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. . ."

FULL NAME: Yrun Ireheart AGE: 66 PRIOR EXPERIENCE: Blood SIGNED NAME: ᛃᚱᚢᚾ ᛁᚱᛖᚻᛖᚨᚱᛏ METHOD OF CONTACT: Viken.zz | VikenOP

A dead man regarded the Eulers fondly!

Get rid of gear levels and keep it plain and simple. There are levels of complexity to gear that give an imbalance that'll favor the people who grind more for PvP sets, which, and always will be, pvpers. Keeping it simple and retaining 1.8 allows for the average noob or just average noob army in general to have a substantial chance to beat a PvP rally. 1.9 will give the advantage back to the pvpers; This is why Pvpers are trying to bring it back. Just keep it to 20 health, have one bow/crossbow, and one weapon used for PvP. Also, get rid of horse whistles. Keeping a plain 1.8 pvp, can still have a gap for pvpers, but they'll have to rely on using their actual brain rather than having a legendary set that can drop you in 6 hits from autoclicking.

“Here, I stand before you, to also reprimand your men. The war is considered over, you have lost. I am not prolonging this dribbly battle,” the imperial prince murmured, “Bring out the Druscan men who committed this murder, so that they may be executed.” “If you are unwilling, just say, and we can start this show,” Hadrian's eyes undulate, gently brushing the mane of his horse. “I am not here for a debate, and I am sure you, too, are not here for one either.” “The men,” the imperial prince commanded. “Lucien.” He barked from underneath his helm. Hadrian Tiberias croaked his gaze in the direction of Lucien. Roger casted a glance over his men, and his eyes upon the Imperials, and lastly to Lucien. He then placed a hand before Luciens' chest, “Blood for Ashford. I wish you fortune in the wars to come. As for me, I shall meet my fate within my keep. No sooner had the Archduke spoken did he withdraw to his keep, where the last of his men readied themselves for the battle to come. To the untrained eye, their cause was a lost one. A meager eighteen hundred men bore still the cross of the Vydric, the tattered remnant of the Druscan host which had been bled dry at the Battle of Lizard’s Run. And their losses had stripped them of more than men. Depleted of arrows, blades, and mail, the Druscans stood a host in name alone. Against them marched the might of the Empire, fourfold in number, drawn from a score of Imperial vassals. And yet, what the Druscans lacked in numbers, they bore in resolve and discipline, tempered in the Battle of the Sunset, the Storming of Cleves, the Sacking of Waldemer, and the Battle of Lizard’s Run. There had they learned of the Empire’s treachery: the Emperor’s blades were not the keepers of peace, but instruments of slaughter, for soldiers clad in Imperial burgundy cut down dozens of Druscans upon the open fields of Westmark. So did those who remained now stand with the certainty of men prepared for death, hungering for vengeance, their blades eager to sate such an appetite. Comparatively, the Imperial Host, though great in number, was a patchwork of stray Imperial guards and vassal levies, nigh all among them green men untested upon the battlefield. The Druscans were granted but a few short minutes to gather themselves whilst the Imperial host organized for the assault. At their head would lead Roger, dressed as one of their own, a soldier among soldiers, his rank betrayed only by the crown upon his helm. Arrayed so, the Druscans stood ready whence the Prince Hadrian at last voiced his commands, ordering the Imperials to scale the northern walls. Lacking the proper engines of war, the Crown Prince had chosen speed over patience, eager to bring an end to this conflict. His rashness would cost him greatly. Drawn inside by a feigned retreat, great swathes of the Imperial host found the gates barred fast behind them, and in the courtyard of Waldemer, they were hewn apart, slaughtered within the palace grounds. Those not trapped within the courtyard fared no better, as arrows rained down from the Waldemer’s parapets upon them. Having yet to fell so much as a single Druscan, the Crown Prince gave the order to fall back and reform the line, to ready the Imperials for another assault. The next advance was to be led by the Tar of Numendil, and once the ranks were