DAENGIE

Druids Up

Father Bishop Aerin Marsyr would do a double take, as he read over the missive over and over, blinking rapidly as he leaned back in his seat, wondering just how the hell he got here.

The Scouring of Pestilence’s Gardens Descent into Sloopidoop [!] This post follows the redlines of Arcane Displacement; none of its contents are common knowledge. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nhPqEFSaaS4 Litany of Scouring “Suffer not the heretic, the unclean, the anathema to live. For in allowing their existence, we are as guilty as they are. We must scour them in the All-Father’s fire, and throw their ashes to the wind, so that they may never be remembered. Through this, we will have finally given the unclean what they deserve. Nonexistence.” Sickness and rot, as far as the eye could see. This place was naught more than that. Even the air, it seemed, was weighed down with a feverish languor. As Rúne and High Keeper first set foot upon the flesh-like substance that passed for earth in this realm, it was all they could see. The land itself – if one could even, in truth call it land – was pox-ridden, tumorous, and above all, filthy. And those inhabitants that slunk across the nightmarish plane were little different, each and all bloated, mottled and warped with disease, and swarmed with flies and maggots. The only response, the only feeling that came to Rúne in that moment was disgust. His gaze panned over the sickening vista before him. Had he lips to frown, he certainly would have, though his war-mask was well enough shaped in a rictus frown anyway, and he very nearly raised his voice to comment on the matter, yet there was not time to do so. Within moments, one of the realm’s denizens had taken notice of the new arrivals and made course for them, grasping at them with warty clawed hands covered in scabs and sloughing skin. Its tortured existence then was brought to a swift end – it took little more than the swipe of a poleaxe to fell the blighted thing. With its death rattle, however, the creature alerted others of its sort some distance off – others, which, at a glance appeared less fragile than this first had been. So it was, that a purpose was drawn sharply into focus; there was a mission to be accomplished in this place. A calling to fulfill the Father’s Mission. Even here, in a far flung plane, ruin had taken root and therefore necessitated response. Though respite and a moment to prepare would have been preferable, these creatures – plaguelings, Rúne thought to title them – seemed unlikely to grant such a luxury. In but a few moments’ time, battle was upon the purifying pair and they answered in kind. Bile, blood, puss, and necrotic flesh came to litter the ground. As one plagueling fell, another came in its place, some of greater constitution and size than others. Fortunately, the enemy were few enough in number that the travelers were not overwhelmed, but the effort was nonetheless taxing. Weapons began to chip, armor dented, but they persisted on. No goal in mind save for setting the cursed realm that had arrived upon with the father’s flame, the pair simply fought forward, slaying their poxed assailants as they went. Flame was difficult to maintain in such an environment, damp and gory as it was, yet nonetheless the dead were set to pyres where possible. In truth, the fires were the only sense of the passage of time they found in that stagnant, rotting realm. Ahead, one saw an endless trail of illness and death; behind, a series of small, weak columns of smoke that loomed over hastily constructed shrines and cairns wrought of what loose stone could be scavenged. Written in ash and blood, it stood as a testament to the success of their crusade, small though it may have been. How long would this damage last after they had departed? Rúne’s mind wandered on that thought as they went along. Was this accomplishing anything? Would it matter? In a place so beyond the laws of the natural world, so defined by rot and degradation, would it not simply return to its original state? He struggled to find a satisfactory answer to that, until at last he concluded upon the one point that mattered: the accomplishment was in the deed itself. So it was that the Elder Sorvian was resolved to continue his battles. For what he measured to be days, perhaps weeks, the slaying continued, until at last it seemed that to continue would be more deadly than to withdraw. Repairs and convalescence were needed, and so the decision was made to return to the true world. But at the very least, a mark had been made on this place, a burning eye three miles wide, set ablaze in the Father’s name.

Father Aerin Marsyr would find the grip on his sword's handle tighten subconsciously as he read the missive from within the temple of caius, speaking with an exasperated sigh. "Delusional fools, still dreaming of empire...Hopefully none of this comes to pass." the priest would state, before thinking back on promises made, and oaths given by the Númenedain to come to the aid of the WEE FOLK, should any aim to strike at them.

