ImmortalShadowZ

-=- The Huntsman and his Norn companions (and one Balianite) meeting with their king to explain the land of Vansk and the city structure. "It's quite a small City-State, my lord King. Made out of wood and tents."

We are back, I don't have to build forests this time it seems

[A scattered gathering of notes within the last few years, written in the Journal of the Huntsman, Tancred of Sólgaard. Merely shared with an individual personnel, Isana the Bard.] THE SIEGE OF KORVACZ Hired under mercenary work, I joined the Norlandic warband for the first siege of the war at Korvacz. My task was simple—reduce the Haense keep to rubble with cannon artillery. The battle, however, was anything but. Fog and mist rolled in, unnatural in its density; many on both sides were lost. Witchcraft, no doubt. From which side, I couldn’t say. The Schism army struck first, destroying my cannon as I moved northward, flanking along the battlefield’s edge. Pushed into the woodlands, I turned my focus to providing sighting for our landing trebuchets and ballista bolts. When they struck, they struck hard—ripping through the enemy’s walls, slaughtering their gathered forces in waves. Then, the breach. Our army flooded the keep, a tide of steel and fire. Amidst the chaos, I caught glimpses of our allies—pagan brethren, the Church of Canon warriors, dwarves, and even orcs—strange company yet all bound to the exact cause, if only for the moment. But victories are seldom absolute. The enemy scattered, slipping away into the wreckage. Some of ours did the same—whether from wounds or wariness, I do not know. When the dust settled, the Canonists stood atop the ruined keep, banners unfurled against the smoke-choked sky. The siege was over. THE STAKE AT THE SWAMP After months of travelling in and out of contracts, I finally returned to Sólgaard. The Companions were already in motion, preparing a warband to march south-west towards the Swamp—a campaign that would reshape the tribe and the land itself. Upon arrival, we found a Xionist cult gathered amid a ritual. Their purpose was clear: they sought to corrupt the land and spread plague through whatever means necessary. Among them was a knight, bound to their cause, serving as a conduit for their foul work. Rescuing them became imperative. The battle broke out across the field. Blades clashed, blood spilled, and the warband cut through the cultists with precision. Dragomir reached the knight first—battered, barely clinging to life, yet still breathing. As the last of the Xionists fell, their bodies ridden down and cut apart, the earth itself seemed to tremble. Then it came. The Stake. A shockwave ripped through the swamp, scattering horses and warriors alike. The force of it sent our warband sprawling, disrupting what little order remained in the fray. Reinforcements arrived soon after—warriors of Koyo Kuni—some lending aid where they could. Even so, the battle had taken its toll. Dragomir suffered grievous wounds, while I was left reeling with a pounding headache that clouded my thoughts, and for some time, my horse, Townsend. This was no true victory. Not like the Battle of Lumbridge years prior. The Stake had come to the Swamp, leaving more questions than answers. There is much to discuss with the Norns—and little time to do so. THE PRICE OF DARK ALLEGIANCE I was hired to track down two individuals, primarily for questioning. However, matters escalated beyond initial expectations. What should have been a simple investigation quickly turned into something far more serious. I first caught wind of a heated discussion among a group of Norlanders—one steeped in troubling matters. There were too many words and not enough action. I decided to investigate personally, not expecting events to unfold rapidly or for justice to be delivered swiftly. Both targets were found outside the gates of Haense’s capital. The first, a man named Adam, was blonde and clad in ragged clothes. He was interrogated first, revealing that he worked for a known Darkspawn loyalist. Iulius assisted in the interrogation, proving himself to be a skilled warrior and an effective interrogator. Norland is fortunate to have him. When the truth surfaced, Adam met his end. The second target, Darian Thorne—known as ‘The Hooded’—was marked by a blue malflame scar across the right side of his face. He wielded a Zweihander, an unusual choice, seemingly a display of strength. True to his name, he remained shrouded beneath a hood. He threatened both me and a Haense Guardsman, but he was swiftly disarmed, captured, and thrown into a cell for interrogation. During questioning, he spoke of avenging his fallen lover, Freya, and targeting the family and oathsmen of Garenbrig. A foolish plan. When he struck me and spat insults at my people, he sealed his fate. His death was swift. Both were slain for their ties to Darkspawn. I suspect they sought further communication—perhaps attempting to build trust—but they never lived long enough to see their faith fully rewarded. Now, my next hunt awaits. Once again, something unnatural lurks in Haense, deep within the woodlands. The last time I ventured there, I barely escaped with my life. This creature forces those it blackmails to hunt in its name, demanding beasts as offerings in exchange for survival—those who refuse become the hunted. Not for long. I’m coming, Akira. References All information is regarded as storytelling and provides no right or wrong; it is merely a set narrative by a character who saw or was informed of it and interprets it. The killed players also told me they decided to PK their personas before warping out of the roleplay encounter. Thank you for reading Riding: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/9077636743691439/ Keep: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/403072235418372501/ Swamp: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/717831628136610103/ Duel: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/385057836890021215/

A CLASH OF SWORDS UNDER ONE GOAL With the recent war events, the Huntsman of Sólgaard and the Lady of Garenrbig recognised that a shared tribunal sense of upholding the necessary need to show the might of the armies of two faiths exists. With that, we present a joint Tournament across the two realms: Norland | Friday 7:30 PM EST > 1 v 1 Melee - This will be fist fighting - REWARD: 200 MINA > Jousting - Declare whom you fight for upon your noble steed - REWARD: 150 MINA > Horse Race - Race across the land of Norland upon your noble steed. Numendil | Sunday 8 PM EST > 1 v 1 Melee - This will be fist fighting - REWARD: 200 MINA > Jousting - Declare whom you fight for upon your noble steed - REWARD: 150 MINA Signed by Lady of Garenbrig, Daughter of House Vourkehardt and Master of Númendil Revelries & Tancred of Sólgaard The Huntsman of Sólgaard, formerly Ward-Thegn. REFERENCES AND NOTICE Any inquiries, please feel free to reach out to me ingame or on Discord: ImmortalShadowZ Norland COA created by IceAxeFlynn Numendil COA created by DAENGIE https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/877216833668269509/ https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/317011261251363826/

The Huntsman would wake up from his nap and, while boiling a pot of water on his fire, go through his mail. He would throw the newly written recruitment missive from Reinmar into flames, something concerning tribal Germanic vibes and leadership quality. Another missive covered in sand about the Canonists, he was remarkably suprised that they didn't try to declare a second schism. More and more redundant pieces of parchment were thrown into his fire. Until he saw the newly written missive declaring military mercenary work for the War against Haense. With that, he would leave his water to boil and begin to sharpen his blades for war.

