DAENGIE

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.

Aerin Marsyr would make his way to the gatehouse, back from vacation, to hold the banner of EXALTED FARFOLK OWYN aloft from the battlements. He would curse under his breath as he would probably have to spill canonist blood, heretics and misguided middlemen though they may be.

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."

Oh no, what a loss.

Gorm The Flayer Came to a stop atop a nearby hill, having returned from their raid on fenn and spotting the burning houses dotted with scattering Skanarri. After a moment of silence Gorm would begin giggling, then progressing to full on laugther. This action was followed up by the rest his band of cannibalistic lunatics, their chorus of mad cackles reverberating through the valleys and hills of the northern tundra.

“What” utters a confused clayman, unknowingly imitating their creator upon reading the missive half a continent away.

The Nine Days’ Battle The Bloodying of Ikur’fiyem ♪♪♪ Long had it been since the arrival of Zharrtýr Rykhässon and his warbands from the distant north. The fields and forests of Norland had been painted a dark crimson, and everyone with the eyes to see had come to worry about the impending trouble- even more, when their declaration of war was issued by way of a severed head. Yet, it would not be Norlandic soil that would see the first pitched conflict against these raiders from afar. In the winter months of the forty-third year of the Second Age did the war party of the Svarlandic raid-lord Gorm the Flayer arrive on the coasts of Almaris. With boots on unfamiliar, frozen soil and separated by some distance from the main Svarling warhost, Gorm and his subordinates began a march through the freezing winds of the icy tundra, navigating frozen summits and barren planes, following the tales of the Chosen’s exploits in the west. The cold bit into the men as they marched, and many hungered, both for the thrill of battle and for a warm meal, whether that be provided by the flesh of the animals of Almaris, or the flesh of the people themselves. And then, as if by some gift from the Gods, they did spy in the hills ahead the settlement of Ikur’fiyem, home to the Fennic Remnants- but more importantly, a place to acquire much needed supplies. No Svarling would deny such a boon from the realms beyond, and so a force was sent forth to claim what was needed. Yet, this city of the north was not to be the easy target it looked to be from afar. Around midday of that fateful sun, the first sounds of conflict began to ring through the city, as a hail of arrows descended from above in an opening volley. The city, then, was consumed in conflict; its valiant defenders, the Ivae’fenn, gathered in droves to defend their home, and well over two-thousand Mali’fenn joined the fray that day, spearheads and blades gleaming in the sunlight. As the defenders rallied and got into formation, the foreign warriors came with blood-crazed berserkers and hounds of war, and with little delay did blood begin to flow. In moments, sanguine streams began filling the streets and staining the snow, as man and beast met with sharpened steel. The Svarling marauders kicked in doors, set fires and dragged loot out of any structure they could enter, and the largest among their number- the heavily armored Huskarls who had, by now, become emblematic of the Svarling menace- formed a wall of steel and shields, beginning to entrench themselves and box the defenders in. At that moment, the day began to look more than grim; it was to be a day of suffering and slaughter. The fighting carried on, through the day and into the night, and then again. For four long, grueling days did the viscera flood the ground until finally, nearly pushed back to their palace, the valiant, bloodied, and unbroken Ivae’fenn sent forth airborne couriers- one to the West and one to the East. From Norland in the West to that damned battlefield came a thousand men, Northguard and Purifiers alike, riding upon their armored horses and led by none other than the King himself, Vane Freysson. And from Haense in the East, there marched another thousand, clad in the famed black and yellow of the Crows, themselves led by Ser Reinhardt Barclay and the Prince Nikolas Barbanov. Together, the Men of the North had come to relieve the city and its battle-fatigued defenders. For nine days in total did the slaughter continue, the defenders pushing through the city, and the combined Highlander army pushing in through the city’s gate, with the aim of meeting in the city center. The Norlandic cavalry were the first to make contact with the Svarling host, with some couple hundred raiders slain in the initial charge alone- though this luck was not to last, as soon after the horses were bogged down in the horde, and the men were pulled, thrown and dropped from their mounts. Fortunately, it was then that the Haeseni infantry arrived, clashing shields and swords with the Svarlandic raiders and giving the Norlanders precious time to regroup. Then, the true slog began, as the Norlanders and Haensemen fought their way through the uphill gauntlet, and the Ivae’fenn fought the now-divided force from the other end. Weapons clashed and sparks flew, spells were thrown, and limbs were severed in quantities the likes of which Almaris had never before seen. Slowly, through the slogging battle, Man and Elf alike marched forward, not a one going without blood painting his body and blade alike. Many fell, and gore painted that nightmare of a landscape through day and night, until finally the Northmen and the Ivae’fenn alike breached the enemy defense and brought the battle to its conclusion. At one flank, the Norlandic warriors broke through to meet the blood-covered Ivae’fenn, and at the other the Haensemen kept the remaining Svarling huskarls engaged, allowing the forces to encircle and run down the remaining bowmen. Then, in a final offensive, the remaining raiders pushed through the battered soldiers, and made off with what they had looted; a less than ideal conclusion, for certain, but the raid was ended and the city was saved. Fenn had been spared the fiery, bloody end that had been seen in Leumont, and the day had been won with blood, sweat and steel. And yet, a somber wind blew, the sound of warhorns carried upon it, and all present felt its chill; this was not the end.

Rûne would come to a stop, halting their occasional wandering around new Elysium as they saw the missive pasted on the board. They would take a moment to read over the missive, tilting their head upon a certain line. "Evil Norland. Hm. That confirms some things." The Sorvian would state flatly before quickly reading over the rest and wandering off, now wondering if the friendliness they were offered when they visited was still to be taken at face value, pondering over the thought as they left the settlement.