Father Aerin Marsyr opens up the golden bull posted beside the morning papers, smiling as he read over it within the sanctum of The Grand Temple of Caius, watching as the golden cross which had long languished in its halls, was finally carried out of the church to be put atop it by arthalionath serfs, and gray company engineers.

Collective mental Illness Spice of the same flavor.

Aerin would squint at the newly released missive, scratching his head. "So...Time ta make corgi armor I suppose..." Knowing full well his brother and nieces would come running to outfit their Cardigan Numenedain Corgi.

As the denizens of the north began their own conflicts, red eyes would watch the spilling of blood into the cold dying earth from afar. Their time would come with the dying of the light.

Ser Aemon Cook Would look forward to testing applicants, both in weaponry and kitchen appliances.

Ser Aemon Cook Would blink, somehow not having heard of this beforehand, though he'd immediately don his chef's hat and run for his kitchen in Clark Kent-like fashion to begin preparing meals for the feast.

Y-You cant just OUT US LIKE THIS.

Ser Uther's Squire, Aemond, Would sharpen his blade in preparation to assist in the procurement of Iced Creme from the great enemy.

Wow! It's great people are starting to fill out the truly important, but less notable or flashy parts of the lore. It's inspiring even.

Placeholder Hope someone else gets first, but itll be fun to compete again :) IGN: DAENGIE

"What en yemekar's name es ah homosexual?" A young beardling would ask as they checked their daily mail, soon after tossing the missive away along with calls to monetarily assist a frostbeard princess.

Rune, whilst aimlessly wandering the frozen tundra of the far north in a depressive daze after the destruction of Varhelm and the great Ashwood there caught ahold of the missive flowing through the oppressive northern winds. Once read, the part of him still of sound mind quietly muttered something about being at least somewhat lucky in not having to observe national politics any longer before continuing on his way.

I got got. Gotta respect it.

The man, Eats, Skittles WITH SOY SAUCE! THIS TRAVESTY CANT BE ALLOWED TO CONTINUE.

"Scandalous." A Sorvian would comment

Rune is confused as the inner machinations of descendant children are an enigma to him.

Rune came to a stop upon seeing the carnage from afar. "Meatbags at it again I see." The Sorvian would state before deciding he'd turn around and go elsewhere today.

Gorm The Flayer’s abnormally large serrated smile widened as he watched the messenger go. Finally, he would be able to partake in one of his favorite past times, hosting gladiatorial Blood Games. Surprisingly, he had found not just food and labor from the thralls captured from Haense, but strength to compete aswell.

Rune would quickly read over the paper, then looking up once they had finished, stating. “I have many questions.”