As I have recounted in this journal already, the landscapes of Norland are littered with enigmatic runestones—silent sentinels standing as remnants of a past that continues to shape the present. [Refer to this forum - https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/244709-tancreds-journal-entry-guide-to-norland/#comment-2084207] These monoliths, ranging from towering and imposing to barely visible above the frost, are greater than simple memorials; some recount the deeds of fallen warriors, while others stand as testament to Higher Beings long venerated. Yet, among them are those whose markings resist translation—symbols alien even to the learned skalds who devote their lives to the study of the old ways. These are the runes of the forgotten tongue, relics of an age beyond record, hinting at truths that lie buried beneath the veil of time. Runestones, as known within Norse tradition, were often erected as memorials to the dead, markers of territory, or offerings to deities. Their inscriptions, when legible, provide insights into societal structures, religious beliefs, and linguistic evolutions within Norlandic culture. However, some stones predate the known settlement of the region by Norse peoples, their inscriptions deviating from the standard Younger Futhark runes. The presence of these anomalous carvings raises critical questions about the linguistic landscape of early Norland: were these the writings of an indigenous, pre-Norse civilisation, or do they stem from an esoteric tradition lost to history? The difficulty in deciphering these symbols is compounded by their scarcity. Unlike the well-documented runic inscriptions of Norlandic settlements, these arcane glyphs do not conform to established patterns. Some bear resemblance to the Elder Futhark, while others align with no known script. In some cases, their arrangement suggests an early form of logographic or ideographic representation rather than a phonetic writing system, indicating that they may convey meanings more complex than simple linguistic constructs. Beyond their linguistic significance, these ancient stones possess an ineffable aura. In Norlandic folklore, it is believed that runestones are imbued with power, serving as conduits between the mortal realm and the unseen forces that shape fate. This belief is not without basis; those sensitive to such things describe an energy radiating from the inscriptions, a force that evokes either reverence or unease. It is not uncommon for travellers to leave offerings at these sites, a tradition borne of both superstition and respect. Whether these energies stem from residual ritualistic practices, latent magical constructs, or the psychological weight of historical reverence remains a matter of debate. One particularly intriguing theory posits that the older, unreadable runestones may have been part of a system of geomantic alignment, a network of sacred markers intended to channel natural energies across the land. Similar patterns can be observed in other ancient cultures, where standing stones and engraved markers are strategically positioned to correspond with celestial movements. If this were the case, these runes may serve not merely as records of past events but as active components of a forgotten metaphysical system. Within my time, it has been necessary to try and decipher many. Whilst placing easier symbols to letters and wording has helped. A few have been withered by age and some even crumbled. The listings below will need to be updated as I go within this. Runic Latinised English ᛅᛚᚠᛅᚦᚢᛦ ᛚᛁᚦᛅ Alföður leða The All-Father Guides ᛁ•IAÁ457•ᛘᛁᚦ•ᛚᛁᚦᛋᚬᚴᚾ•ᛅᛚᚬᚦᚢᚱᛋ•ᚴᚱᚬᚦᚢᚱᛋᛁᛏᚢ•ᚾᚬᚱᚦᛚᛁᚾᛏᛁᚾᚴᛅᚱ•ᚼᛚᛁᚾ Í IAÁ457 með leiðsögn Alföðurs gróðursetu Norðlendingar hlyn In IAÁ457 with the Allfather’s guidance, the Norlanders planted maple trees. ᛅᛚᚠᚱᛁᛏ•ᚢᛁᚱᚾᛏᛅᚱ•ᛋᛅᛚᛁᚱ•ᛋᛁᛘ•ᚠᛅᚱᛅ•ᛁ•ᚢᚬᛏᚾᛁᚾ Alfred verndar sálir sem fara í vötnin. Alfred* protects souls that enter the waters. *Alfred “The Martyr” ᛅ•ᚦᛁᛋᚢᛘ•ᚠᚬᚱᛋᛁᚾᛏᚢᛘ•ᚠᚬᚱᛁᚱ•ᛋᚢᛁᚾ•ᚬᛚᚢᛘ•ᚴᛚᛁᚦᛁ A þesum forsendum færir Sven ölum gleði On these grounds, Sven* brings joy to all. *Sven “The Bard” Eiriksson RuricOn these grounds, Sven* brings joy to all. *Sven “The Bard” Eiriksson Ruric ᚦᛁᛋᛁ•ᛋᛏᛁᚾ•ᚢᛅᚱ•ᚱᛁᛋᛏᚢᚱ•ᛅᚠ•ᚾᚬᚱᚦᛚᛁᚾᛏᛁᚾᚴᚢᛘ•ᛋᚢᚬ•ᛒᚱᛁᚾᛅᚢᛁ•ᚢᛁᚱᚦᚢᚱ•ᚢᚾᛏᛁᚱ•ᚢᛁᚱᚾᛏᛅᚱᚢᚬᚾᚴ•ᚠᚬᚦᚱ Þessi steinn var reistur af Norðlendingum svo Brennawē verður undir verndarvæng Föðr This stone was raised by Norlanders so Brennawē will be under protection of the Father. ᚠᚨᛞᚢᚱᛉ ᚠᚱᚢᚦᛟ Fadurz Fruþǭ Father’s Froth ᚨᛚᛁᛊᚨᛊ ᚨᚾᛊᛏᛁᛉ Alisas Anstiz Alisa’s Favour ᚹᚨᚱᚨᛉ•ᛁᚾᚾᚨᚾᛖ•ᛗᚢᛚᛞᛟᛊᛏᚱᚨᚾᛞᛟ•ᛊᚨᛗᚨᛉ•ᛚᚢᚷᛟ•ᛖᛉ•ᛞᚨᚾᚲᚹᛁᛃᚨᚾᚨ Waraz innanē Muldōstrandō samaz lugô ez dankwijaną Beware within Mölströnd, as his flame darkens. ᚦᛁᛋᛁ•ᛋᛏᛁᚾ•ᚢᛅᚱ•ᚱᛁᛋᛏᚢᚱ•ᛅᚠ•ᛋᚴᛁᛒᚢᚾ•ᚼᛅᚢᛅᚱᚦᛅᚱᛁᚾᛋ•ᛏᛁᛚ•ᛅᚦ•ᚼᛁᚦᚱᛅ•ᛒᚱᛅᚢᛏᚱᛁᚦᛁᚾᛏᚢᛦ•ᚾᚬᚱᚦᚢᚱᛚᛅᚾᛏᛋ Þessi steinn var reistur að skipun yfirvarðarins til að heiðra brautryðjendur Norðurlands This stone was raised by order of the High Keeper to honor the trailblazers of Norland ᚺᚹᚢᚱᛒᛟᚾᚨ•ᛁᚾ•ᚷᚨᚷᛁᚾ•ᛊᛏᚨᛁᚾᚨᛉ•ᛁᚾ•ᛗᚢᚱᚷᛁᚾᚨᛉ•ᚨᛏ•ᛊᛖᚺᚹᚨᚾᚨ•ᚨᚢᚷᛟ•ᚠᚨᛞᚢᚱᛉ Hwurbōną in gagin stainaz in murginaz at sehwaną augô Fadurz. Look through the stone at dawn to see the eye of the Father. ᛏᛁ•ᚦᛁᚾᛅᚾ•ᛋᛏᛁᚾ•ᛏᛁᛚ•ᚼᛁᚦᚢᚱᛋ•ᚠᚬᚦᚢᚱ•ᛋᛁᚾᚢᛘ•ᛋᛁᛘ•ᛚᛁᛋᛏ•ᛅ•ᛋᚢᚦᚢᚱᛚᛅᚾᛏᛁ•ᛁ•ᛋᛏᚱᛁᚦᛁ•ᚴᛁᚴᚾ•ᚢᛁᛚᛁᛏᛋ [res]ti þenan sten til heðurs föður sinum sem lest a Suðurlandi i striði gegn Veletz [rai]sed this stone in honor of their father who died in the Southernlands in the war against Veletz. ᚦᚢᛁ•ᛅᚦ [???] ᛋᛏᛁᚴᚢ•ᚾᛁᚦᚢᚱ [???] ᚬᚴ•ᛏᚱᛅᛒᚢ•ᛒᛁᚬᚱᚾ•ᛅ•ᚦᛁᛋᚢᛘ•ᛋᛏᛅᚦ Þvi•að [???] stigu•niður [???] og•drapu•björn•a•þesum•stað For the [???] descended [???] and slayed a bear at this spot. ᛊᛁᛊᛁᛊᛁ•ᛊᛁᛜᚹᚨᚾᛞᚨᚢ ᚢᚬᛏᛁᛦ•ᛘᚢᚾ᛫ᚢᛁᚱᚾᛏᛅ ᚢᛒᛋᚴᛁᚱᚢ•ᚬᚴᛅᚱ•ᚬᚴ•ᚠᚬᛚᚴ Sisisi•singwandau Vætir•mun•vernda upskeru•okar•og•fólk Sing “sisisi” “Fairies” will protect our crops and folk. ᚢᛁᚴ•ᚱᛁᚦ•ᚼᛁᚱ•ᚼᛁᛋᛏᛁ•ᛋᛁᚾᚢ ᚬᚴ•ᚼᛅᚾ•ᛋᛁᛏᛁ•ᛒᛁᚾ•ᚢᛁᚦ•ᛒᛁᚾ•ᚼᚬᛚᛏ•ᚢᛁᚦ•ᚼᚬᛚᛏ•ᚬᚴ•ᛋᛏᛁᚱᚴᛏᛁ•ᛅᛚᛏ Vykk•reið•hér•hesti•sínu. Og•hann•setti•bein•við•bein•hold við hold og styrkti allt. Vykk* rode here on his horse. And he put bone to bone, flesh to flesh, and strengthened all things. *Vykk “The Builder” Volaren ᚻᛖ•ᚹᚻᚩ•ᛁᛋ•ᚠᚪᛚᛡᚾᛏ•ᛘᚪᛁ•ᚠᛁᚾᛞ•ᚦᛖ•ᚷᚱᚪᛁᛚ•ᛁᚾ•ᚦᛖ•ᚳᚪᛋᛏᛚᛖ•ᚩᚠ•ᚪᚪᚱᚱᚷᚷᚻ. He who is valiant may find the Grail in the Castle of AughhhARRGGH. Castle of AARRGGH ᚦᛁᛋᛁ•ᛋᛏᛁᚾ•ᚢᛅᚱ•ᚱᛁᛋᛏᚢᚱ•ᛏᛁᛚ•ᛅᚦ•ᚼᛅᚱᛘᛅ•ᛒᚱᚢᚾᛅ•ᛏᚬᚱᛁᛅᛏᚬᚱ Þesi•sten•var•restur•til•að•harma•bruna•Toreador This stone was raised to mourn the burning of Toreador ᚽ ˎ ᛍ ˎ ◟ ⠃ ╮ ⡄ Högormur Serpent ᚼᛁᚱ•ᛁᚱ•ᛋᚬᛚᚴᛅᚱᛏ•ᛒᛁᚾ•ᛏᛁᛚ•ᚴᚬᚾᛅᚾ•ᛏᛁᚴᚾ•ᚬᚴ•ᚼᛅᚾᛋ•ᛘᛁᚾ Her•er•Sólgard•byen•til•Konan•Tegn•og•hans•men Ahead is Sólgaard, the vassal of Konan-Thegn and his men. ᚢᚾᛞᛖᚱ ᚦᛖ ᚹᚺᛁᛏᛖ-ᛒᚨᚱᚲᛖᛞ ᛊᛖᚾᛏᛁᚾᛖᛚᛊ, ᚦᛖ ᚹᛁᚾᛞ ᚹᚺᛁᛊᛈᛖᚱᛊ ᛟᚠ ᛟᛚᛞ ᚷᛟᛞᛊ. ᛗᚨᛁ ᚦᛟᛊᛖ ᚹᚺᛟ ᛏᚱᛖᛞ ᚺᛖᚱᛖ ᚹᚨᛚᚲ ᚹᛁᚦ ᚲᛟᚢᚱᚨᚷᛖ, ᚠᛟᚱ ᚦᛖ ᚱᛟᛟᛏᛊ ᛟᚠ ᛁᚷᚷᛞᚱᚨᛊᛁᛚ ᚱᚢᚾ ᛞᛖᛖᛈ. May those who tread here walk with courage, for the roots of Yggdrasil run deep. ᚛ᚐᚅᚅᚄ ᚐᚅ ᚉᚓᚐᚈᚆᚏᚐᚇᚇᚐᚏᚐ ᚁᚂᚔᚐᚇᚆᚅᚐ ᚈᚆᚐᚏ ᚃᚆᚔᚉᚆᚓᚐᚇ ᚐᚅᚅᚄ ᚐᚅ ᚇᚐᚏᚐ ᚂᚔᚅᚅ ᚉᚆᚐᚔᚇᚆ ᚇᚒᚅᚏᚐᚈᚆ ᚐ ᚄᚈᚓᚔᚇᚆᚓᚐᚉᚆᚐᚇᚆ᚜ Anns an dà fhicheadamh bliadhna, anns an dàrna linn, chaidh Dùnrath a stèidheachadh. In the forty-second year, in the Second Era, Dùnrath was founded. ᚛ᚋᚑᚂᚐᚇᚆ ᚄᚒᚈᚆᚐᚏᚂᚐᚔᚅᚅ ᚐ ᚇᚆᚐᚑᚅᚐᚔᚉᚆ ᚇᚒᚅᚏᚐᚈᚆ᚜ Moladh Sutharlainn, a dh' aonaich Dùnrath. Praise Sutharlainn, who united Dùnrath. PRZED WAMI STOI LEDNA, OSADA LECHIAN, ZBUDOWANA PRZEZ KLAN KOS, NA CZELE Z TADEUSZEM KOS. CHWAŁA PANU. Przed Wami stoi Ledna, osada Lechian, zbudowana przez klan Kos, na czele z Tadeuszem Kos. Chwała Panu. In front of you stands Ledna, a Lechian settlement, built by the Kos clan, led by Tadeusz Kos. Praise the Lord for it! This was made to bring attention, my underlying work of bringing core opportunities for people to explore Norland and its environment. I personally feel like LOTC has become enclosed in just jumping between Nation to Nation and not very much exploring environments that can be rp’d in solely, groups or even with Events. All of the discussed work here is just mundane ramblings and nothing has been confirmed by S.T presence. Work and chartered by: TheNameMCQ and Myself Knights staring at runes: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/8585055534261330/ Peasants pulling up runes: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/1115766876405414647/ Viking & runestone: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/208150814022286967/

