Calise11

The short answer. No, we have no say

A raven appeared, carrying a discarded bit of paper. Eistalyn furrowed her brows before turning it over. After the many sheets the collectomanic bird had stolen from travellers past. Love letters lost - missives and trade deals of bread and sourdough... She knew not how to keep the bird from stealing. But as this was dropped by a loosening of the beak. a thumb and finger pinched at it. It was visually digested with a grimace. She turns to hand it over to Fennrick before pinning it to a wall somewhere in the Deep North, "May the Spirits an Gods have mercy on all those who do not agree with the empire."

"If you want to wed me, you must first best me in a Holmgang," the veral woman spoke to the man. An agreement made. "I, Sissel Av Freysdottir, declare a Holmgang, Rudolf." And so that man did beat her within that Holmgang. He drove a knife so deep into her femoral artery that she debated the traditions of her forefathers. Holmgangs were a thing of honour, of dispute—and rarely were they a means to test the mettle of a husband against a wife. Such was the way of the Norlanders. She went to blind him— all or nothing, truly—her hands sinking into his cheekbones, tearing away, her thumbs sliding toward his sockets. But alas, the clay came loose in her hands. It crumbled, and so did her hold. The man quickly gained the upper hand, his face quartered—an odd, hollow thing left from an injury prior. On the day of recovery, it was permitted they were to wed. They had been courting here and there, but truly, now was the time. Within the span Freysdottir had taken to recover from such grievous injuries dealt by her future husband, she carved him something her people once wore—a mask in the shape of the Narvaukian forebears. A simple thing, crafted from the ashwood itself. Permission had been sought to gain such a robust and beautiful material. Now it sat within her hands. Her fingers were long blackened by the blessing—and curse alike—that was Orthasiel, gaps and tears wrought in her flesh. She was older—much older. Her hair had grown the taint of cinder-ash. And now, all she had of the man she loved was what she had once given him. She never thought how the mask would find its way back into her possession—but perhaps she should have. His life had been dimming, the sandglass poured and curated to ensure the man was soon to depart from her. Once upon a time, they had both been young. And then, they had not. Raginolf’s life was taken and halved when he poured half his truer soul into a cannon that absorbed Asmund’s entirety, aging Raginolf’s body forty years—driving the man into age, draining the colour from his skin, and flecking his hair with silver and white. He was still young at heart. He never truly aged in mind or soul. Still, he would try to taunt and tease his wife, even when there was a snap, crackle, and pop within his spine. She still felt the click within her jaw from where he had dislocated it days prior, when his Templar’s mark bore little to no control. Of course, she was his wife—she had to step in. The mask was not as smooth as when her blade had first carved it. So many dents—grime now. He had worn it every day since she had given to him to stop scaring the young bairn of Norland. But she could not stop thinking - She would never see him again. Not in the All-Fathers halls. Not in the abyss. For now they were apart forever and always. Had they even said goodbye...?

Chefs kiss

I don't think the disconnect is with the pickles.

❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ Hot streams of tears left Sissel’s eyes. And yet her face oddly never changed. Her lips did not quiver, and her voice did not bend under the weight of ***ht. The sky grew progressively inky, and the stars above watched in tentative silence. She—she, the moon—too blessed them with her alabaster glow. Her hands grew shaky, as if the stone were shedding from her statue’s body. And for the last time, she embraced Kieran in a full-body cocoon. She knew that the moment she let go, the cycle would be complete. Kieran turned to embrace her, arms wrapping around her. A small, sombre smile crept across his face. After all those years, fights, laughs, and wars, what had started in Numendil decades ago would finally come to a close. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “Sissel—your girlfriend, right?” The two of them looked at each other, unsure whether to burst out laughing or force their fingers down their throats to feign a gag. “THA’S MA SISTER!” Kieran bellowed. It wasn’t a lie—well, sort of. Not by blood, certainly. Kieran had been born of the Numendian folk, while Sissel was born of noble blood: Rurikidd. The teens had been inserpable from the moment they had met. She saw something in the Farmer boy. Something that none of the other nobles, or peers of Numendeil, did. Kieran was captured by heart and never let go. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “At least it’s ye…” he said, holding her a moment longer before preparing to pull away. The pain flowed freely; the floodgates, long kept pinned shut, broke. A cascade of gut-wrenching ache spread through every part of her being. The stony facade finally crumbled. Her body shook like a leaf, and despite it all, she pressed a woefully beautiful smile onto chapped lips. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “…Are you SURE? You can walk…?” questioned Freysson as the Templar knight limped toward the staircase, a hand extended outward as she slowly made her way down, ready to grab the 370-pound man. Oh, what a stupid idea it was. “I am fine! Look, I can wa—" ||CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—CLANG—CLANG!|| The woman was bulldozed by Kieran and his bulk. A broken arm and a leg later, his sister was a pancake on the first flight of stairs, even though they had started at the top ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “We still never managed to fight side by side. Truly. Perhaps such was the case… I would have shown you up.” Her tone shattered as the ache only grew further. And for once, the hallmarks of their bond—their friendship—bled through, from Draugmaer to Sissel. “Mm… ye were the better fighter… Ay just took the hits,” he said amidst their embrace. His tone lifted slightly, perhaps a chuckle escaping. Though he was sad—sad it had to be this way, sad it would go this way—it was as it was. Their bond had always been strange in its own ways, but one that was theirs to hold until the end. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “WE are going to make you stronger!” the teen proclaimed, handing him a large rock to hold. Kieran, much skinnier, fumbled it. “…BY DROWNING ME?!” The woman nodded, and like a pirate, he walked the plank, forced by her and a pointy stick. All he needed was a singular flick to the forehead. || SPLOOOOOOOSH || “Hold on! The longer you’re down there, the more you expand your lung capacity! It’s Norlandic tradition!” she yelled words of encouragement as bubbles bobbed up and down. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ She was kneed in the side, where he had once split the muscle of her hip. What drove Sissel to fight was a will to survive—but the difference this time was clear: this was not a battle she wanted. Her vigor was deflated, her movements lacked the friction of her usual strength. She slid to his side, his airway recovering, hissing in muted pain. Nonetheless, the man had made his choice. He wanted this, and with that came her respect for his will. The axe tightened in her grip, and she aimed at the nearest limb—his thigh. Sissel’s axe cut into the man’s thigh, severing the femoral artery as dark maroon spread across the ground. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “You—FELL OFF A BUILDING?! AGAIN!?” proclaimed his sister. “Aye…” Kieran responded. “Okay—uh… what’s… two plus two?” Because, anyway, to figure out whether someone had brain damage, you… give them math equations… right? …right? “Ay don’t need testin… Eighteen!” Kieran sang proudly with a hearty confidence. Sissel’s palm met her forehead with a wet slap. It was wet, because, of course, Kieran was bleeding. But in their youth, they were always bleeding. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “Tha’ll do it…” he wheezed, looking back at her, likely with only moments left as the wound bled like a garden hose. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “GET OWUF MAAWH TOWNGUWE!” Kieran proclaimed as Sissel had seized it. Victor looked between his two ‘children’—most certainly not fortunate enough to come from his loins—but they were his nonetheless. “AH!” Sissel screeched as her own tongue was caught. The two were locked in a stalemate within the Flaming Tankard of Vjardengrad. They were easily in their fifties, yet the moment they graced each other’s presence, they were fourteen all over again. “Ow about ye both let go a’ the same time…” Victor, one hand pressed against his cheek, watching on. Chiming is a mediator “HEWH WAWNT DWO IIWT-” “AWH WILL -” “AWRIGHT OWH THA COWUNT OF THRWEE- WON - TWHO - THWREEE” ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ Sissel’s axe fell with a muted thud. Her breath came in rapid, ragged rasps. Her shoulder bled, her hip worse, and other wounds marked her body. She had no time to tend to them. Instead, she lay next to him. Enough was enough—there was no need to continue. Her cinereous hair mingled with his silver locks, brushes of red staining strands of both. Grey Tundras looked upward. Her chest continued to flex under the strain of the fight, equally torn apart. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ Sissel had lost count of the number of times she had carried Kieran back from a battle, stranded somewhere on the road, or kidnapped him from Numendil to Vjardengrad so she could tend to him. She always wanted the best for him. After all, he was her brother. Years could pass without them seeing each other. War. Diplomacy. Norland vs. the world. Life got busy. But somehow, at some point, they would crop up in each other’s lives. “I wanna see Auntie Sissel!” a little one sang at Kieran’s side, and suddenly, the woman who despised children started to thaw to her niece. “I’ll cook you a BIG mammoth stake, little bairn,” Sissel hummed. “What’s a mammoth?” her niece, no older than six, asked. “A big fluffy creature! You should ask your Fadir for one. Certainly perfect house pets,” her aunt insisted. And lo and behold: “DAAAADD—I WANT A MAMMOTH!” You could hear Kieran burying himself in his hands as Sissel tormented him through his own daughter. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂ “I did not want this,” she rasped. “But I know it was better than you descending into—” She coughed, hacking up blood, spitting out the spew. “Madness… such a fate would be far too cruel.” She had not been prepared when Kieran had asked her for a Holmgang. A duel and one to the death. She bled her shoulders, hips. It was hard to tell what blood was Kieran's and what blood was hers. Battered and maimed. A mistake to have come without armour or a weapon. Luckily, Iulius provided. “Ay know…” Kieran shoved his hand to her shoulder, keeping a weak grasp despite his effort. “Ay love ye…” he said weakly, a croak escaping as he looked to the rising sun. “Ye’ll take care o’ yerself… ye hear? Ye must…” His grip faltered. “The voices… the nightmares… they dwindle… they’re… they’re finally over…” he whispered, taking a last breath as if relieved, drifting into death’s grasp. His chest no longer rose or fell. His body gave out, becoming limp upon her. After all that time—all those years of pain—finally, he could rest. There he lay, basking in the sun. The blood that had flown gently ceased. ❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂❂ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ⚔ ᛞᛖᛚᛁᚢᚱᛖ ⚔ ᚠᚢᚦᚨᚱᚲ ❂

"Oh- Ladies night REALLY did Livius and Elder hick dirty..." Eistalyn paused before she broke out in barking laughter

@bordwellas a fellow frost witch. I cackled. They killed frost witches so we couldnt turn them into sentient freezers

Oh yes, let us change the name and trailers, thumbnails for advertisement MANY lore submitted pieces last minute. What a cracking idea.

Very sweet of you.

A young blonde would squint as she read the 'news', her knuckles blanching with every minute that she entertained the paper "Truth... Once stretched beyond its bounds, it can become but deceit in verse. So sweet to the ear... Yet bitter to the soul. Of course... Now they only realise what they have done." She sighed, shaking her head, "May your lies be the lullaby that grants sounder sleep," And so the paper would not go to waste. Flame licked up as she used the paper now for kindling a flame to bring a pot of soup to heat, which would be cooked for the children left behind from that dreadful day.

