Pancho

The Patriot readies his blade to battle alongside his boys once more!

Prince Kosher Daesmon shivers in his Timbers!

Alto the Patriot dislikes this law and will not follow it.

Prince Kosher Daesmon, Prince of Malinor and Amaethea would be at the forge, fixing the bent and crimson stained blade. A low tune could be heard between the clash of the hammer on iron. “On the road to victory the darkened rider rides! Up to the blades of the Horde, the elves went up the mountainside! Eight hundred of Malinor put down their blades and lives. Fourty nine hundred of the Horde lay bleeding and dead up there on the mountainside.”

Prince Kosher Daesmon of Amaethea, formerly the lands of Elvenesse would sigh as he looked to the Western Sea. “Thousands of dead Uruk and yet the Vale still doesn’t rally to the aid of their kind. Truly frightening how lost they are in their own world.”

Prince Kosher Daesmon, an accent enemy and ally of the aging Hyspian, would hear of her death from a courier as he sat on his throne. He Willy’s silently look into the empty hall, tears strolling down his face as he sobbed. “Yet another falls, the life of the Mali I suppose.”

From the heavens above, a traitor opens his arms for yet another of his kin, the gang almost back together where they had been torn apart so long ago.

A Prince’s Pondering [!] Artist depiction of Prince Kosher Daesmon writing down his ideas (Circa 81 S.A) =+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+=+= The Prince had been locked away for days in his tower overlooking the shining city of Caras y Tennellar. Hunched over, slaving away over writing decrees and plans to revive his civilization, only to crumple up and throw them to the side like the others. "Garbage." He spat, the piles of parchment laying discarded in the dusty corner. He had faced a dilemma, a challenge he had never had to face before in his over sixty years on the continent. He faced having to govern. The ambition to gain power had stemmed from his youth. After all, being the bastard of an ambitious lizard from the Hollow came with its perks and downsides. After spending a lifetime of being a bandit nobleman, a darkspawn turned knight of light, snaking his way through the politics of Almaris like a mole through tunnels. He put down the quill for a moment, the scratching of the quill on parchment subsiding as silence filled the room. He would quietly get up from his desk, rubbing his eyes as he looked about. The morning sun would blind him, his crimson locks, usually neat, would be rough and stuck together. His clothes would be wrinkled and filthy, though he hadn't left the confines of the study for days prior. He would sigh in relief as he stretched his legs, a yawn escaping the young 'ame as he blinked and adjusted to the brightness of dawn. “Perhaps I should take a walk.” As the Prince walked down from his study, he would glance at the throne that stood high above the seats of the citadel, the carpet below stained red from the blood of the men and women who had been executed there for years. Memories of family, friendship, and betrayal soaked there as a reminder of the hardships of stability. He would sit on the throne, looking at the murals on the walls as memories passed through his mind. For twenty years he had worked to sit on that throne, now that he had it there was no one left to rule. Next thing he knew, he was walking through the city, boots echoing with every step on the cobble as the streets lay bare, begging for any sort of life to come back. Streets once occupied by children, bakers, brave soldiers, artisans, smiths, even Templars of light, now succumbing to the graying of time. Reaching the end of the road to the stairs, he would stop in front of a manor on the cliff. His manor. Their manor. A single tear would roll down his face, thinking of how his wife and eldest daughter left suddenly without a single word to him. The Bastard, The Bandit, The Traitor, The Snake, The Soldier, The Prince. Kosher would sigh, realizing the futility of his situation. Anyone smarter, even him if he was, would've quit trying to help the dying city. He considered letting it rot, succumb to the tests of time. Yet, he shook his head like he had before, disgusted he even conceived the notion of doing so. None of that mattered to him, for the halls of his domain may lay empty and unoccupied for now, but the shining sea glimmering in the sun’s light was enough for the Prince as he climbed onto the sea wall. He stayed there for a long time, pondering the purpose of his existence and why he had chosen to come here with the goal to become Prince. He would look out to the sea, memories of his father nearly killing him in those very walls flooding to him as the sea called to his ears, the salty air reviving him. He had lost many friends in the very city he now led, blood staining the images of the beautiful realm within his mind. Then, it hit him… The beam of light struck him in the eyes, the Prince falling back and hitting his head on the pavement as he fell into the dream. Flashing lights, blood spurting, bodies littering the floor, the city he called home burning once more. He would be a helpless bystander as he saw this vision.. Not a vision, he thought. A Nightmare. Then, he saw himself explode into flames as he led a final charge, shuddering as he saw his soldiers retreat after getting the last survivors out. Then it rewinded. He would see himself burst into flames once more, but this time a beam of light striking the warrior prince as Kosher watched on, awestruck by the sight. He saw a being of pure light emerge, taller than the Prince, stronger, better than him. He watched as the warrior struck down the beings of dark, a merciless rampage ensuing as rage boiled in the being, only stopping after he had severed the life from every last one of the attackers that had harmed his people, his crown, his family. The being of pure light would turn to the young prince, the blinding light subsiding as for the first time the bystander could see who exactly emerged in his place. Kosher would gasp, not able to catch his breath as he saw Himself. As the Sea Prince would open his eyes, he’d wince in pain as he realized what happened. For a while, he would lay there looking at the stars that had risen in his deep slumber that had wasted an entire day’s opportunity. Long after the full moon had risen and lit up the whole city, he finally found the time to begin getting off the hard cobblestone street. He would sit up, reaching his hand up and touching the area of pain on his head. A searing pain would shoot through him as a sudden headache came about, forcing the Prince to halt his recovery in order to process the amount of pain he had been put through from a simple fall. Pulling his hand back, it would be slick with blood seeping through the scabs that had formed between his hairs. None of that mattered to him though, as one name echoed through his head. A name that sounded as though it were sent by the Aenguls to guide him. A word that gave him a reinvigorated hope for the future, and a final goal to attain in order to save not only his people, but maybe even the continent. The one word that rang out like a bell to him as he had seen the being of light, Raphael.