[A heavily detailed map of Norland, crafted years before the reconstruction of the land] Sólgaard’s necessary journal of geographical documentation within Norland's expansion and territorial lands was marked through the experience and understanding of a Norn hunter who, for the sake of his companions, took it upon himself to explore the landscape that has brought them as a landholding. The Peatlands Ashveil Wilds Torridon Path Alisas Anstiz Father’s Froth Mölströnd Cave The Crimson Grove The Runestones Kaer Toreador Vjardengrad Thanes Road The Fallen Fjord Path The Great Hearth of Sólgaard The peatlands — a bog that stretches like a wound upon the earth, sinking under the weight of time. It is no ordinary place of marsh and moss but a taiga bog, vast and ancient, as though the land was dying slowly, drowning in its sorrow. The trees here are twisted, their trunks bowed as if bearing the grief of ages. They stand like mourners at a grave, their branches hanging low, draped with thick veils of moss that sway with the wind's bitter breath. I call them weeping trees, for the sap that seeps from their bark runs dark and slow as if they bleed for the land they root in. The peat itself feels like the flesh of something long dead, cold and spongy. Every step sunk more deeply, and the water that bubbled up was foul, tainted with the rot of centuries. The air was thick with the stench of wet earth and dying things—no fresh pine, no crisp breath of the taiga’s evergreen life. Here, the land is sick and poisoned, as though some curse clings to the very soil. There is no song of birds, no howl of wolves to break the silence. Only the occasional creak of those weeping trees, as if the wind struggles to pass through this forsaken place. The black and still water pools between the trees, reflecting a sky that seems forever overcast, a pale sun hidden behind a veil of clouds, too weak to chase away the shadows. At the heart of the bog, the land grows worse still—patches of earth floating on the water, dead and yellowed, like the bones of some long-forgotten giant. No man could make a home here. Even the beasts of the wild avoid these parts. They know what I now know—this land is not for the living. I felt it as I walked. The further I went, the thicker and colder the air became. This place is said to mark the entrance to Norland. The Ashveil Wilds — a forest steeped in eternal twilight, where trees grow like the very bones of the earth, twisted and gnarled under the weight of time. These are not the proud giants of healthy woods, but skeletal sentinels, their bark cracked and lifeless, their branches reaching upward like fingers seeking salvation that will never come. A thick mist blankets the land, wrapping around every tree, obscuring the path ahead. The ground beneath is soft, thick with decay, each step sinking deeper into the damp earth. As air carries a sour, earthy scent, heavy with rot, surrounding the trees, which are cloaked in mosses that sway like tattered cloaks in the ghostly breeze, while an oppressive silence reigns. Not many birds sing, nor is there much rustle of animals stirring the underbrush—only an eerie stillness. The deeper one travels, the colder the air becomes, thick with an unnatural chill. The mist clings to the skin, biting with a chill that is not of nature. The trees here are more twisted, reaching for forgotten secrets buried beneath the earth. Stagnant pools of black water reflect a sky that is forever grey, the sun’s feeble attempts to break through swallowed by the gloom. There are no sounds, no signs of life. Only the sound of your own breath, harsh and quick. The Ashveil Wilds are a place for the dead, a realm where the living pass through but never stay. As I stand at its heart, I know what the ancients have whispered—this place is not meant for those who still walk in the light. The Torridon Path, also known by the locals as the Place of Transference, is a cursed stretch of road that defies the natural order. It winds along the riverbanks, twisting through the dense forest, and though it may appear unremarkable at first glance, few who enter come out unchanged. The path is notorious for its strange, supernatural affliction—those who travel it find themselves caught in an endless loop. No matter how far you walk, you end up where you began, repeatedly revisiting the same twisted trees, the same bend in the river. The very nature surrounding the path has corrupted it, warping time and space so that it seems eternal. Travellers often speak of a strange fog that clings to the trees, making the air thick and heavy, while the distant sound of the river never seems to grow closer or fade away. The path twists deceptively, creating the illusion of progress, but it is merely a trick. Minutes, hours, even days can pass, yet you’ll find yourself in the same place as if the land refuses to let you go. Legends speak of an ancient magic that runs through this land, a force older than the river and trees. Some say the path is a prison for lost souls, cursed to wander endlessly. Others believe it is the will of the forest itself, a defence against those who seek to pass through. Whatever the cause, few dare to tread Torridon Path for long. The feeling trapped within its looping embrace drives even the strongest minds to madness as reality warps around you, and the way forward dissolves into the mist. Those who escape the path speak of an overwhelming relief, as though they’ve passed through a veil separating two worlds—the living and the lost. But they always leave with a lingering feeling that part of them remains behind, forever walking the path they thought they had left. Alisas Anstiz, or “Alisa’s Favour”, once a temple now crumbling into ruin, lies deep within a grove of red maple trees. Its ancient stones are shrouded in fiery autumn leaves that cling to the broken walls, a place of haunting beauty and quiet reverence. The site, long sought out as a sacred ground for marriage rituals, is dedicated to Alisa, "The Matriarch" of the Camian people, whose legend speaks of love, sacrifice, and the strength of family. It is said that couples who wed here under the scarlet canopy are blessed with unshakable bonds—if they survive the night. But beneath the romantic veneer lies a darker history. Evidence suggests the temple was once a Svarling graveyard, a place of the dead before it was claimed by the Norlanders and repurposed to honour their Matriarch. The foundation's whisper of ancient rituals was far older than love, where bones were laid to rest in the cold earth, and the dead walked in the shadow of the maple trees. Some of the stone carvings that remain bear symbols that are too worn to decipher, yet they seem older than the temple itself, marking this place as cursed long before it became a shrine to union. A chill lingers here, something unnatural in the air, as though the past refuses to lie quiet. Couples who come to wed sometimes speak of strange sightings—pale figures in the distance or a cold hand brushing against them where none should be. Locals warn that the spirits of the dead are still tethered to this land, reluctant to let go of what was once theirs. The red maples, beautiful as they are, seem to drink in more than sunlight, their roots tangling deep into the bones of a forgotten age. Though the ruins now stand as a place of love and binding vows, the temple carries the weight of the living and the dead. And in these woods, it’s never quite sure which one answers when called. Fadurz Fruþǭ, or The Father’s Froth, is a river of legend and lifeblood, winding through Norland’s most storied lands. Known for the frothing whitecaps that churn where its waters rage against the stone, the river holds more than just natural power—it symbolises the region's ceaseless struggles. One of the most famous tales that unfolds around its banks is the War of Beaver and Otter, a battle that embodies the primal forces of domination. According to the myth, both sides laid claim to the streams that feed into the waterfall at the river’s heart, and their relentless fight for control was as endless as the river itself, reflecting the warlike nature of those who settled along its shores. In practical terms, Fadurz Fruþǭ is a crucial defensive moat for Vjardengrad. The river encircles the fortress city, its fast-moving waters offering protection from would-be invaders. Any army attempting to breach Vjardengrad’s walls must first contend with the swift currents of Father’s Froth, a natural barrier that has turned the tide of more than one siege. Yet, while the river protects the city, it carries a far darker fate downstream. Beyond Vjardengrad, Fadurz Fruþǭ cuts its way through the Peatlands, where the land sickens and drowns beneath the weight of decay. The river’s once-clear waters grow darker here, tainted by the bog’s rot and stagnation. It is said that the river, much like the land it runs through, is cursed, touched by some ancient sorrow. As it flows more profoundly into the Peatlands, the river becomes more than just a lifeline—it becomes a harbinger of death, bearing the weight of history and the struggles of those who have fought and died along its banks. Mölströnd Cave, named after the gravel-strewn shoreline it looms above, is a relic of Norland's