<!> A young girl is seen. Her features were pallid, her eyes cried raw. She hides under a cloak as she darts back and forth from various southern cities, pinning a missive with baited breath. The letter is penned in various moments of anger, sorrow and grief, the pen hand unsteady, shaking<!> _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ 𝑴𝒚 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝑬𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒔 𝑰 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆—𝒐𝒓 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔, 𝚄𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒆𝒏. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒑𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒃𝒐𝒊𝒍, 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒐𝒓𝒓𝒐𝒘. 𝑶𝒘𝒚𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕. 𝑪𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒕. 𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒕𝒉. 𝑵𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒆. 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒃𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂 𝒎𝒂𝒏. 𝑨𝒏 Numendil 𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒂𝒍 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒕 𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒎 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔—𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒈𝒆 𝒂 ***** 𝒂 HARLOT, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒎𝒊𝒕. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒏𝒐 𝒇𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒍𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒔—𝒐𝒉, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒔𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒔 𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒆𝒔, 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒕𝒉. 𝑻𝒐 𝒕𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒚  𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒌  𝒈𝒐𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒑  𝒂𝒏𝒅  𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅  𝒊𝒕  𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐  𝒈𝒆𝒏𝒐𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆. ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴛʜᴇ sᴛᴏʀʏ ᴛʜᴇʏ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏ ʜᴇᴀʀ 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒖𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅 𝑨𝒔 𝑰 𝒘𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒃 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒐𝒇𝒇—𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒍𝒄𝒐𝒉𝒐𝒍-𝒔𝒐𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒐𝒕𝒉. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒔𝒌: 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓? 𝑩𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒎𝒚 𝑬𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒅. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒚 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒕 𝒚𝒆𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏. 𝑵𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒐, 𝒔𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒊𝒅 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒐𝒇 𝒊𝒔 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒊𝒙-𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒓-𝒐𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒔𝒊𝒏’𝒔. 𝑰𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒂 𝒃𝒍𝒂𝒅𝒆 𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒐𝒔𝒔 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒕—𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆. 𝑪𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏. 𝑬𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒃 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒎𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅. 𝑺𝒖𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒍𝒚, 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔—𝒔𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒕𝒔 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒕. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒔𝒕𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒎𝒚𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇. 𝑰 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆 - 𝒐𝒓 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒆? 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒉𝒐𝒍𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎, 𝒂𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒄𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒊𝒍, 𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒊𝒔 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒘𝒐. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝑰 𝒇𝒆𝒆𝒍 𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒚 𝒗𝒆𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒄𝒊𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒐𝒖𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒚 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒖𝒎𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅. 𝑻𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘—𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔? 𝑨 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏, 𝒐𝒇 𝒎𝒚 𝒂𝒈𝒆, 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒐𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂 ***** 𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝑨 𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝑪𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒊𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒇𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒆 𝒏𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒆. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒓𝒚 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒔𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒗𝒊𝒐𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒍𝒕𝒔. 𝑵𝒂𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒂𝒏 𝒉𝒐𝒏𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒏 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏. 𝑰𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓, 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒂 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓, 𝑰 𝒂𝒎 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔—𝒕𝒐 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆… 𝑩𝒐𝒕𝒉 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒍 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒈𝒖𝒆. 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒊𝒛𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘-𝒅𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝑯𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝑲𝒆𝒆𝒑𝒆𝒓—𝒂 𝒓𝒆𝒍𝒊𝒄, 𝒂 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒅𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒔𝒑𝒂𝒘𝒏. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒉𝒚—𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚… 𝑨 𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒖𝒑 𝒂𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒈𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒔. 𝑹𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒂𝒎𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒕𝒐𝒘𝒏. 𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐖𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐚. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬. 𝐈 𝐡𝐨𝐩𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬𝐨𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐬 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐡 𝐢𝐭. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝑵𝒐𝒓𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒅. 𝑯𝒂𝒂𝒌𝒐𝒏, 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑺𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝑲𝒐𝒏n𝒂𝒏 𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒈𝒏. 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆𝒅. 𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒓𝒆𝒈𝒓𝒆𝒕. 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒂𝒊𝒅? 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒎𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒏? 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝘣 𝙚 𝗵 𝙚 𝖆 𝖉 𝖊 𝖉 𝖍 𝖎 𝗆 . 𝑭𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅. 𝒀𝒆𝒔, 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑨 𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒆𝒍𝒅. 𝑨 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒐𝒅𝒂𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅. 𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒐 𝒂𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒍 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕. 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑴𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏. 𝑾𝒉𝒐 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒔𝒐 𝒗𝒂𝒍𝒊𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒍𝒚? 𝑨 𝑾𝑶𝑼𝑵𝑫𝑬𝑫 𝑴𝑨𝑵'𝑺 𝑬𝑮𝑶 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑴𝑨𝑫𝑬 𝑨 𝑮𝑹𝑨𝑽𝑬 𝑶𝑼𝑻 𝑶𝑭 𝑴𝒀 𝑯𝑶𝑴𝑬. 𝑶𝑵𝑬 𝑴𝑨𝑵𝑺 𝑯𝑨𝑺 𝑩𝑹𝑶𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻 𝑨 𝑾𝑯𝑶𝑳𝑬 𝑮𝑬𝑵𝑶𝑪𝑰𝑫𝑬 𝑻𝑶 𝑻𝑯𝑬 𝑷𝑬𝑶𝑷𝑳𝑬 𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑴𝑬𝑻𝑨𝑳 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫 - 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫! 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫 𝑴𝑶𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑺 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑭𝑨𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑺, 𝑪𝑯𝑰𝑳𝑫𝑹𝑬𝑵, 𝑻𝑶𝑫𝑫𝑳𝑬𝑹𝑺, 𝑬𝑳𝑫𝑬𝑹𝑺 𝑺𝑳𝑨𝑼𝑮𝑯𝑻𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑫. 𝑶𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑨 𝑺𝑯𝑰𝑬𝑳𝑫!? 𝗬𝗼𝘂 𝗺𝗮𝘆 𝘀𝗮𝘆 𝗴𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗿𝗶𝗱𝗱𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲 𝘁𝗼 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝗣𝗮𝗴𝗼𝗻𝘀｡ 