fold paper after paper in their house. ”You’re sure this is necessary?” he says, not knowing anything about Buck news distribution as he pours himself a bowl of oats.

Vorion frowns as he finds more food than normal in his house. He shrugs, assuming that his wife probably had just popped to he shops

Vorion furrows his brows as he sees Buck make all of the newspapers, starting to wonder if it was a bad idea to teach him to write...

Vorion Baruch gives a great hurrah at this wonderful ballad, as he begins to put the finishing touches on his folio, and the starting ones on his epic!

Vorion grumbles a little about how he’s been banned from playing from the great game of Lafsk for his unluckiness!

Vorion Sturmholm reads a copy of the work, and smiles. For it’s use of the proper pronoun of the people of Haense, he gives it a central spot on his bookshelf!

i’ve said no because I feel like having large amounts of firearms would make no irp sense in some cases. I wouldn’t mind firearms being existent, but VERY rare and hard to acquire, but as to firearms as common tools, that’s an idea I’m not at all keen on.

Vorion Sturmholm looks down at the missive with a look of surprise, ”Is’t possible? A world without war? To be born on the eve of battle, I had only e’er imagined that peace would come with my passing. Perhaps one day I shall be able to walk the open roads of Arcas, as’t was possible in distant Athera.” He says, before dipping his quill back into his ink-pot, and writing a few more lines of his play.