redressed, a second charge loosed upon the walls of Waldemer. Roger led the Druscans still, who greeted the Imperials with steel. And upon the ramparts of Castle Waldemer, he came upon the Tar. Upon his Adunian counterpart Roger brought down his carbarum blade, only for it to be turned aside by a blade of the same make, wielded by the Tar. This exchange of blows would last some considerable time, before at last, though wearied and bearing still the wounds of Westmark, Roger’s blade drove deep into the Tar’s calf. So was yet another retreat called, as the Imperials whisked the Tar away, lest Roger’s blade more fatally find him elsewhere. By now, scores of Imperials had fallen in the fruitless assaults upon Waldemer. Over a third of the host was slain, with more yet deserting into the woods to the north. Perhaps now chastened by his blunders, the Crown Prince set his scouts to ride the circuit of walls in search of some breaching point; at last they came upon a breach in one of the northernmost towers. Seeing his chance, the Prince drove a contingent ahead, to ladder into the Castle. As the Imperials swarmed the tower, the few Druscans holding the tower shouted for aid to those still butchering stragglers in the courtyard. They came at once, steel slick with blood, and met the climbers on the ladders. The fight was desperate, and close-run, but in the end, the invaders were thrown back, though only just. Despite all expectation, the Druscans had held their ground, but the fight grew only more desperate with each passing hour, as what few resources the Druscans had to them dwindled down. Roger, whether haughty from his unlikely performance or desperate to bring the fighting to a swift end, pressed for a counterstroke, stripping the northern tower of its garrison. It was the opening the Imperials needed. The remainder of the Imperial host poured through and at last, the remainder of the Druscans were all cut down, save their commanders. Roger himself had been cast from the tower, his leg shattering in the fall, and all he could do was look up as the Empire’s banner rose over Waldemer. The details of the battle would provide much for Roger to think upon, as he and his household were swept towards the capital. Could victory have been his had he not ordered that final, fatal charge? If victory had come, would it have mattered? Such thoughts were fleeting, for the capital drew nearer upon the horizon, and before long he was thrust in the great hall, to stand before the Emperor’s sons, his left and right hands in his absence. Another man might have cowered to be faced with the Empire’s wroth. Roger was no such man. And so when that demand was laid plainly before him, to render his knee in fealty and swear again, his answer did not come swiftly. Fear gnawed at him, yes, if even it did not show. It was fear for his lady wife, for his young son and daughter, for the people who bore his banner. Yet he bore another fear too, a deeper one: fear of a soul forsworn, left to linger and rot in the void. Between his Emperor and his God, it was made apparent he could no longer serve both. One oath was to be broken with his answer, and he had long weighed which. At last, he raised his voice, made certain from his contemplation, and spoke the same words of Jon Renault before him, those which he delivered before Philip the Tyrant: “I bow to no man but GOD.” And so too did he share in Jon Renault’s doom. In the Emperor’s hall, he was hewn down, as his knights gave their last cry: “Blood for Ashford”. His death bought neither land nor crown, but the passage of his soul into the Seven Skies. And in that death, his defiance rang louder than any victory. Arnaud of Drusco Geordie of Houndsden Renaud of Greye Lucien of Brionnes Michael of Zenorein Kerescen of Basarab Imre of Drusco Charles of Drusco Drolzu’Gorkil Leofric of Drusco Fulbert of Clare John of Orange Jon of Virdain Drogo of Valognes Tobias of Staunton Economos of Valdev

Roger fastened the clasps of his steel, one piece of plate after the other, until all that bore in his mind was the weight of war. A new tabard had been drawn past his shoulders and onto his chest, the white sun of Guy de Bar. He tightened his gauntlet, set his hand to La Gloire Drusque, and spoke but three words, "Blood for Ashford."