A King’s Last Stand The Final Moments of Halvar Edvardsson ♪♪♪ Snow began to fall as the nearly century-old former monarch made their way further north towards their destination, escorted by a pair of silent behemoths that loomed over his every step; the Svarling Huskarls of Zharrtyr keeping a watchful eye over their temporary charge as he made his way toward their lord's camp. Dozens of thoughts raced through Halvar Edvardsson's mind as he approached the Svarling fort, evidence of the invader's brutality shown everywhere he looked, from the frozen half-eaten corpses of North Guardsmen to flayed and impaled effigies of innocent village folk. However, all form of thought ceased as the elder's attention was brought front and center to the sounding of horns and the steadily lifting gate. A man of monstrous proportions came from the entrance, seeming more akin to a golem of steel and ivory than a mere human. "Are you the leader of these men?" The old monarch would ask, staring at the massive mountain of a man for a moment before then glancing up at the snow, shouldering his Dane axe. The monstrous man would continue to make his way forward, snow crunching under each heavy footstep of the Svarlandic Warlord, his greataxe at rest atop his left shoulder. The Huskarls stood still and silent as Zharrtýr Rykhässon appeared, and when he spoke, his voice boomed across the fells. "That I am, and you are?". Halvar Would continue to observe the northern tundra for a moment, pondering as he took in his surroundings before then turning his gaze to the Svarling Lord and Answering, "Halvar Edvardsson. Former King of Norland". The massive man seemed to pause for a moment at that, responding soon after. "And what brings a former king to my camp?" Zharr asked, taking several steps forward. "Surely, they have not resorted to sending their old men to fight me." The elderly former sovereign would scoff at that, responding, "I've come of my own accord. To atone for my mistakes. To atone for leaving my country and the care of my people in the hands of unworthy stewards, The clans who sought naught but war with the empire and left Norland in the state it currently is. Barely able to hold THE LINE AGAINST GLORIFIED SEA RAIDERS WITH INBRED GIGANTISM!" The Old king would utter, gesturing at the half-eaten frozen bodies along the pathway up to the camp as he let loose a long-held fury. The aging monarch would then look up to the chosen once more. "I have come to pay with my life. Dying in battle as I should have done long ago". On this exclamation, Halvar would begin to pace from side to side. "In my age, Norlanders fought demons with fire and steel ten times your number, worse than anything you fashion yourselves after, and WE BEAT THEM BACK INTO THE TIDE!" The Former king would then come to a stop upon this exclamation, his fury turning to grief as he looked around to the fallen around him once more. "Now we send our youth to fight our battles for us. I have had enough". Zharrtýr stared down the once-king from beneath his horned helm, fashioned akin to the same demons Halvar fought once before; nevertheless, it was a pale imitation. Zharrtyr hefted his poleaxe, moving to clutch it in both hands as he slowly stepped towards Halvar. "You are brave, son of Rurik, braver than those who now dwell in these lands. It will be my honor to be the one who cuts you down". At that, Halvar would stare at the svarling lord from beneath his helm once more, hefting his axe into both hands. "I'm Coming Celie." The old monarch would state beneath his breath, thinking once more back to his wife and son before advancing on the Warlord, first at a jog, then at a sprint akin to those of his younger years, yelling out a cry of fury as he hefted his axe toward the Svarling's right arm. Zharrtýr was caught off guard by the sudden burst of speed from the old monarch, and as such, didn't bother blocking the blow. Halvar's axe slammed into the lord's bloodstained plate, the sickening sound of metal crushing metal could be heard as the weight of the greataxe actually managed to puncture the plate and dig into Zharr's shoulder. The Svarling Warlord let out a growl, equally of pain and anger, before moving to knock Halvar back with a forceful shove using the haft of his own poleaxe. Halvar buckled upon the blow’s connection, the strength of his youth having left him long ago as he rolled backwards down the hill, landing face down in the snow. After a moment, the old king would stir and rise on wobbling legs. To the onlooking Svarlings, Zharrtýr appeared fine, having taken the axe blow in stride, though the Warlord shifted the grip of the axe, from his dominant side to the other, and to Halvar, it would be clear he'd dealt a substantial injury, as blood dripped from the ugly gash left in The Chosen’s armor. The Lord of blood-soaked hosts advanced on the former Norlandic monarch then, now in his own sprint, and, as if to serve his wounded pride, raised the axe high overhead before attempting to bring it down swiftly upon Halvar's shoulder as the old monarch stood. As Zharrtýr swung his own massive weapon down, Halvar would bring the staff of his own two-handed axe up in an attempt to block the blow. This effort would prove fruitless however, as the Warlord's massive axe crashed straight through the weapon’s wood haft and into the elderly former sovereign’s shoulder. Halvar would freeze upon the blow connecting, looking towards the axe head with a wide-eyed expression of shock for a moment before his gaze steeled, looking first up at the falling snow then into Zharrtýr's eyes and smiling. "Someday…You will…Meet the same fate. Lord of blood-soaked hosts." The Former Monarch would utter out with what was left of his strength, then falling back into the snow. There Halvar Edvardsson, Former king of Norland, protector of the highlanders, and friend to many lay dying. The man likely had many other titles though he didn't care to recall them, as his last thoughts were more occupied with peaceful times of song, ale, and merriment when the light finally left his eyes. The Chosen Lord remained silent, allowing Halvar his final words before pulling the poleaxe from his opponent’s shoulder. As the once-great king Fell, Zharr drove the axe into the ground, curiously watching the other's final moments. He'd reach down, plucking the crowned helmet from Halvar's head, and fastening it to his belt before silently remarking. "A pity we had not met in days of yore, a worthy fight you would've been." He answers before turning to face the onlooking Marauders. "Bring the body to his kin in Varhelm. Do not loot or desecrate it. He did not die a coward's death."