𝗕𝘂𝘁 𝗡𝗼𝗿𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗶𝘀 𝗺𝗮𝗱𝗲 𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗡𝗼𝗿𝗻𝘀❟ Nords, 𝗖𝗮𝗻𝗻𝗼𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀❟ 𝗙𝗮𝘁𝗵𝗲𝗿𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀❟ 𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗢𝘄𝘆𝗻𝗶𝘀𝘁𝘀｡ 𝗪𝗲 𝗮𝗰𝗰𝗲𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹｡ 𝗔𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗲 𝗹𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗮𝗹𝗹｡ 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤 𝐭𝐨 𝐚𝐬𝐤? 𝐁𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐥𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐬? - 𝐈𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐝𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞 𝐢𝐫𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐚𝐠𝐞? 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡? 𝐓𝐨 𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐢𝐧? 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒕𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒍𝒆𝒇𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒄𝒂𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑬𝒎𝒑𝒊𝒓𝒆 𝒉𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒏𝒆 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒋𝒐𝒃. 𝑯𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒔, 𝒔𝒐𝒏𝒔, 𝒅𝒂𝒖𝒈𝒉𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒎𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑺𝒐𝒖𝒕𝒉, 𝑰 𝒑𝒓𝒂𝒚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒖𝒕 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒚𝒐𝒖— 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒏𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒖𝒓𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆’𝒔 𝒄𝒉𝒊𝒍𝒅𝒓𝒆𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒃𝒐𝒓. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── The day had dawned with crackles of thunder that echoed outward across Vjardengrad. Or was it dawn? The light had been snuffed from the streets of Vjardengrad, plunging everyone into what felt like an eternal grappling darkness. Cold light seeped through the library’s hearth. Asmund and Eistalyn. Stood—side by side. Two silhouettes among a crowd of a hundred. One was most certainly taller than the other. Eistalyn had vowed to be his shadow. And he, her shield. As one does with a mentor and student. Although they had never spoken of that bond, it was evident that Eistalyn held Asmund up on a pedestal like no other. She learnt under his guise. She had promised to follow into the flame. Norns of Solgaard side by side. Broder and Sistra of Sol. And he had promised he would not let the storm touch her. Then the Elder of Sol, Hrungnir, approached. His voice was a low grind that commanded authority. He took a knee next to the smaller Elf. He warned her: "Do not underestimate the enemy." She met his gaze with somewhat stubborn little blues, brushing his words aside like wind collecting snow. She tried to convince him she knew battle, and Asmund in turn gave the father reassurance—not permission, but conviction, something to settle the Elder’s worry. “Fadir, me, Asmund and I have gone to battle before. Many a time, even. It will be fine, I promise.” But Hrungnir’s frown held fast—even if it was encased under the helm. She did not know, not yet. But by the end of the war, she would.. . . ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── "Eistalyn—Skarimir—with me!" Asmund’s voice rose among the chaos of cannon fire—and their own roared beneath their command. Together they felled not one but two trebuchets of the foulspawn’s work. Relics of war that were assisted in the shattering under Norn fire. “Uh... Asmund?” she called as her helm tilted upward, spotting a curious giant that had assailed their walls. “I see it, Essie.” And with that, he was gone. Charging forward with a valiant spark flaring bright with a holy flame. Asmund dove into the heat of an enemy far too big for him—an Elemental forged of earth and malice, bearing down on a lone mage stranded atop the tower. Alone. Of course Asmund would valiantly charge to the rescue. He had done the same when one of theirs had fallen—a vat rendering him unconscious. Even then, he had dragged the man—leaving the cannon for Eistalyn to guide and fire while he sought the man the medical aid he needed. ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── He struck—again and again—blade and soul ablaze. Elowyn had joined the chaos; the enemy rose before him and collapsed as they felled him. Asmund had found himself snaked under the beast. Eistalyn followed in his steps—breath torn from her lungs as a roof hurled in fury from the Elemental had winded—wounded but not broken—her. Eistalyn would protect him, no matter the pain. She raised her blade high in defiance || Whooosh || as it swept through the air—barreling down towards the creature's skull... But before she could do anything, the floor gave underneath them, and they tumbled from story to story—a brief pause between each floor before it collapsed again and again. A groan came from the Templar—Asmund, having fallen and surfed the same journey. And yet he rose with hearth still lit in radiant white light in his eyes. Vigour hummed through his veins as did pain course. He called for her in the wreckage and found where she lay. Dazed. Hurting. And lifted her gently as she complained of being bruised like a root vegetable. He guided Esistalyn across a broken rope ladder and shattered stones. That was Asmund. The iron in his kindness was paramount. Despite the blizzard that continued to rage on, Asmund was the warmth that unthawed and bestowed comfort in times when things seemed bleak. Together they reached the front. They had held the East. And there he stood. Not a man—not a beast—but a mountain of a daemon clad in stone and fiery hell. Asmund declared war. Not with the forces that were desperately assailing the walls while Aegon was being torn to shreds like holding the wall of Goldenvine troops. He summoned Eistalyn to advance. They found a cannon. And the Hesir finally loaded it. Asmund screamed—a sound that tore the clouds of the heavens above—somewhere his ancestors stirred as they heard his plight. Warmed his ale, for he was soon to be welcomed into Valhalla. The hearth of the greats. "MALCHEADIAL - GUIDE THIS ROUND.” Called the fellow Templar-Broedir, who was followed. “I am ASMUND, Bersirkr of MIKJALL. I am the son of INGRID, grandson of the LEGENDARY KONAN-THEGN, nephew of the LEGENDARY HAAKON-KING.” - “I have served you, MIKJALL, and today I give my LIFE to you, ALL-FATHER and to NORLAND." . . . || KABOOOOOOOOOOOOM || The world seemed to slow, things moving second by second, and Asmund’s body started to falter—crumpling. His flame and his hearth that he carried so valiantly now dimming. Eistalyn did not need to run to him. She was in his shadow. Her arms just... extended? Catching him and cradling him. She struggled under his weight as she slowly lowered him to the floor—trying to avoid any unceremonious stumble as his life—being drained from his body and imbued into a most holy cannon shot—would give... Her breath was shallow—ragged—and she called his name once—twice. “Asmund?!” But the light was flickering far away. And then he was wrenched from her arms. - He said something to her. Maybe one day she would remember. Gone. His warmth vanished. The battle raged around her—shouts and steel spells—but she could not hear, for all went... white? For the first time in war, she was without Asmund. Only once had she declared to go off and fight alone—for only Asmund and Eistalyn to pick the same foe and reunite in the battle of Valdez. Side by side once more. Asmund had been her guiding flame in the dark. The first into battle. And the last to retreat. An anchor to her fury and a calm that collected quietly in any storm. She had only ever known true war and battle with him at her side. She wept—deep, wracking sobs that tore through her like a violent, spiked winter wind that bared barbed wire into the flesh of those ignorant enough not to be bundled in furs. in grief, rage stirred. “FOR ASMUND!!!” she belted with a choked sob behind it. Blade in hand—pain stitched through her limbs like a rag doll half-sewn together with mismatched string. And because of his sacrifice—because of him—the Daemon faltered. “GOD HAS SAVED US!” some Southron called across the battle. In turn, Eistalyn screamed, “NO—ASMUND HAS. ASMUND DIED FOR US TO LIVE—FOR ASMUND!” A battle cry of Northernkin and Southron alike as the now-fallen’s name was chanted. A hollow peace enveloped Vjardengrad where war had taken place. She had hoped he was holding on. She had no clue how Templars died or what imbuing their soul could do. ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── She found him—slumped up against a wooden barrier with his friend. “Asmund?” she whispered, approaching the Norn brethren. No voice replied. No joke. No warm quip. Only a soul-shattering stillness. She collapsed again—knees imprinting into bloodied soil—and a stranger, one she could not name, wrapped her in silence in his arms. Tears spilt down and mixed with blood once again under her helm. A request passed her lips like a summons: “Someone—get an Elder—of Sol.” And as she requested, the vagabond Tancred appeared, deeming it his rites to be read. Traditions of Solgaard to be followed. So. For the last time, Eistalyn would walk as Asmund's shadow. An arm looped under his rag-dolled form as she and another carried him off—her blood flowed freely, winding in rivulets down her nape and sides—but she bore him with a sense of duty, with sorrow, and love for her brother. She promised to protect him. And in the end, she did ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── His body was placed upon the pyre that once housed the All-fathers' flame Eydis’s sobs and pleas for Asmund’s life b r o k e Eistalyn in two. Her blonde curls, matted with blood and sweat, obscured most of the happenings within her dulled blue pearls. She found solace in her father Hrungnir . He offered her kind and reassuring words. A helm was removed. Respect shown. But some she would remember more then others. Hrungnir, solemn and sage, bestowed on her a lesson at dawn that became truth by dusk: “Now you know the price of war.”