once-thriving quarry trade. Carved into the cliffs, its jagged maw swallows the light, leading down into a network of dark tunnels that once provided rich stone to the region. Now, it lies forgotten chiefly, forsaken by miners who found its riches not worth the increasing risk. Unstable air pockets, deep within the rock, have rendered the cave perilous—prone to sudden, unpredictable cave-ins that have claimed more than one life over the years. Those who venture too deep seldom return, and those who do often speak of it in hushed tones. The local spelunkers, driven by curiosity or madness, tell tales of more than treacherous stone. Whispers of giant spiders weaving webs in the deepest chambers and more sinister creatures lurking in the shadowed tunnels have given rise to unsettling folklore. Some claim that the cave’s bowels are cursed and that something malignant stirs in the blackest reaches where no light has ever touched. Whether these are mere stories to keep fools away or warnings rooted in truth is uncertain. What is certain, however, is the silence that clings to Mölströnd's depths—a silence that feels thick, unnatural, as though the very cave is holding its breath, waiting. It is a place of old echoes and new dangers. Those foolish enough to enter at their peril the wise passing by or in parts of the main capital can hear prolonged echoes of them. Though the cave still calls to me, its mysteries untouched, it is one of those places best left in peace, lest it reveal secrets darker than the world is prepared to face. I’ll tread cautiously around its edges, though I know my path will eventually lead me into its heart. The Crimson Grove is no natural forest but one hand-grown by the Norlanders with a purpose. It is a deliberate expanse of maple trees planted with a dual purpose: to harvest their sweet syrup and to serve as an icon of the Father’s power. The Grove stretches alongside one section of the river, and the red-leaved trees create a vivid, fiery contrast against the endless snow of Norland. They mark the land with more than just their presence—they mark the faith of the people who dwell here. At first glance, it seems practical, a farming place, but I sense a deeper meaning. The red leaves, striking and unmistakable, feel more than just a natural feature of the landscape. Perhaps they are metaphors for the influence of the Father, whose teachings shape the lives of Norland’s people. Like fire, the trees burn brightly against the white landscape—symbols of protection and power, much like the revered Ashwood, though these maples stand as lesser cousins to the sacred tree. Their purpose, it seems, extends beyond harvest. They are living emblems of the Father’s watchful presence over Norland, perhaps even representations of the Paragons themselves, whose spirit is said to protect Vjardengrad from the wilds beyond. The red leaves serve as a beacon for those returning home. From a distance, a traveller would spot the crimson canopy and know they are nearing safety, the trees marking their passage toward the city. The colour red, rich in symbolism, reflects blood, sacrifice, and courage—vital elements of Norlandic identity. Their dark wood and crimson leaves mirror the colours of the Norlandic flag itself: red for courage and sacrifice, black for resilience and strength. Like the people who planted them, the trees are deeply rooted in the land; though the grove lacks the profound sacredness of the Ashwood, it stands as a testament to the strength of Norland's faith, bloodlines, and the All-Father’s eternal flame. The runestones—silent, mysterious sentinels—dot the landscape of Norland, holding near-forgotten memories which have been immortalised as stone carvings. These towering monoliths, etched with intricate markings, have been raised for various reasons over the centuries: to mark territories, commemorate significant events, or pay tribute to the Father and his Paragons. Each stone tells a story; though some have been weathered by time, their meaning is lost to the ages, while others remain stark and clear, a testament to the enduring faith and tradition of the people. Most of the runestones scattered throughout the land were erected in more recent times, the work of local artisans and citizens who sought to honour the old ways. Yet, some of these stones predate even the arrival of the Norlanders, their origins shrouded in mystery. These ancient stones bear symbols and runes that no one alive today can fully decipher—marks from before written history. They seem almost otherworldly, relics of a forgotten age, perhaps even erected by civilisations long since turned to dust. The stones radiate a strange energy, an aura that can be felt by those sensitive to such things. Some believe they are imbued with protective power, while others whisper of darker forces that cling to the oldest among them. Travellers and locals revere these stones, leaving offerings or bowing their heads as they pass, for no one can be sure what forces still linger within them. Whether they were raised in honour of gods or to mark the edges of forgotten empires, the runestones remind them that the land holds secrets far older than any living soul. I write now of Kaer Toreador, as I was told by my kin and hunters who have walked the cold woods near its cursed stones. This is no tale for the faint-hearted, for it speaks of giants, ruin, and the wild’s relentless claim on what men once thought theirs. The story was given to me, so I set it here so you may know it too and remember the fate of those who consider themselves masters of the land.” Long ago, they say, Kaer Toreador stood high on the mountain, a fortress of stone that could see for leagues in every direction. It was a mighty stronghold, its lords looking down over the farmland below, where crops still grow today, even in the shadow of that place. The thick and ancient taiga stretched on all sides, a wild sea of pines and firs shrouding the land, but the castle stood firm against it—so it seemed. Yet no wall, no tower, can stand against the giants' will. From the far north, they came, born of the cold and the fury of the high mountains, their wrath as old as the land itself. They came in the night, great shapes darkening the sky, and laid waste to Kaer Toreador. Stone walls that had withstood armies crumbled beneath their blows. The castle fell not by the hands of men but by the giants’ fists, and in a single night, the proud towers of Kaer Toreador were brought low. The screams of the fallen were said to echo through the valley for days, though by morning, none were left alive to hear them. Time passed, and the ruins lay quiet. Slow but unrelenting, the woodland began to creep up the mountain. Pines and firs twisted their roots through the shattered stone, and vines crawled over the fallen battlements. The forest swallowed the ruins as if the earth sought to hide the shame of the giants’ wrath. But men are always drawn to places of power, even ruined ones. Bandits came in the years after, taking the castle as their own, thinking it a place of strength—hidden in the wild, out of reach. From there, they sacked the farmers below, raiding the fields and stealing from those still working the land in the mountain's shadow. The bandits made their lair in the ruins for a time, thinking themselves safe from both men and the gods. But their fate was sealed, as it always is for men who seek to claim what belongs to the wild. A band of warriors, fierce and silent, came for them one night. Some say it was hunters from the village, and others whisper it was the spirits of the dead castle folk seeking vengeance. The bandits were slain, their blood soaking into the cold ground, and their bones left to join the stones of the ruin. None dare claim Kaer Toreador now, for the wild holds it in its grip. And so, Kaer Toreador stands on the mountain, its bones cradled by the forest. Though still tended by those brave enough, the farmland below lives in the shadow of the castle's curse. The taiga grows thick around it, tightening its hold year after year. And the wind that howls through the broken walls of the ruin carries the whispers of giants, bandits, and the ruin of men. Vjardengrad rises like a fortress of stone from the waters of Father’s Froth, its walls towering and unyielding. Encircled by the endless green of the Ashveil Wilds, the city stands as a sentinel on the edge of the untamed, its silhouette etched against the northern sky. The streets are narrow and winding, flanked by buildings of timber and stone, their Blackstone roofs dark as storm clouds. Spires and battlements pierce the skyline, their edges sharp and proud. Everything here feels built to endure, from the sturdy bridges that span the river to the fortified gates that guard its borders. At the city’s heart stands the Ashwood tree, its fiery branches reaching skyward, flickering with an eternal blaze that defies the laws of nature. Around it, perched on the upper tier of the city, is a quiet birch grove. The grove’s pale trunks gleam in the filtered light, standing in serene contrast to the fiery brilliance below. Beneath the Ashwood tree lies the Temple of the Divine Manifestation, an underground sanctuary where the High Keeper guides the faithful and commands the city’s