Pegleg_Bob

Issued by the Barony of the Isles In the year 635 AA TO ALL FRIENDS AND ALLIES TO THE LATE SIR ABRAHAM Our dear friend and hero of the Imperium, Sir Abraham the Spellblade, has passed unto the Seven Skies. He died a hero’s death, protecting the innocents of Alba. So let us all come together and lay this great man to rest. We shall gather at the Seneschals’ Chapel in the city of Ritterburg this Owyn’s Light for a prayer for the dead, and then proceed to the docks of the Empire to send him off in the way of the ancestors. All who knew Sir Abraham Winburgh are welcome, and afterward we shall take to the town to honor him in the best way, through drink and merriment. Larkin Mack Winburgh, Baron of the Isles, Sergeant of the Empire of Man, Son of the Midden

Footsteps can be heard crunching through the snow as the Baron of the Middenlands walks far from anyone else. He watches the snow fall around him, focusing on it, his eye guiding the flakes past him as he breathes in. Then he lets out a shout. It is simple and primal, a cry born purely from rage.

Taking out a bottle, the Middenlander studies the label: a 1960 bottle of Renatian rum. He pours himself a tall glass but does not drink. He only stares into it, bile rising at the back of his tongue. He had lost so much for the Empire, no, his family had lost so much, yet all he ever heard now was that man, no, the living aspect of Godfrey, endlessly quoting Alexander the Second Iblessborn. He closes his eyes and sees the elf dying in the cell. He opens them, then shuts them again, and now it is Hadrian, beating a child, not out of rage, but for sport. His jaw tightens. He should be better than this. He must be better than this. He is of Horen’s line, God’s chosen. Was he truly blind? Had his entire life been a lie, taught only to serve and never to question? God, how could he have been so blind? Now it was everything he had lost. The Empire he fought so hard for turned on him, killing his best friends. The ones who stood at his side when no one else would. He grabs the glass and hurls it at the wall. The contents burst outward, old rum spilling everywhere, seasoning the wallpaper. He looks at it for a long moment, staring at the broken glass on the floor, before finally turning away and walking off.

When are you turning Opie into boots, you coward

Larkin looks over the missive and sighs, setting it to the side of his desk. He glances around the room and chuckles, the chuckle turning into a laugh. This must be some grand joke. His best friends, traitors to the Empire, the very Empire his family had bled so much for. What a joke. “God, please help your lost son, for if he is lost, we must all be damned.”

Set on one of the Empire’s many beaches, Larkin looks up at the falling snow. So far, two of his closest friends have left the Empire and are now traitors. He closes his eyes and remembers the good times in the Guard, when they were all still young and full of piss. He wonders what his ancestor would tell him right now. What Saint Gaspard would think of this, he does not know.

IN THE YEAR OF OUR LORD 632 To his “Serene Highness Peter di Alessandra", Servant to Attius Keen, Baron of Shiteland, Vice Prince of the Void, Lord of Broken Oaths, High Seat of the Burnt Oaks, and Warden of Fallen Ravens. Over the long time I have had the misfortune of knowing you, I have seen you commit more crimes and break more oaths than the fingers on my hand. You have broken oaths to Ivoria, the Republic of Salvo, the Grand Principality of Ravenmire, the Church of the True Faith, and the Empire of Man, most of which took you in after you betrayed the former. Yet I see you have found a new “overlord” to take you in, another unfortunate sucker in your endless crusade to make the world a worse place. You have always managed to weasel your way into greater power, but when you cannot obtain it, you immediately backstab everyone around you. I am certain that you will betray the Horde and the Rex once they begin to lose this war. Perhaps you will crown yourself King of the Uruks and Duke of the Goblins, adding yet more titles to your already bloated list. Therefore, let all people of the Empire hear this: I place a bounty of one hundred Tiber upon the head of “Sir” Peter Rovare. Any who brings me his head shall receive this reward. I shall also be hunting Sir Peter myself, we may call it a small game of sport. May the best hunter win. Larkin Mack Winburgh Baron of the Isles, Sergeant of the Empire of Man, Son of the Midden

The first house to join the Empire was Winburgh, and Larkin Mack knew this well. He understood what it meant to be loyal to a cause, to be born among those who had remained steadfast since the days of Veletz. His family was surely smiling down from the Seven Skies, but still, Larkin Mack worried. He knew the Crown Prince would be a good leader, yet he had seen the darker side of Hadrian. He prayed to God and to the Heroes of old that his worries were misplaced, that Hadrian Horen would prove to be like Aurelius, bringing peace to the Empire and to Man.

Woman, thoughts

AN INTRODUCTION TO HOUSE WINBURGH The Seaborn Middenlandic House of Winburgh has been one of the strongest new houses founded after the Veletz War. Born from the fighting in the Middenlands, the knight Magnus Winburgh established the house in Ravenmire after being named Baron of the Isles. The house primarily focuses on a martial culture, along with trade connected to far-off lands. The primary culture of House Winburgh is Northern Middenlandic, founded by refugees from Veletz who were driven north after being displaced by Haense and other kingdoms. Northern Middenlandic culture is rooted mainly in individual survival, as well as the near sainthood bestowed upon the heroes described in its cultural texts. One of the key rites of the Northern Middenlandic people is the Year Away, during which a child is sent off for a whole year at the age of fourteen. After completing this rite, they may join an army force or warband. The ethnicity of House Winburgh, as well as most other Northern Middenlandic folk, is a mix of Highlander and Heartlander heritage. This mixture is often viewed with a sense of shame among Northern Middenlanders, as it is common for them to claim Heartlander ancestry instead. HIERARCHY OF HOUSE WINBURGH The Baron of the Isles is the head of the house and is empowered to make decisions for the family as a whole. Unlike most noble families, the Baron of the Isles is elected after the death or retirement of the previous Baron by all members of House Winburgh. Any member of the house may be chosen, though most of the time the position is passed to a child selected by the previous Baron. AVAILABLE CHARACTERS Currently, three children of Larkin Mack Winburgh, Baron of the Isles, are available to play. They are the youngest of the surviving children of Gaspard Winburgh. Larkin rose through the barony and was eventually elected Baron of the Isles after his father retired. DM Pegleg_Bob on Discord for more information ✠ Viktor Winburgh, age 25 as of today ✠ Corrina Winburgh, age 22 as of today ✠ Everett Winburgh, age 17 as of today There are also children of the Baron’s twin-sister, Illatiae Winburgh, and her husband, Sir Abraham “The Spellblade”. These children are being cared for by their uncle in Rittersburg. DM Fire1003 on Discord for more information! ✠ Isaac Gaspard Winburgh, age 18 as of today ✠ Grace Everetta Winburgh, age 17 as of today ✠ Henry Solomon Winburgh, age 14 as of today CULTURE POSTS https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/246926-the-northern-middenlandic-culture/ https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/247111-house-winburgh/ https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/247204-the-list-of-heroes/

Larkin Mack sat at his desk, studying or rather, trying to distract himself. Death clung to his mind like a leech, though on some days and months it felt more like a lamprey. He knew those he had seen killed of late , both the Keen and Lorena de Senna had wronged the Empire, yet he still wondered, did their crimes truly merit death? Larkin did not know. He was simply tired of seeing it. He wondered if he had spoken louder, if he had pleaded harder, perhaps they would have spared her, allowed him to rehabilitate her. He chuckled at the thought, knowing they would never have agreed. Still, he held onto a faint hope that one day, he might save people like Lorena de Senna.