"We have work to do," Sissel called into the Hearth, the Tavern and the mines. All Nords would gather. The Norns would cut lumber from Solgaard, and carts dragged through the blizzard with steeds built out of eternally cold conditions. Various materials ripped from homes only to be reused by those crafty Northern kin, shouting in old tongues of the, as men and women worked tirelessly through the coming weeks to rebuild and fortify the tavern into a doomsday bunker. Miners were put to the task of digging holes, securing them and supporting them to ensure routes to safety were secure, as well as new rooms supported and dug under the Flaming tankard. The once pit, known for Holmgangs and Honour duels now utilised as a place to store farm animals and beloved pets. Although they soon would probably find solace in the blunt edge of an axe, as the storm was considered to swallow all. But not the Northenkins spirit.

To exploit someone's learning disabilities. Is a Low Blow . I am not quite sure we are the toxic ones here. I like to call these kind of forums. Things people read while on their porcelain thrones (IE a good toilet read) I would LOVE to put the whole group chat I was once in on blast. And expose your personal affairs as you have mine.(Enjoy my terrible spelling snce these people are butthurt I use reading and writing aids) I have Tourette's syndrome. I have dyslexia, I have chronic ills. I have never denied iv not used CHAT GPT to help me spell and grammar check and act like Grammarly (But for freeee). It is quite literally called a 'calise11' when I **** up ... I am not blessed with the ability others have of being able to write coherently and quickly. I do it for flow to keep up with rp and make sure my emotes are the best and top-tier quality they can be. I have suffered from this learning disability, quite literally, my whole life. . . My writing. is my own. I am happy to post over 1000 different shots of evidence over the years of me screaming at chat gpt going "Spell and grammar check this..." - "wait no DONT CHANGE MY WRITING" - "NO NOT LIKE THAT." Until its perfectly set up to what I want. Spelling, grammar, and English language things. The very fact that you have PUSHED me to speak about personal issues, because who likes people believing lies about themselves? CRAZY toxic. Like. And what's wild. Is you know all this? You knew I used aids for my writing. This is quite literally like throwing spahgettie on a wall and hoping it sticks when its not cooked. Also. I care about my friends' sleeping schedule. . . Shoot me? These people are not just pixels. They have lives outside of rp. They do not hydrate enough, they do not sleep enough. And I care about this. Also... Yeah, I use chat GPT to tell me the tone of voice. Because, quite frankly. I do not function in conflict situations. Which evidently. You are very aware of this since... You know... Your partner used to sit with me and tell me when someone was being an A-hole or not because I have a tendency to be walked all over. . . Crazy clutch at straws. CRAZY... BUT THANK YOU. FOR GIVING ME THE CONFIDENCE FOR own my LEARNING disability. Since. You gave me uh kinda no choice? I think, thank you? Who knows? Lmao Edit: I have read the entire document now over a cup of coffee. Putting on my serious hat now. Lasting personal sentence, I have had people come to me. Leave LOTC due to the group of VANSK before they were VANSK. My total now is four, I almost made it five. I wholeheartedly pray and wish that you get the help you need. You are not mentally coherent in the head. And for your benefit, I would ask you to take this document down, you guys really thought you did something. But instead, you made everyone who might have had a sensible complaint look like idiots for your own personal vendetta and you and only you (Shinybluepikachu) need to think about your actions. You are not a Victim. You are a Gaslighter. You are Manipultaive. You are toxic. I say this with my chest. As someone who has been your friend for literal years. And I pray for those who continue to be around in your presence because they need it. And hope in whatever endeavours you take in life. I wish you in truth. All of you. The best. I have made some wonderful memories with you all. But this is the end of the chapter. For future reference. Never say someone is an Abuser when they are not... Pot calling the kettle black.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── "I would take no babe from its home," an elder called across the small camp of Vansk, a voice low and thunderous, commanding authority, aged like wind over old stone. "But neither would I leave one to freeze... or burn." The camp fell into a silent hush after a clash of swords, metal ringing against metal. A stillness lingered, broken only by the crackle of fire that raged behind. Sissel, weighed with anguish, still found herself seeking mercy, despite how cruel the men and women of Vansk had been, taunting, lording her mother’s dead body over her as if she had been the one to place the blade in her nape. And still… her heart had thawed. 'Yield blood of mine, and nothing shall come to you.' Those words—so true—clung to her like a warding spell, etched into her thoughts, tolling back and forth like a distant ocean bell. A promise of peace… swiftly unmade by the choices of Vansk. Snow clung to her boots, heavy and wet, crunching beneath each solemn step as she approached the lone tent. It stood—the only thing that now harboured life—within, three babbling babes. ...How had they been left here? Why did no one take them? She had seen men and women gather outside this very tent. And yet... they remained. No bolts barred the flap, no lock sealed it shut. Only silence. And the soft, sorrowful whines of children begging to be saved. Their cries rose into the air like smoke, curling into the dark and carrying across the clearing. "We cannot just leave them here to die," A murmur was exchanged with another. How had four grown souls looked upon the future—and turned their backs? Their kin. Their legacy. Forsaken. The children were cradled. They were soothed. Two figures descended upon the camp, moving tent to tent in search of those who might still remain. Nothing was found but silhouettes, long since cast into shadow. And so the children were taken. Not by force, but by necessity. Lifted from the cradle of fire and frost. Not stolen. But saved. Left, neglected, and abandoned by the blood that should have protected them. A pity, then... that the elders of Vansk had forgotten what it meant to have /kin/. ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── The missive was flicked outward with a deft wrist, a canter of the Freysson’s head. "Perhaps if your leader would finally break his silence and cease his cowering… We could be convinced that the neglect of young babes was a simple... mistake." And so, a pen met parchment. A quill was made. An offer—extended. An olive branch, once again, held forth—perhaps only to be pruned and chopped as it had been before. But still... A bird would leave the rookery of Vjardengrad, flying in the direction of Vansk. ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