affairs. The air here feels heavy with reverence, the carvings on the temple walls whispering of ancient tales and divine purpose. The marketplace hums with life. Merchants peddle their wares beneath colorful awnings, the aroma of spiced meats and fresh bread mingling with the tang of river mist. At the heart of it all is the Golden Lyre, a tavern renowned for its warmth and lively spirit. Its walls echo with the laughter of hunters, sailors, and traders, all swapping tales over mugs of frothy ale. Yet, even amid the bustle, there is a weight to Vjardengrad—a sense of age and resilience. The river flows relentlessly beneath its bridges, its dark waters mirroring the city’s resolve. This is no mere settlement; it is a symbol of Norland’s strength, its culture etched into every stone and rooted in the flames of the Ashwood tree. To walk its streets is to feel the pulse of the North. Vjardengrad is not simply a city. It is defiance made manifest, a haven in the wilds, and a home to those who bear the spirit of unyielding will. Thanes Road - a grim path winding northward from the Torridan pass, the only route into Solgaard from the southern reaches. The road skirts the source of the river Fadurz Fruþǭ, its dark waters flowing silently alongside. What strikes the traveller first is the oppressive canopy of trees that looms overhead, their branches twisting and gnarled, locking out the sky. The light that does filter through comes in pale, sickly shafts, casting long shadows that seem to shift with each step. The woods that border the road are alive with sound, though none of it is comforting. The creaking of old wood, the rustle of unseen creatures, and the occasional distant snap of a branch create an eerie backdrop for the journey. The air feels heavy and thick with the scent of damp earth and decaying leaves. It is a place where the world feels older, where the weight of time presses down upon the land, leaving the traveller with the sense that they are being watched, though no eyes can be seen. Few dare to linger long on Thanes Road. The villagers speak of strange sightings—figures glimpsed between the trees, moving just at the edge of vision, and unnatural shapes flitting through the mist that often rises from the river at dusk. Some claim the woods themselves are cursed, that the ancient spirits of the land still walk these grounds, their presence felt in every whisper of wind. Whether these tales hold truth or are born from the fear this place inspires, I cannot yet say. But there is a darkness here, old and patient, waiting in the shadows beyond the road’s edge. The road is narrow, and its dangers are not all the world’s making. Travellers here do well to walk swiftly, for Thanes Road is where the unwary disappear, swallowed by the woods and never seen again. A place where the boundaries between the living and the dead feel thin, and the shadows themselves seem hungry. Fallen Fjord Path, the northwest entrance into Norland, winds along the edge of a steep mountain cliff, overlooking a vast grassy fjord below. The path is narrow and treacherous, with jagged rocks protruding from its uneven surface; whilst wind is ever-present, carrying a chilling howl as it rushes through the ravine, while the echo of distant waterfalls adds a haunting rhythm to the journey. Despite its dangers, the path offers a breathtaking view of the fjord's rolling greenery and glistening waters far below, a stark contrast to the rugged cliffs above. Legends surround the Fallen Fjord Path, suggesting ancient hands carved it to guide travellers towards the coast. The cliff face is said to whisper to those brave enough to listen, carrying the voices of long-lost wanderers who never reached their destination. The fjord below, tranquil as it seems, is rumoured to be home to restless spirits, drawn to its reflective waters that mimic the sky’s endless expanse. For those who traverse the path, it is both a test of endurance and a pilgrimage through Norland’s natural splendour. Many who walk the Fallen Fjord Path speak of its duality—beauty and peril, history and mystery. The path leads to Sólgaard’s ferry, a vital crossing that connects Norland’s northern wilds to its heartland. The journey, though fraught with danger, is a rite of passage for those seeking to know the land’s spirit, where the elements rule unyielding and the echoes of the past linger in every gust of wind. I write of my home, Sólgaard—where my bloodline was born and where it shall end. There is no land like it in the entire north, and few who have seen it ever forget its fierce beauty. Deep within the Bay of Seals, where the winds howl, and the sea thrashes against the cliffs, Sólgaard stands, proud and unyielding, just like its people—the Norn Vikings. Our village is nestled against the rugged coast, sheltered by the high cliffs that rise from the sea, battered by the eternal storm that never seems to leave these shores. Sólgaard is a place shaped by the wildness of the land and the sea. The waves crash against the rocks below, but we, the Norn, stand tall. We are seafarers and warriors, taught from birth to honour our ancestors and the High Keeper, who guides us in faith and war. Our people are bound by tradition, by the sea, and by the blood we shed to protect what is ours. Sólgaard was once even grander than it is today, though now it bears the scars of a time when the gods turned their gaze elsewhere. Once a mighty fortress overlooking the bay, the castle is now wounded. Once tall enough to scrape the sky, the sea has claimed one of its great towers as though dragged down by the spirits that dwell in the depths. The rocks around it have crumbled, leaving only jagged ruins. No one knows what caused its fall—whether it was the anger of the gods or the work of some unseen enemy, but its loss is a mystery that haunts us still. Off the coast of our village, an island stirs unease in all who gaze upon it. Shaped like the remains of some great sea monster slain long ago, its fossilised bones are still pierced by the trunk of a tree that grows from its heart. Once, the tree stood tall, a strange and terrible sight, but it was felled—chopped down by our people to create the Holmgang bridge, now stained with the blood of those who settled their disputes through the ancient duel. When a man’s honour is questioned, it is on that bridge, with the sea roaring beneath, that the matter is decided. The heart of our village is the thegn hall, where our people gather to feast, to speak of war, and to honour the High Keeper. At its centre sits a boulder as large as a bear, with a stone arch reaching the mainland. The rock has stood there for as long as anyone remembers, a symbol of the strength and endurance of Sólgaard itself. Though the winds beat at it, the sea gnashes at its edges, it remains, just as we remain. Surrounding Sólgaard is a vast woodland that stretches across the land, a thick forest of pine and fir that whispers with the voice of the old gods. The trees grow strong and tall, and it is from this woodland that we gather what we need to build our ships and our homes. A lumber mill stands close to the village, where the wood is harvested and prepared, the lifeblood of our settlement. The forest may seem dark and endless to those who do not know it, but to us, it is a part of who we are. This project has been one that started with a quality of life upgrade towards Tile 6 acknowledged now as Sólgaard, but many months afterwards followed the terrain revamp of the Norland tiles as I wanted the land to fit a narrative immersion of a blended landscape that worked alongside core Roleplay locations/aspects, and also provide a much clearer vision to what LOTC environments could be. The build project lasted from January of Last year to Early February this year and to establish what I wanted with this landscape: there was a fair quality of IRL pictures of rural Wales, England and Scotland used, followed by video game and fantasy Artwork aesthetics implied to make established shots. For most of the referencing, the terrain follows a narrative video of the Skellige landscape from the Witcher 3 to visualise a proper northern landscape with a heavy fantasy medieval vibe to it. The main predominant video can be found below with the referencing links in case anyone wishes to view or experience the landscape of Skellige from the Witcher 3, which is a powerful emotional game. Big thanks sent towards TheNamesMCQ for supporting me with the long, lengthy (sometimes rambling) discussions about Viking and Pagan history and metaphoric symbolism. Many reading this will not know the dedication towards the heavy-world building and the translation work for the scattered runestones that are in-game for you to find and explore that the Names have helped craft. Also to Elrith who didn’t care that I basically destroyed Norland, crashed his build server a few times and now cost him fortunes for my terrain. Now excuse me as I go to sit on a hill and watch the sun set fall over Norland. All Screenshots of the build were captured by myself with low-quality BSL Shaders for 1.21.1 Font Generator - https://www.fontspace.com/norse-font-f21080 Warrior Image - https://www.pinterest.co.uk/pin/610519293265630114/ Skellige walk - https://youtu.be/0LkJBvocY10?t=11