ark, and to those sons of Horen to whom these presents shall come, Greetings. We, Roger, Prince of the Savoyards and Ulmsbottom, Archduke of Drusco, right patriarch of Ashford, and most dutiful servant of His Imperial Majesty, have deemed fit to set forth this present charter for the ordering and due recompense of those loyal subjects whom have made themselves distinct before oure purview. By oure especial favor, we do confirm to Leopold Ashford de Anjou, and to his heirs of blood, full and absolute possession of the lands described herein, with all the liberties and privileges of ownership, to hold and enjoy now and forevermore. By this granting, it is understood and agreed that all rights conveyed shall at all times remain subject to the supreme authority of our Princely Coronet, which reserves the right to revoke, annul, or forfeit the same should just cause arise; hence the Coronet deigns to levy upon this land a price of princegeld at fifty minas (50.0) minas per annum for guaranty of its well-keeping. This plot is designated on the following coordinates, diagonally: (1510x,-215x) unto (1410x,-285x). By this granting, the jurisprudence of the Lex Sabaudiae hereby recognizes Leopold Ashford de Anjou as Baron of Cleves, to be extended the rights of feudal protection, defense by lawful trial, and all other underwritten privileges of this legal station, and this shall be extended upon any heirs borne legitimate of his blood and his legitimate brethren. Penned under hand and seal at Waldemer Keep, This 9th of the Sun’s Smile in the year 2042. By the grace of GOD and command of Archduke Roger de Rouen. And assent of the Palsgrave Faustin de Bruges.

“The Ashford sun will reign supreme. None shall escape it. Our people will bask in its warmth; our enemies will be burnt by its rays; and those of our dynasty will be forever illuminated by its glowing luminescence.” The final words of Olivier de Savoie, the Drowned King. When our Holy Mother Church was under siege, and the wicked rose to topple God's order, He uplifted a chosen instrument in Andrik Vydra to strike down the unjust and immoral. So do the Druscan men don his cross now, for our charge much resembles his own. Lesser men of lesser callings cannot comprehend this, to take upon a charge so holy and sacred; so do they mock us, seeking to tear down that which they cannot understand. We are a people who have never strayed from God’s ordained path, for our legacy is wrought from Saint Lucien of Ulmsbottom, from Olivier de Savoie, and from the war-veterans of Oren and Veletz, who fought against all odds beset against them. If this coalition headed by the headless Calias insists upon bloodying the realms of Man, then theirs will be the same fate met by all those who stood against our august forebearers: humiliation and defeat. We will repel these Signatories, crush them under the might of the Ashford sun, and record them as yet another footnote in another long list of evil attempts to oppose the Eshænveurd people. “For our courage is not in the multitude of our army, but strength cometh from Heaven. We will fight for our lives and our laws, and as for the enemy, we shall fear them not. We will trust Him.” Savoyard Prayer of Edgar de Saltpans. A number of petty grievances has been presented to mask this unrighteous cause. So too shall I return one of my own make: To the House van Aert, today you have broken the pact you have made to me under sacred oath. This is the most grievous wound to my heart, you have betrayed me. The next heir to Blackvale will be sent to Drusco upon his birth to ward, until he is of age to inherit. To the Norland Governor, Karoslund will be granted independence from your heathenous realm, and vassalized directly under the Empire. To the Kingdom of Numendil, the Archduchy of Petra and House Leomonte will be granted independence and the charter and vassalized directly under the Empire. To Myrine, Calias ‘the Spanked’ will become a monk of the Church, stripped of all title and power. To the True Faith. By sponsoring this war, it is clear you wish to see further division of Man, and bloodshed. You divide the successors of Godfrey, and for this, Callahan and Anorhil will resign from office, and the election of the Pontificate will be handled by all members of the priesthood. To Garenbrig, your first and last mistake was signing that missive. For this, we will burn your keep, and your heir will ward under Drusco. You advised my missive to be curt and so shall this be its end. The Druscan Answer will be delivered upon the battlefield, writ in the blood of men of Myrine, of Numendil, of Blackvale, and whatever other petty brigands you can muster to your feeble cause. I’ll consider your terms agreeable should you consider our own the same. I await the Emperor’s approval. NO WORDS, BUT DEEDS. Roger of Bourdon, Archduke of Drusco.

Roger prepared to dispatch his men on the intent of hunting the brigands for sport.

Rogers' features remained flat and unexpressive whilst he murmured, "May GOD rest his soul, and look towards Lemon Hill, for I suspect his last missive cause his untimely death."

"Our former pontiff shall be remembered as a man once great, though in his twilight years plagued by idleness and erratic notions. Yet his labors wrought lasting change and elevated our true emperor — the unifier of the sons of Horen. Let no man deny that he was an instrument of great importance in the hands of GOD." - Roger spoke from Waldemer