Hi. You can join us in Norland if you would like to. Or if you would like to learn the server as you go along with accurate roleplay. We have several child personas to play from, an off-script adventure involving the tarotmancy palm readers, where a group of children were rescued from a cultist church. Automatically, you would already have people looking out for you and helping you learn the server /cultures as your persona grows into an adult. You can play in Norland without having a child persona. And bring your halfling. But the opportunity is there. Either way, I will link the Discord https://discord.gg/DBg96ux2 This is the link to if you accepted a new persona slot, the lore of your new persona

𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍 𝒕𝒓𝒖𝒅𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒄𝒐𝒍𝒅, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒎𝒔 𝒘𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒔𝒔 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒎 𝒐𝒇 𝒂 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒐 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒓. 𝑾𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓’𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒎𝒑, 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒅𝒍𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒈𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔𝒕 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔𝒐, 𝒂 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒓𝒐𝒑 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒂𝒔 𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒚 𝒂𝒔 𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒔𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒈𝒂𝒑𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓𝒔. 𝑬𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒚 𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒑 𝒐𝒇 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍’𝒔 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒏𝒐𝒘, 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏. 𝑨 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒏 𝒔𝒆𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒊𝒕 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔, 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏 𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒂𝒏 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒅𝒊𝒃𝒍𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑮𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒇. 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒈𝒓𝒊𝒑 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒂 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕; 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏’𝒔 𝒘𝒆𝒕, 𝒔𝒐𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒏 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚, 𝒅𝒆𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒔𝒍𝒊𝒑... 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍’𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒃𝒆𝒈𝒈𝒆𝒅 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒔𝒖𝒓𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕, 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒌𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒖𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒆. "𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑, 𝑾𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. . .," 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒓𝒊𝒈𝒊𝒅 𝒂𝒊𝒓. 𝑨 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒃 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒕𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒚 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒂𝒕. "𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆, 𝑰 𝒃𝒆𝒈 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖. 𝑶𝒑𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒆𝒚𝒆𝒔 . . . ." 𝑯𝒆𝒓 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝒈𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒔. 𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒏, 𝒇𝒓𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒍𝒆... 𝒃𝒓𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒏... 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒇𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑵𝒐 𝒔𝒂𝒔𝒔𝒚 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒃𝒂𝒄𝒌, 𝒏𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆. 𝑵𝒐 𝒇𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏. 𝑱𝒖𝒔𝒕... 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈... 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒚 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒘𝒊𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍𝒍𝒚, 𝒇𝒐𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒗𝒂𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒂𝒅𝒐𝒘𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒕𝒐𝒐𝒅 𝒂𝒖𝒅𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐. 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒂 𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆 𝒔𝒐 𝒑𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒆? 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒕 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏—𝒂 𝒇𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒆𝒏. 𝑨 𝒄𝒆𝒍𝒆𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒐𝒇 𝒍𝒊𝒇𝒆 𝒔𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒐 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏. 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒇𝒂𝒕𝒆’𝒔 𝒄𝒓𝒖𝒆𝒍 𝒔𝒂𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒆, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒑𝒂𝒊𝒏𝒇𝒖𝒍𝒍𝒚 𝒇𝒊𝒕𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒂𝒊𝒎 𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑰𝒇 𝒐𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒐𝒄𝒄𝒖𝒑𝒊𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑳𝒚𝒓𝒆’𝒔 𝒌𝒊𝒕𝒄𝒉𝒆𝒏. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒊𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝑾𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒏𝒐𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌 𝒊𝒕 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒚𝒓𝒆. 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐’𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔? 𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒉𝒂𝒅 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒐𝒘𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒈𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒍, 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒊𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒚... 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒔? 𝑪𝒐𝒏𝒗𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆. 𝑩𝒖𝒕 𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒓𝒂𝒗𝒆𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔 𝒐𝒇 𝑾𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒔𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒗𝒆𝒓 𝒉𝒂𝒅. 𝑺𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒖𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒓. 𝑨𝒔𝒉 𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍’𝒔 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒉𝒂𝒊𝒓, 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒆𝒕 𝒆𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑯𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒉 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑨𝒍𝒍-𝑭𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. "𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖, 𝑾𝒚𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓," 𝑺𝒊𝒔𝒔𝒆𝒍 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒌𝒆𝒅 𝒐𝒖𝒕, 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒗𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒖𝒊𝒔𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒓-𝒔𝒕𝒓𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒇𝒂𝒄𝒆. "𝑰 𝒂𝒍𝒘𝒂𝒚𝒔 𝒉𝒂𝒗𝒆." 𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔, 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒗𝒚 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒏𝒐 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈𝒆𝒓 𝒃𝒆 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒅, 𝒗𝒂𝒏𝒊𝒔𝒉𝒆𝒅 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒐 𝒂𝒏 𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓. 𝑶𝒏𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒔 𝒄𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒆𝒙𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒏𝒈𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒕𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒕𝒘𝒐. 𝑨 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒅𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒉. 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒕𝒘𝒐. 𝑵𝒐𝒘 𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒅𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒃𝒚 𝒐𝒏𝒆.