Well time to throw up 15 paste reqs real quick.....

This will be written into the Sagas. The Great Carpet anvil heist and the misadventures of Jay the Reinmaren and his plucky Norn dogman Dragomir." Says the Norn Huntsman as he smoked his pipe whilst he watched the flying Carpet get parked up on the front lawn.

To the Lobstest larry, Why art thou Larry so rude to me? Aren't we the same (Tommy)? ALSO Congrats I'm going to rob you :)

Contract: Assassination Attempt & Guild Investigation Involved Parties: Sa’Ragna (mutated cat), Olivia (Norlander), Amon Vourkehardt (target) The Incident The contract began with Sa’Ragna, a mutated feline figure, approaching Amon Vourkehardt, a young scholar, within the confines of a library. Sa’Ragna extended an invitation to join an organisation ostensibly advocating for the rights of Grendels and Kha people. Their rhetoric focused on defending the oppressed, yet Amon sensed deeper motives and declined. This refusal set into motion a grim sequence of events. Sa’Ragna led Amon to a secluded riverside under the guise of further discussion. The young man was branded a “loose end” for knowing too much. Attempting escape, Amon was wounded by a thrown blade from Sa’Ragna. Despite the attack, Amon survived, though grievously injured. Olivia’s Role Olivia, a Norlander associated with the group, hesitated in her allegiance. Initially, she intervened during Sa’Ragna’s attack on Amon, indicating doubt rather than loyalty. Later, however, she followed Sa’Ragna to Garenbridg, where the group sought to exploit Amon’s family as leverage. Pressured to kidnap Amon’s kin, Olivia resisted and fled, pursued by the Kha’s agents. In an act of contrition, Olivia surrendered herself to the House of Vourkehardt, revealing some information concerning the organisation’s operations and implicating Sa’Ragna. Given her coerced involvement, her punishment was lenient: tending the ashes of a pyre. The Organisation The group, described as a collective of alchemists and medics, has eight members. Sa’Ragna’s leadership displayed ruthlessness, yet his actions diverged from the group's professed ethos, as revealed in a written plea to Amon. In his letter, he expressed a willingness to sacrifice his life to protect the organisation, a stark contrast to his earlier violence. Investigation Progress Returning to Sólgaard, I conferred with trusted allies—Gudbrand, Sucelia, Bjorn, and Birkir. Gudbrand recalled a past encounter with Sa’Ragna at the forge, during which the feline questioned him about discrimination. Furthermore, the support provided insight into mutated cats, noting that some had been housed in the Vale. Therefore, I informed them of my leave and set off to the Vale. In the Vale, a gathering near a duel provided further clues. A figure named Theodred, claiming to be an associate of Sa’Ragna, attempted to intimidate me, though his threats proved futile due to the appearance of the Solvikingrs, who were trying to find out why I was gone for so long. The Final Encounter Months later, the investigation led me back to Númendil, where fate intervened. With the aid of Ljúfvina, the Norn Dýravörðr, and Ser Vandrake Vourkehardt, Sa’Ragna was captured and taken to Sólgaard for questioning. His interrogation yielded little actionable intelligence, suggesting a need to trace his broader network across Aevos. Soon after, a connected guild associate resurfaced at Númendil’s gates, now a marked Grendel. Their fate was sealed by the Knights Ser Baralin and Warrior Enrique, though her quiver bore a Norlandic insignia—a clue pointing me back to my roots. Next Steps The path leads home to delve deeper into the Norlandic connection and uncover the guild’s remaining secrets. Sa’Ragna’s network stretches wider than expected, and dismantling it will require unearthing each strand. As always, vigilance remains paramount. Shadows linger where truth hides, and this contract is far from over. Referencing Image: https://uk.pinterest.com/pin/40180621670074793/ Font: https://www.fontspace.com/norse-font-f21080 Divider: Taken from Skyrim UI elements Notice: All information reported has been gathered through a lengthy Role-Play investigation. Witnesses provided any essential information that led me to further my investigation, and none of this went outside of the Role-Play framework. :)

