MaltaMoss

The Skipper, a title past down from man to man, no more than a soft teal wool mask that christens its wearer as the Ferryman's left hand.

Awoken in the night, Midas Mareno is informed of the coming horde by one of his compatriots.

"Oh, King in the North, I'll be taking back my wine."

no lmfao 

you know this aint happening cmon

dont do this gavin

literally so ******* true

The Skipper cheers from behind his mask, smiling as he sees his blood's ambition fufilled.

"It's national Ferryman day!"

Didn't credit me #protesthebelgian #notmyferrymen #OrlanthForFerryman

 

someone should murder this femurlord guy

@femurlord 

Goodbye buddy.

Muck, willy, ect.

 

Ceaseless chittering rose from beneath the waning moon, a scourge of black masked bannerman giggling wildly to themselves as news of their liege-lord's return came from afar.

The Shedfolk of Arichsdorf reveled in the news, laughing the night away.

Valentin Mareno rests, burden lifted off his ethereal shoulders. The Heroes of Petra smile from above.

All grudges, eternally forgiven.

SHOUTOUT MALTAMOSS

 

shut up david

3 minutes ago, Shmeepicus said:

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whatre u gonna do ab it crybaby make another spoilered post

 

Dmitry Kagonovich the slobbering Raevir shoveling dirt into holes outside the family homestead cheers for his distant inbred cousin, Dmitry Barrow. 

"Hooray! Cousin, you write amazing letter! You have completely owned Novellen reject number 8,456! Yam so proud! Come, Mamej made cookies!"

13 hours ago, Shmeepicus said:

A learned scholar, perplexed by the words he had just read, wrote a reply.

 

"To the 'Patriarch' of Novellen- it would seem you do not know history as well as you would think. When the second civil war, orchestrated by your ancestors constant need for expansionism and control concluded- all the known kin of this defunct King vanished into thin air- save perhaps one or two. As such, the Kingdom of Balian- by and large still standing due to feats of good administration rather than warmongering, took up the mantle as Patriarch of Novellen, given that all men of Frederick's line were presumed dead or rather, were missing for many long years.

 

The line of Frederick never really amounted to much- it ruled over a defunct state for a period of fifteen years before collapsing to it's own vassals. Treachery begets treachery I suppose. Frederick Aurelian- an author of this misive and whomst I presume is one of the lost sons- fled and was not seen for many years. Besides being stripped of all titles, the family was also stripped of both nobility and royalty, nothing more than mere peasants. It is difficult to be Patriarch of a Royal or Imperial house if you are not of noble blood- and clause seven of the missive entitled 'ORENIA DIRUTA EST' clearly stated that any of King Frederick's line were revoked of such privilege.

 

It would appear that this brood of Stassion does not know history as well as one would think. Furthermore- if we are applying monikers- perhaps Frederick Aurelian would be deemed, Frederick Aurelian 'the Cowardly'- for his fleeing of the heartlands and many years spent in hiding."

 

Signed, Dzmitry Barrow

 

A Raevir peasent cheers in Haenser pride as he lifts his pitchfork high above his head.

"Death to Novellen! Yam hating of this Orenia! Read about in books!"

A Snow Elven warrior from decades gone past thinks solemnly in the afterlife, utterly baffled by this.

"By Wyvurn they've said it with their chest! I never thought I'd see this day!"

Valentin Mareno peered down upon the Commonwealth from above, forever resting in the vast bounty of the seven skies. A deep sigh escaped the aged mercenary, a certain depressive twinge lingering in his voice. 


"I'm so sorry, Paul."

Midas Mareno drew the missive close to his face, being entirely bewildered by its contents. "Well then, I suppose it's that time of year isn't it?"

Midas Mareno can't help but smile as the torrents of rain strike the overhang above him. Time well spent in the city of the Elves, he thought.

Midas Mareno, stirred from sleep by the sound of sputtering wings, lazily rolls out of bed before casting sluggish eyes toward the open window. 

A note, left there by a now airborne courier bird, quickly caught his attention. Unfurling it, the groggy merchant began to mutter its contents aloud. 

"Midas, dear friend, best man, wedding? Wedding? The boy's getting married?"

Springing from his stupor, Midas snatched his coat from it's spot on the ground and made for the door like a madman. 

"I'll need the first carriage, right to the land of the Elves!"

thats actually clean, well done

guys they figured it out idk how but they figured it out

In a cold and dimly lit room, an aged face scrunches up in visible frustration. Faded eyes scour the seemingly endless pages as the former bannerman seeks refuge in the text, hoping for a resolution to an undying question. It has eaten at him tirelessly, clawing away at the very fabric of his mind. Weeks turned to months, months turned to years, the sun rose and fell thousands of times. But Walter, the naïve and bright-eyed soldier who'd ventured into those horrors oh so long ago, still felt their eyes watching him as he moved on. He'd abandoned them there, he'd failed them. He'd left the man who saved his life to rot in the untold swath of the other world.

"Oh, oh GOD!"

He cried, desperate for his newfound faith to bring him solace. He could see them like it was yesterday, the Lord, the Ranger, the Dwarf. He still remembered their faces, all dulled and blurred by the tunnels.

"Damn you, why must you haunt me!"