A letter was left at your aviary, snug within the confines of a Norlandic Falcons foot was an invitation. Upon unscrolling such would detail the following. The Feast Of The Fallen Penned by Sissel av Freysdóttir, on the 10th of Sólsmánaðr, 224 of the Third Age All who hold honour are summoned to attend the Feast of the Fallen. On this night, we shall raise our tankards, break bread, and share the tales of those who no longer walk among us. Their names shall not be forgotten, nor their deeds left unspoken. We shall stand united in our sorrow. We shall celebrate—drink deep, feast well, and test our mettle in games worthy of our forebears. Let their stories be woven into the tapestry of memory—be they valiant, sorrowful, or sung in triumph. Let no grief be borne alone, for we stand as one, bound by blood, by the All-Father’s fire, and by unyielding kinship. Should the Southron or outlanders seek to attend, let them do so with the utmost respect for our ways. Ours is a hall of warriors and kin, not idle tongues and loose customs. Come forth with honour, and let the mead flow in their name The Feast shall take place at the Golden Lyre. OOC: The event will take part at 23rd of March GMT (Greenwich Mean Time) – 10:00 PM EST (Eastern Standard Time) – 6:00 PM

Frigid fingers hovered above the hearth of the Tavern Lyre, trembling as they curled in and out, desperate to summon warmth back into their bones. The cold had seeped deep, settling in her marrow like an unwelcome tenant, numbing her senses—if only it could numb the ache of loss just as easily. Beyond the tavern walls, smoke coiled above the distant woods, rising feverishly in the direction of Dunrobin. They did not falter as the day’s light waned, but instead churned ceaselessly, tangled in the ever-falling snow, a swirling, ashen omen against the dimming sky. Memories flickered back and forth, fragmented and uneven, like torn book pages scattered in the wind. That was all she had now—pieces of time that no longer fit together quite right. "Are you sure you want to do this?" Sissle’s voice wavered, her weight shifting from foot to foot as she stood within the bowels of a False Church, waiting for their god to smite them both where they stood. "Yes… It’s just for show. We’ll have a proper wedding in Vjardengrad." Begrudgingly, Sissle took Willow’s arm, guiding her down the aisle, their limbs interlocked in reluctant solidarity. In the wake of their passage, a row of flames ignited, casting flickering shadows across the hallowed ground. At the peak of the procession, Sissle turned her gaze upon Kieran—a look sharp enough to strip flesh from bone. If her glare could kill, the man would already bear two smoking holes bored straight through his thick skull. The present moment clawed its way back to her, the bite of the snow sharp as needles against her skin, dragging her from the depths of recollection and back into the cold embrace of reality.

His Nordic sister had taken solace in Okar's empty home in Jun-Lei, sleeping on nothing but empty floorboards alongside her kin, Kelpie, the deceased's future wife. She returned to the clinic once those mourning had passed threw and stripped his armour and tossed the Valeh crest aside with nothing but distaste for its sight. How foreign the man looked in the armour, dressed in the crest that brought him so much pain, so much anguish in the months before his time... She damned him for not furnishing his house, her back ached with the bite of wood but she would stay in Koyo-Kuni for as long as needed. She would see that his funeral went accordingly. And those who made his last months turmoil would answer for their actions.

Epic <3

I rarely say anything negative. But this is most upsetting. I have a frost witch. Never have I ever had negative feedback about my interactions. It is not the CA but it WAS the players within. Who has no part of the CA anymore? This is bizarre... We were re-building, with a newer community. But instead of asking players who played the CA and just based it off those who gave it a bad name (Yes there were many) You have decided to shelf the CA. We spoke about our issues time and time again. And it fell on deaf ears. We appreciate the hours you guys have spent talking about the FW. But all we asked was for help. And we were denied despite it being in the redlines. We asked for an injection of an ST frost mother, which could have generated such cool RP. Despite it being in the /red-lines/. It feels like being told 'This is a you problem' - 'not an /us/ problem.' ... the entire time. I apologise if any of my words upset anyone. Personally being in this community, and see how much positive growth it has had since the change of leadership. It is seriously disheartening this is the choice the ST has made.

THE WOLVES OF THE ASHWOOD ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ Frostbitten air hung heavy, sharp enough to sting with a shallow inhale. The occasional creak of wooden beams above—the distant crack of ice. This was the same song of Vajrdengrad, night in... night out. Then came a sound, faint at first—a single, low note that curled and lingered in the air before another joined it, higher, keening, whining. The wolves’ howls grew, their voices blending into guttural, growling tones reverberating with primal ferocity. The sound didn’t merely echo, bouncing off the valleys in the distance; it seemed to seep through the thick walls of the fort, bleeding into the narrow streets of the courtyards. Outside the walls, the sound reached a fever pitch, surging and ebbing like a relentless tide, repeating itself. And then, for a moment, silence returned. Sólgaard, The United Provinces of Dúnrath, Village of Ledna had the most visitors. The villages outside the fort were the first to feel the wolves’ wrath. Their initial targets were the livestock pens—simple wooden enclosures that offered little resistance. Gnaw marks appeared along the weak sections of fences, and beloved pets began to vanish without a trace. Where chickens once clucked and pecked, only scattered feathers remained. The villagers’ livelihood was slowly dismantled, night after relentless night. Livestock fell, one by one, as the wolves grew bolder and craftier with each siege. By the end of the week, their lively stock had been halved, the villages were left with a grim silence where once there had been the sounds of thriving life. ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ ❖ ~~~~~~~~~~ It took less than a day for the word to spread among the Kin of Norland. And thus a party gathered at dusk. Gathering at the Tavern inside the fort, The Rowdy Ruric