Thanks for the shout out, I think I should give my stance on this as I been building actively nonstop on it but alot of the key ideas of the post I agree with. Terrain for this map has been terrible, it has been heavily reported that LOTC hired a terrible paint builder a month or so before it was released as they had been scammed with others before. That being said when the nations began building their plots, alot of the landscape was (and often still is) terribly made with random scattered assets that have no effect in the biome except because they made it look like the builder did something. 2 years now that I've spent terraforming this map has made me dislike alot of the choices made. Lacking of actual woodlands for instance and overall nature. YOU SHOULDN'T THINK A JUNGLE TREE TURNED INTO BIRCH LOG IS A COOL LOOKING WOODLANDS. Anyway, next map needs to limit the overall heights and flesh out the mountains and the nature of biomes so you can have more ET. Style events like the mountain climb and also let nations not build random horrible Terrain to climb up to their mountain home. On this map roughly 70% is a Plains biome with nothing to help generate rp for events and exploration. I'll leave that in mind

It has been nearly two years since the Party of Norns—those bold souls, chosen by fate and the gods themselves—departed on their quest to scale the mountain and reach its fabled peak. They carried with them the weight of our hopes and whispers of forgotten tales, seeking something I cannot name yet cannot stop pondering. Their journey must have taken them far beyond the lands I know, into realms untouched by our boldest raiders. I was left behind—not as punishment, though it sometimes feels that way, but with a task as vital as theirs: to guard and teach the kin of the Norns. These younglings, the blood of the great ones, are my charge. They must learn of their ancestors' cunning, strength, and honour. I have shown them how to wield axes, read the runes, and call upon the old gods. Yet their laughter, endless questions, and the monotony of daily lessons leave my warrior’s soul restless. Boredom became my enemy, as formidable as any berserker. I found solace in old blueprints—parchments showing the designs of homes, halls, and mighty thegn keeps. I pored over them with a curiosity I never thought I’d have for walls and beams. And so, builders from Norland, the heart of our kingdom, were summoned. Together, we have raised sturdy homes and a new great hall worthy of song, though I doubt the skalds will sing of sawdust and mortar. The halls are grand but empty. Stone and timber cannot fill the void left by my comrades. I wonder—no, ache—to know where they are. Have they reached the mountain’s summit? Have they uncovered its secrets, or has it claimed them, as so many legends say it does? They were warriors, the best of us, but even the strongest can falter when gods and destiny are at play. I climb to the watchtower, each dawn gazing northward, where the mountains loom like giants on the horizon—each dusk, I descend, unanswered. The Norns may guide their fate, but who will guide mine, left here in the stillness?

Tancred’s Journal report Contract: The Missing Person Contact Details: Lady Blackrose approached me with news of a missing woman named Anette. Initial details were sparse—just her name, appearance, and vague hints of her discontent with her station in life. It was a threadbare lead but enough to start the trail. Phase One: Númendil I rode to Númendil, a town I’m somewhat familiar with—friendly enough folk who’ll talk if you share a drink or a tale. I checked with my usual contacts and asked around the marketplace and at the smithy. Nothing. No one recognised the description, nor had any whispers of unusual activity. Phase Two: Petra and Haense I moved on to the nearby towns of Petra and Haense. In Petra, a stop at the tavern yielded little—just a barkeep and her regulars muttering about the weather and crop yields. Haense proved slightly more fruitful. A tavern patron outside, half in his cups, swore he’d seen a woman matching Anette’s description. His details were vague but credible. Phase Three: South and Westward Tracks Following that faint lead, I decided to widen the search. I travelled south and west, scouring villages and hamlets for anything useful. The road was long, and the answers were short. Whatever trail Anette had left was faint. Resolution: Haense I returned to Haense on a hunch. Sure enough, the missing woman was there, tucked away and keeping to herself. We spoke. She wasn’t lost or abducted—she’d chosen to leave, tired of the life that Lady Blackrose demanded of her. She had the fire of someone seeking freedom, though she lacked a clear plan. Negotiated a solution—brokered an agreement allowing Anette to stay away from her old obligations and carve out her path. She was hesitant but grateful. Conclusion: Lady Blackrose may not be pleased, but her servant is no longer "missing." She's forging her life on her terms now. No monsters were slain this time. It's just another human tale, complicated and bittersweet. Such is the Path. Need to investigate a band of Norlanders taking flowers as nicknames. Note to Self: The next time I take a "simple" contract, I should remind myself people are often more complicated to track.

"Ah shit.... Here we go again." Says the Norn Berserker as he prepares his swords.