A secret auctioneer clansman silently plots his revenge for the destroyed contraband.

It's almost as though the NL's (who were discussing it) were Ferrymen! Really is a pickle why Ferrymen associated players would be discussing a war led by NL's who happen to be Ferrymen.

1.9. Now I’m pretty decent at both versions, but 1.9 is the way forward. 1.8 is a great PvP system don’t get me wrong, but in order for the server to progress 1.9 has to be embraced. If the past warclaims were 1.8, it would be that numbers would mainly be the deciding factor here simply due to the tactics being used. 1.8 requires a lot more strategy for a heavily outnumbered fight, whilst 1.9 makes for a unique system that gives numbers quite an advantage, but only if the numbering side utilizes it. (-1 me, I know it’s a dogshit take)

What’s your favorite nation you’ve ever been a prominent member of

Prince Kosher Daesmon, Prince of Malin’or and Amaethea, Bringer of Justice, would look upon the missive. With his free hand, he would beckon his son Prince Acanthus over, waving towards the shining sea. “Rally the people. The kin of the Irehearts seek Justice and so do we. We draw our blades alongside them at once.”

RP Name: 'Fresh' Prince Kosher IGN: PanchoII Allegiance: Amaethea

Love this, easy +1 Quick question though, how do these Fr es tires react to ahzl since they are undead?

Rule 7 is now just "Respect the 1v1 man!!11"

A Ferry Prince would laugh in his high tower as the Uruk blood flowed

A Former Ferry-Prince chuckles from his throne. "It's already over."

Antonio ‘Alto’ de Murat, son of Treble the Patriot, nephew of Tony Romano and Klaus de Murat, would sit in the northern keep as the courier told him of his guardians death. The boy would began to tear up, realizing the last of his family had been forcefully torn from this world for their belief once more. As he looked around, he saw mementos of his family, the last of their kind sitting there, painfully alive. “I’ll find Justice for you someday, for all of you.” He’d quietly look at the paintings of the fallen trio of brothers, his eyes filled with rage.

The one road map idea has been thrown around a bit, any ideas of how to expand on this idea for a form of it to be implemented possibly?

Prince Kosher Daesmon sighs, pulling a bottle of ink and quill as scratching on parchment echoed throughout the hall. “To the Kingdom of Norland from His Highness Kosher Daesmon, Prince of Amaethea. You claim that Norland is filled with Honour, but where is the Honour on the field when fighting a war of aggression? The Uruk marched upon Celia’nor and with them your Ashguard. Henceforth, Amaethea offers amnesty and refuge to all Norlandic refugees for the duration of this war. You made your move, so I make mine in turn.” -Kosher Daesmon, Prince of Amaethea, Bringer of Justice

The 'Fresh' Prince Kosher Daesmon would read the missive, turning to his long time ally and close llir, High Prince Vytrek Tundrak with a keen eye. "Most interesting ey?"

Prince Kosher Daesmon would perk a brow at the missive, standing up and leaving the comfort of his home as he looked across the Caras y Tennellar with a renewed vigor in his heart.

He hadn't seen it coming, no one had. The young veteran had seen many die, but now it was his time. But oh, it was a time to be alive. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Treble de Murat, or as he would come to be known, Treble the Patriot, had been having a normal day when the attack started. He saw visions of men falling in the streets around him, Balian becoming the warzone of Providence from when he was an Imperial Guardsman for the Empire. Sights he had put behind him now revitalized in his mind once more as the young man flashed back to when he was but a boy, fighting for his country. He saw blood running through the streets, bodies everywhere, faces of those who he had slain on distant fields up close, grasping at him for the carnage he caused. He saw dwarves, blood spattered across their faces as his comrades fell lifeless around him. He saw the innocent Sedanite woman that his comrades had butchered outside of Haverlock, himself sobbing as they burnt down the church in the city. He saw the faces of children in the besieged city, cut down by the monsters around him as he transformed. All he found was sorrow and regret from his actions as he held onto the locket Lorraine he treasured so dearly. The man was pushed into another vision of the past, his joining of the family he loved so dearly and had given him a place to call home. Banjo, Arsenios, Tony, Klaus, Mikhail, and Morado all flashed by him so slowly, but to him it was too quick as he saw the coveted bandana he seeked for so long. His son, his bastard, taking refuge in the only place he could think of. His poor son, now an orphaned bastard like he was. How the Ferrymen would shape him to be so great, better than his father. Snapping back to reality, the olog’s hand crushed down on him all too quickly. Where the psychotic breakdown controlled his life, the olog had swiftly ended it, leaving The Patriot dead on the pavement of the Oren he loved. His final breath sighed as loud of a cannon as the bells tolled and a star beaming across the night sky in the desert heat. =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-= Letters for the loved ones of the fallen. For Banjo Mareno ( @Masouri ) For Klaus ( @Estew ) To Primrose ( @MapleSunflower)

A horse of snow would ride Notth, on the road to Karosgrad. The Patriot rode hard, traveling across the continent upon hearing of the King’s ailment. As he arrived to the gates, he saw the gathering and knew it was too late. He would take a dagger on his hip and cut his palm, dripping blood into the snow next to him. “A winters fate for such a king. I never met him, but he had his finest hours in the past twenty years. Long alive Sigismund the Faithful.”