Appreciation post for the players of LOTC I have been mulling over my experience in LOTC as of lately, and I would just like to put some positivity into the environment, as sometimes we can be overcome with drama and OOC politics. I also apologize if you are not mentioned, but these are people who I think made my experience on the server worthwhile. I would also encourage others to make their own appreciation posts because you can never have too much positivity. We have lost many people this year in LOTC, and it’s only when we lose them that we sometimes show how much we appreciate them. Shinypikachou: You are so amazingly creative, and I love all the cheer and positivity you put into the Norland community. A lot of the time, Norland does not get as many events as other places, and that’s okay. But you always come in clutch to give us something to enrich our personas. And you always put so much effort into the players and the storylines that run with it. My only regret is our time zones, as I would love to support you more with your player events. But seriously, thank you for everything this year. You are such a dear friend as well. It's sad I only see you once a week or an hour. @ShinyB Hogobojo: Man, thank you so much for making your personas available to others, no matter their time on LOTC. What I mean by this is the personas you make always love to generate odd, weird, and funky roleplay, and you always go out of your way to do so. @HogoBojo Kidkrinkles: I love your persona, Victor. You are such an amazing delight to roleplay with. Victor is enriched with lore, his accent, and the way you play him. You are just genuinely a lovely bloke to roleplay with, and not only that, but you also do camera appearances in the Discords. simpleglitchbro: DUDE I cant describe how much I have you to thank for. First of all the first person I met on the LOTC that entertained the newbie pink tag and helped me threw the process. I loved getting to know you through your persona Grimm and I am so proud of how far you have come and grown and loved watching the person you've become. You worried the shit out of me when the hurricanes hit and I am glad you did not get washed away. @simpleglitchbro Ichigo: Thank you for being the structure we needed three years ago Odin. I don't think I would have stayed around on the server if it were not for you and Rosalind's @PerfectLittleLadycharacter in Norland. You guys really did guide and make all roleplay inclusive to everyone. I remember fondly of times when Alisgrad was under attack and we were all rping in the castle with beds for shelter, shifting and moving things. It really was some awesome roleplay you guys generated when the Frost witchs attacked for the first time in Alisgrad. We wont always see eye to eye. But I do respect you. @ichigomaster98 m19: Man, you’ve been a joy for Norland, I really can't lie. The roleplay you have generated and brought up is immaculate. I love the culture you bring and thank you for putting a position on your shoulders of getting us more active, getting us more culture into the Nordic roots. Your events are so inclusive, and you are such a talented writer, so cheers for everything, bro. Your place in the RP community is one of those things where you just make it a better environment. @M1919 Turbo Dog: Bro, we go way back. My little _____ buddy. I won’t out you, don’t worry. But I have loved the persona Spuds, and honestly, you are the best Musin player out there. It's so enriching and so much fun. I miss you genuinely, you are such an awesome and kind guy. @Turbo_Dog Josh: Only met you recently, lad, but the RP between my persona and yours is so enriching AND wholesome you are a great writer and thank you for everything you do on the server as an admin. @Josh Pepto and Mercy: My god, thank you guys for offering me something other than the personas I have. It's really helped me stay in LOTC when I felt a bit cornered. It was really great for me mentally to take a break from my main community and mix and meld with others. I really owe you guys. Y’all spreading holiday joy on MC is amazing. I love you guys for it. Thank you, I had fun Christmas Day running around like loons. @MercyAzalea @Pepto Breadnugget: My guy. MY guy. Kieran, damn, what a persona. You are so brilliant, and you are so happy-go-lucky and loving. I adore you, and honestly, you have made my time in Numenost so much better by having you as an OOC friend. @BreadNugget7567 Vapourwolf Known as Estel. I really admire the way you have carried that persona across the maps. You’ve kept her true, and her lore is one of the thickest I know. You also always have provided me with amazing medical roleplay, and I really adored our roleplay we had between Sinner and Estel. @Lunan_EXE Elrith : Although I can’t tell you how many times I've wanted to throw your ‘magic’ ball you so much ponder about. The lore you bring to LOTC and the game and the effort you put into the builds I feel is honestly unmatched. So thank you for making my experience in Norland better. I don't think you get thanks enough. you carry a lot on your shoulders. On top of that, your writing is the kind that pushes me to write better. So thank you for the challenge @_Elrith_ Pesty: You have been my guiding beacon from the start. We joined together, and we played together. You have really helped me sort out some of my differences, and I'll always look to you for support because you are such the guy for it. And I can't thank you enough for being so wholesomely good. Like shiny I see you rarely and fleetingly. @PestyWarlock Agytha: One of the best writers I know. Seriously. Thank you for taking the lead in the FW community when things hit the fan. Your work is not unnoticed; I hope you know that. I appreciate you so much. Like others, you challenge me to be better in my roleplay to get further into the story we create and really help me immerse myself in designated game play time. Make sure you take care of yourself. @Agy A7x (known as Seven_fold): Bro, you really gave me light in some really bad times with my chronic illness. You were so supportive of me, and I don’t think words can describe how much you helped me. Greyson: One of the best villainy RPers I know. What a guy. Although you are STILL short. Immortal Shadowz: Dude, the pure art of your building skills. Chef's kiss. Thank you for putting sparkles into the landscape of Norland. @ImmortalShadowZ Operator Bugman: Dude, I love your writing. I love roleplaying with you, and my only issue is we don’t do it enough. I love Orin. He's such a sick character you have made. I can’t cover all my friends, and I just hope you all know how much I appreciate you all for just being here, being you. This place can easily get very toxic and addictive. So this is my reminder to everyone to take care of themselves this holiday and be kind to everyone that you can. I encourage everyone to recall the good memories they’ve had with their friends or players who you wish you could see more but don’t. Happy holidays, everyone. @Operator_Bugman Aimy: @Aimy_lolOne of the most kindest souls I know. You are so full of light and love and just being around is as uplifting as anything Mightymott: Damn my girl pals. You really have helped me find my feet lately where I was at a crossroads. you have guided me and supported me even more then anyone as of recently. thank you for being there and thank you for being you. I can’t cover all my friends because knowing me I WOULD FORGET ONE AND CAUSE CHAOS, and I just hope you all know how much I appreciate you all for just being here, being you. This place can easily get very toxic and addictive. So this is my reminder to everyone to take care of themselves this holiday and be kind to everyone that you can. I encourage everyone to recall the good memories they’ve had with their friends or players who you wish you could see more but don’t. Be kind. Jump on the bandwagon. Happy holidays EDIT: I have read every single post, every single name and I have really enjoyed the love that this has spread. Thank you I was really nervous posting this. . . and maybe a tad wine drunk. But sober calise11 still stands by everything she posted.