RP Name: Vorion Sturmholm MC Username: Erilobar Discord: Erilobar#6916 What Nation Are You Affliated With?: Haense Why Do You Wish To Come?: I wish to follow the legasy of my father, who sacrificed himself fighting the void, and I hope to gain much experience. What Skills Can You Bring?: I have some medical knowledge, know which end of a sword is the pointy one, and can read poety. No idea how that last one will help, but we'll see.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QeYke08Xuws ‘Only the fool fears nothing, but I would rather be the fool, than the coward.’ Tharik was born a peasant, Tharik Cloudhome, to loving parents, in a small Haeseni village. He was taught in the simple ways of fishing, and to live in harmony with the land. But Tharik always hungered for something more. He was an argumentative child, always butting heads with his father, Vorion, until one day, he was embroiled in such an argument, that, in a fit of rage, he left to sign up with a merchant shipping company, trying to escape the dreary life he had come to resent. He would return to naught but ash and dust, ravaged by bandits. Tharik, left with nothing to his name, set out again on the open sea, landing in the first town he could, Reza, in 1719. He found himself in a nation ravaged by war, and decided to do his part to defend his homeland. He soon met Mikhail Svarogovich, Bogdan Canoslav, and Irissa Loraethis. These people we fierce friends to him, and he kept them close. In time, he joined the Landser Levy, to defend his country. It was from this that his life-long ties to the Barclay household were born, and where he met Wilheim Barclay. But as the war drew to a close, something else blossomed; Tharik and Irissa had fallen in love. The two were soon inseparable, and while keeping their relationship quiet to Haense at large for a while, they would spend the next three decades together, trying their best to live a peaceful life. As the Brotherhood of Saint Karl underwent reform, and Tharik entered as an Initiate, he began to enter a second stage of his life. Gone was the rash, impressionable young lad that Tharik was, and in his place grew a smiling man of a sanguine nature, filled with wisdom he was all too happy to share. He climbed very slowly through the ranks of the Brotherhood, no longer being a man of ambition, but instead one filled with a simple passion for living life, with his Brothers and friends. In the brotherhood he met many Brothers, and the blood of the covenant forged a strong bond of fellowship between them. Among them, were such names as Darien Reyne, Mieh North, Darius Morgraine, Aleck Graham, Elian Silrose, Aleksander Batory, Jonathan Frostfire, Marcus Erhdhart, and many, many more. Eventually, Tharik and Irissa got married, sort of. The legality of a marriage between a human and a half-elf was such a legal landmine that they chose to briefly elope, swearing love until death did them part. This marriage was kept quiet, indeed many a conversation skated carefully around the question of whether or not they were technically married. Soon after the marriage, Tharik and Irissa had a set of twins, a boy and a girl, naming them Vorion and Zella. As was tradition with his family, Tharik chose to change his Surname. From Cloudhome, he chose to become Sturmholm; literally meaning 'the island from the storm'. But, for those born as children of Horen, nothing is eternal. Soon, his friends started to pass from the world. Starting with Mikhail Svarogovich, he lost almost all his friends as the years progressed. Again, Tharik changed. The conversationalist that once was, grew quiet and formal, blunt and miserable. As possibly his best friend, Darien Reyne, was killed, Tharik took up the mantle of Commandant of the Chapter of the Crow. It was one he took with a heavy heart, knowing that he would prefer to follow a leader like Darien to the end, than to lead himself. Throughout these many years, Tharik set up a shop, which proved fairly successful. He also started a bit of poetry, completing four sonnets, which even saw publication in the library of Haelun’or. He worked tirelessly on producing a play, but after all the years, he never quite managed to finish it. The mess of sheets still sit upon his office desk, waiting to one day be read as part of an act. Tharik had a vendetta for the void. He followed Ser Roderick endlessly, helping eradicate Arcas of the void that plagued it. It was in these battles that Tharik first came face to face with Grief. Perhaps it was within these encounters that Tharik knew their lives were both interlinked, as fate willed so. Time and time again, Tharik saw Grief at the burning of old Reza, at the slaying of mother, and at the crushing of the voidal tear at Suitica. But, as said, their fates were tied; Tharik knew he could not truly live while Grief threatened the fate of arcas, of his friends, of his family. Tharik, at long last, would finally meet Grief, face-to-face, at his home. Finally, he fought the monstrosity, alongside the other descendants of Arcas. But, as the battle drew to its end, it became all too evident that some would have to stay behind, to ensure that all others could escape. Tharik, now just reaching into his second century, knew that his days of glory were behind him: he chose to stay behind, to defend his fellow brothers, to the end. Tharik chose to stay, to protect those he loved most dearly. In his last moments, with the void crumbling around him, he prayed for the safety of his family. He closed his eyes, and let the end take him. And so ends the tale of Tharik Sturmholm: Veteran of the War of Two Emperors Commandant of the Chapter of the Crow The Last Landser Merchant Poet Father Husband Friend The Last Will and Testament of Tharik Sturmholm The executor of this will shall be Ser Roderick of Haenseti-Ruska. All I posses that is not mentioned below will pass to my heir and son, Vorion Sturmholm Deducted from the funds that would pass on, I shall pay for any funeral expenses. I paid for every drink while I was in the tavern in life, and I do not intend to change that habit in death! Make sure to drink all the Black you can, and be merry. My passing should not be a reason for mourning, but instead one for celebration, move forth with your head held high, Haense, for I would ask for nothing less. To the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, I leave all my reserves of iron. It is a great amount, and should last for a good while. Jonathan Frostfire, I leave you my knife. It served me well when I was sailing, and I certainly consider it lucky. It has helped me out of many a tight scrape, and I've no doubt it will help you too. Ease your rage, and learn to slow down in life. It served me, and it shall serve you too. Marcus Erhdhard, you have been a dear friend to me for many years. I ask that you look after Irissa in my passing, ensure that she is alright, and I do not leave you my shop. Don't even try. You're allowed to keep that stall in it, and no more. Elian Silrose, I leave you a message of recommendation. Even in war, you refused to take up arms against your home. Your ambitions were great, but even then, you still held Haense in highest regard. In my passing, I fully support your reintegration with Haeseni society, however much my support may be worth. Zella Sturmholm, You were born into a world that would leave even the greatest of women out of the candlelight, and so, such that you may forge a grand path of your own, I leave you a small sum of three-thousand mina. Make each and every coin count, and never let your ambition fail you, for it is your greatest strength. Irissa Sturmholm, We both knew this day would come, and we have discussed it thoroughly. You still have a long life ahead of you, and, one way or another, you find a way to move on. No matter the toil, grief, pain, I hope that you can find the joy in life once move. So, I ask you, travel, take risks, make experiences, and fall in love again. Life is both too fleeting, and too magnificent to be wasted. I leave you the orchid I picked, the day I asked you marry me, under the moonlit, blossoming trees. The orchid still blooms, though how it does is, of course, far beyond a man like me. May it signify our love eternal, even with my passing. By the way, the Krugsmas presents are in my office drawer. And lastly, my son, Vorion Sturmholm, I leave the world. You need only reach out and take it. 'The Ship that Fades' By Tharik Cloudhome Previously known as 'Sonnet 3' There is a ship that fades into the sea, Her sails, for one last time, will rip and tear, Her sailors have spent and drunk their final spree, Her voyage beyond eye is one so truly fair. There is a soldier, breathing his final breath, The cries for mercy he screams out to his lord: The curses that he may come to know death, The hand a-gripped upon his holy sword. There is a poet whose pen lies deadly still, The words once wrought have wrung their final rhymes. The pages long were lost to eyes until The letters read, they were but ancient lines. A man may stare into the void and fear, But staring back, I shed but joyful tears.