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ichigomaster98

Nation Leader
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    Just Ali#5605
  • Minecraft Username
    ichigomaster98
  • Website
    https://www.usda.gov/

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  • Location
    Rapidly approaching
  • Location
    Close enough to hear you

Character Profile

  • Character Name
    Sir Boots Anarórë of Grenzstadt
  • Character Race
    Human, probably

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  1. The Carrot King notices the miniature mini-cannon salesman's mighty mayoral missive, magnificent in meaning, and momentous for musins and the micefolk movement making many moves to bring more representation. He cannot, however, look past the miniscule misspellings, making mainly edit marks in the margins most merrily upon the missives.
  2. Please support me in my run for mayor of Vikela in this year of 113 S.A.
    I intend to make Vikela great again, restoring it to glory it has not seen since S.A. 38!
    My good friend Adrian Bolivar is also running for mayor, a hero in his own right, may the best mayor win!

    1. Box of Rain
    2. UnusualBrit

      UnusualBrit

      but your king of norland

    3. ichigomaster98

      ichigomaster98

      Odin is King of Norland.
      Boots is a long time citizen of Elysium, now Vikela, and it is his goal to restore it to glory it has not seen since S.A. 38.
      I am sure I can count on your vote, and I thank you in advance.

  3. Fellow candidate, The Carrot King himself, looks over the missive. He recognizes the Bolivar as a fellow Balian ballista bro. He looks forward to the outcome, whether one or the other or both are elected.
  4. Missive of Mayoral Nomination 6th of Snow's Maiden, 113 S.A. Written by: Boots Anarórë Issued by Clan Anarórë I, Sir Boots Anarórë, Laird of Grenzstadt, Founder and Chieftain of Clan Anarórë (including titles associated), Carrot King, former Ashguard Warden of Alisgrad, Dun'rath, and Grenzstadt, Regent of The Barrel Court, Barrel Brother, Elysium Noble, Rozania Noble, Norland Laird, Honorary Ludovar, Friend to Barclays, Honorary Hyspian, Champion of The Grand Northern Race, Puncher of Cloudbreaker, Savior of the Burned, The Last of His People, Renowned Blacksmith, Swordsman Instructor, Tailor, Farmer, Medic, Miller, Fisherman, Soldier, Mercenary, Author, Painter, Son, Father, and Grandfather, nominate myself for mayor of Vikela. If I am elected mayor I will carry through on forgotten promises, instate reform which will see Vikela rise to previous highs in both reputation and prosperity not seen since S.A. 38. I have a multi-stage plan on how to achieve this in my four years, and plans to lay the groundwork for the following four years assuming I am elected twice. I meet all requirements for nomination and candidacy, I have been a citizen for nearly 80 years as a respected member of the community, and my intentions are to restore Vikela to its former glory.
  5. The Carrot King adds more exercise to his daily routine in preparation for the tournament. The Norland King adds more drinking to his daily routine in preparation for the drinks. The Child struggles with reading the invitation, but understands that there will be food, and this makes them happy.
  6. The Carrot King prepares his signature arming sword and auric oil shield from his expeditions into the Voidal Hollow, as well as a couple slayersteel and aurum daggers just in case. He ensures his armor is still in perfect condition, glad to see he didn't even sustain a single hit in last month's bandit attack. Looking around his fortress-house he then grabs random bottles of various liquids, figuring they will all burn or explode in some way. After a few small prayers and a glance to the paintings lining his walls he ventures to Alisgrad, ready to put the dead back to sleep or vermin to bed.
  7. Notable far folk Boots Anarórë leaves his mill for the first time in a while to find out what is happening and keep an eye on the Queen, thus continuing his legend of showing up in the background of every major event for the past century.
  8. [ OOC Warning: This short story / excerpt is from the perspective of Boots. It will not be happy. ] Inspired by: Post 207894 by Javert titled 'Self-Loathing' A Century of Boots It was the fifth year of his life when a young man would last see his mother alive. It was nearly fifty years after that before he felt anything other than anguish, before he smiled again. Now, fifty years past that, the young man finds himself significantly less young and significantly less happy than ever before. Boots Anarórë sat alone in his windmill looking at his sword laying across his lap, and he thought. He thought of the century. He thought of all the loved ones who were no longer alive, he thought of all the loved ones who still live but have left in other ways. He thought of all the battles, of all the avoidable loss, of all the pain and hardships which are so hard-fought and so quickly forgotten by their descendants. He thought about his homeland, which had fallen to greed and brother fighting brother. He thought about all of the mistakes he made. Though he was still alive, he was not living. Not really. After what felt like a century of thinking he looked up, first out the window across the fields of wheat which may hide threats behind any stalk. Then around the room. The walls covered in paintings by his hand, most of them of his wife when she was happy. Some of the paintings were of landscapes lost to this world save for their location in his memory and a few strokes of paint. A few of the paintings were not finished, having lost the motivation to finish them long ago. Thoughts of the paintings and the memories they represented drifted through his head, though he tried to push them away. He looked to the wall across from himself, at the prayers and charms to ward off evil he had etched and placed. They did work, he supposed, though only when inside his home. He looked past those to the weapons stockpiled in convenient places that worked whether inside the home or very far from it. He thought very briefly what a wonderful world it would be if all that was needed were prayers and