Vikenz

RIP

do military larp, attend trainings, push for better roleplay narratives. Remember your apart of a storyline Lastly dont CRP, call pvp always.

Username: GeckoOP Character Name: Sir Rickard Affiliation: Alba Desired Rank Any Which games will you be attending?: All

Second Rep Farm accident!

Accident

Rickard had remembered the distant shouting while on patrol with a small Osterlunder host of twelve men. Without another second of hesitation, he spurred his horse forward, the sound of screams and steel singing ringing as he drew near. He arrived at Fairmarket. Rickard had been forced off his steed amid the chaos, drawing his blade as he pressed on. His blade bloodied by the end, carving into the fray beside the Waldenic and Alban men.

Kroku had persisted long enough to see many rexs rise and more fall. That alone had been an ill fated omen. Now the Horde had many fractured, broken into clans like the days of yore, each clawing for dominance. When the Rex of the Horde had called, when the men of the Empire had attacked, the young Uruk of Lur blood had not stood amongst them. The Spirits had not forgiven it. They had grown restless in Kroku’s silence, haunting the Northern range of Aevos where he had grown idle and exiled. He felt them always now deep within the marrow of his bones, carrying in the cold wind that bit at his skin, festering his mind like unseen insects feeding upon his doubt. Krug had painted him weak for remaining idle. And though Kroku had turned his back on the horde, he would not bear that shame again. The Blood of Rexs did not forget. Without word, Kroku’s large green hand tightened around the shaft of his spear, a back turned from the cave, and stepped into the wilds, bound south once more. Behind him, a companion sprang from its ledge, silent but with a heavy rhythm of deep breaths.

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Vhazar signs the charter (GeckoOp)

Roger sat enthroned within the Seven Skies, a martyr of his faith. Upon the Savoyard throne he lingered, a gaze lowered upon humanity itself, until alas he rose from his seat. The Rouennais Prince gave a firm nod of acknowledgement to the Emperor of Azuras. Far below, upon the continent of Azuras, Yrun lingered in the valley of Rhunskar at the edge of failure. His blue eyes gazed onto the mountain, where dark plumes of smoke crawled up the sky. His hand rose to his cloak, pulling the hood low to shadow his face. The Ireheart had no more words for nothing could be said for what had been lost. Turning away from the smouldering peak, Yrun wandered off in pursuit to regather with his kin.

“I believe they’ve confused Lucien with Adrian. Guess they want to be more like Savoyards.” Commented a Savoyard from the hills, joking about the rivalry between the two peoples.

Yrun remembered the battle only faintly. He recalled cutting down two hundred men and wounding countless others. He remembered facing the Prince in single combat—the young commander of the Ireheart Clan—who shattered him and forced him to turn and flee. He would have died there if not for his uncle, Prince Johannes, who dragged him from the field.

if you take over a build you should be able to use the build

Such a unique and persistent group; Glad to see these guys still running,

Kroku, son of Bayek'Lur, son of Rex Falum'Lur His yellow-laced eyes traced the words once more, a guttural noise emitting from his under his throat, grunting lowly. "Hrmm. . ."