charms. He looked to the corner of the room closest to the prayers and charm, where a bed and some stuffed animals sat ready for his daughters Vunlea and Eilika, whenever they decided to come home. Though only one was his by birth he had been the only parent to either of them. He thought briefly about his son Jon, the wild child who lost his parents to one of the many avoidable wars. He thought of Inga, the greatest bear, also lost to war at an age too young to truly show the world her greatness. He thought of all the friends and family he had lost, too many to name. If only he could talk to them once more. If only he could have died so that one of them may still live. Boots, the stoic old man who many had never seen express any amount of emotion, felt his throat choke and his eyes burn as he thought of everything lost. It is unfair that he still be alive! Why should those that brought smiles and laughter to the world die when he only ever seemed to bring death and loss and sadness wherever he went? The house was still, the only sounds being ragged sniffles and the occasional chirp from his bird Jebediah. He preferred it this way, he tried to tell himself. He is still alive because he made himself too hard to kill. The quiet means he has killed anything which could kill him. He looks out the window again to make sure of it. Why couldn't they have done the same? Why must they all die so easily? Anger welled up in him as the tears started to blur his eyes. In the blur he almost thought he could see someone. His hand gripped the handle of his sword, his other hand wiped away the half-formed tears, yet he found himself looking at the same cold room, the only change being the snow beginning to fall outside to add to the cold. He looked down to the sword in his hand. If only he had been stronger. If only he had been a better soldier, or friend, or husband, or father, or son. That was what stung the most, he knew. The scars that hurt him the most were not the scars from battle, but the scars on his heart and mind. The missing pieces where people had once occupied and filled with warmth that now only made him more cold. He didn't know how to handle those wounds. Nobody had ever showed him how. It was very likely nobody ever knew, his facade too thick, sometimes so thick he could even trick himself. He took his sorrow and squeezed it tightly into a ball, and he shoved it into a jar with all the rest, a jar so full it seemed like it would burst at any moment. But it wouldn't. He would make sure it wouldn't, for he was too strong. He looked at the sword in his hand a moment more. If nothing else could kill him, then why shouldn't he try? A century of sorrow is a century more than he wanted already, and the next century would surely be a century more of sorrow. However, with a sigh he set the sword back down on his lap. He had made a promise to a friend when his wife left that he wouldn't be the one to end his own misery, and he refuses to ever break a promise even if it was the very last thing he did. He looks around the room again, starting the whole cycle over, only serving to make himself feel worse until he was sure he deserved the anguish. What was it all for? He was a failure in every regard he cared for. He had always thought that by the time he was a century old he would finally be happy, but now it seemed he was going to spend his loneliest Solstice Armistice and the end of his first century with the only gift being more misery. Suddenly, breaking the silence of the mill is a small knock and an even smaller voice. "Gramps...?"
  9. It took me 3 hours and four staff to fix my forum perms so I can send this message
  10. Gambling Report 103 S.A. 20th of The First Seed, 103 S.A. Written by: Boots Anarórë A game of cards and luck spontaneously broke out in Alisgrad played between Heldalel Indoren, Fickle, Enwyld Klirsk, Kosher Daesmon, and an unlucky Haenseman. Each participant started with a buy-in of 1,000 mina each. At several times the cumulative bets were in excess of 1,000 mina per round. By the end of the night the final balances were as follows: Enwyld Klirsk - 1,783 Mina Kosher Daesmon - 1,718 Mina Heldalel Indoren - 783 Mina Fickle - 716 Haenseman - 0 More games are expected to follow provided enough players are available. Games of card and dice are semi-frequently hosted at the Jeweler’s Chalice in Alisgrad, run by Heldalel Indoren and backed by the Kingdom of Norland’s treasury. Additionally, several gambling machines can be found just across the square at the Vykk Co. Casino.
  11. Please give us the option to downvote things
  12. Boots’ Bread 20th of Snow's Maiden, 103 S.A. Written by: Boots Anarórë A cart has been established on the road to Alisgrad offering locally farmed wheat bundles, bread, and carrots for a low price. This cart has been established as part of the Market Reform Initiave of 86 S.A. offering free stalls to anyone that is able to provide goods according to the three conditions of the reform regardless of nationality. Many other stalls are available for use, and many more can be made. More locally produced goods may be added to this particular cart in the coming days and as seasonal harvests allow. Contact any Norland steward to claim a free stall.
  13. Report on the death of Rosalind Vildr 19th of Snow's Maiden, 103 S.A. Written by: Boots Anarórë The body of Rosalind Vildr was discovered by Boots Anarórë in the Alisgrad tavern, dead from apparent stab wounds. This is closely following the death of Sindri Vildr in the same location. Any information regarding the death should be reported to the Ashguard to assist in an investigation. The body has since been moved to the clinic awaiting a proper funeral. An illustration of the scene is included.
  14. Boots looks at the announcement from the tower of his windmill. "Competitions of horse and sword." he says with a nod. "If only there were competitions of bow." he continues speaking to nothing but the cold Northern wind as he writes a letter to sign up for the Jousting and Tournament. Odin begins writing a letter to the Vistulians to have drinking buddies for the drinking contest, and brewing more Ashwood Spirits, the strongest drink he knows.
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