woke

yeah good

"We've got TROST, ALBA, and now HARTWELL." A smirk donned the dragonsblooded face, "Next target, the Capital."

MC Name: WokeTheNoob Discord: 1trs Image: Description of Image: My character chilling after a mining run Dimensions: 1x2

MC Name: WokeTheNoob Discord: 1trs Image: Description of Image: A depiction of a dragon ascending above a human. Dimensions: 2x2

The role of a conqueror and the role of a ruler are distinct and parallel. A conqueror ought to be steadfast and decisive, while the ruler must be wise to the duplicity of his counsel and choose his path accordingly to his own ambitions. At the crux of both lies ambition; a pure unbridled ambition must consume the good conqueror, and must consume the good ruler. Transitioning a lust for honor and glory in blood into a lust for prosperity and greatness in governance is a task many have found impossible. After all, even HIM Tiberias, despite his decades of steady rule, found it best fitting to abdicate to Hadrian; even HIM Hadrian, Lord keep his soul, found it best to hand the reins to his son after him than manage the continent he had brought to heel. Once, it was Leofric, a name he picked up to hide his true name and lineage. Once, it was Leofric, a sellsword and veteran of a defeated side in the Saint Lucien’s War who found his mettle alongside the lofty ambitions of Roger de Rouen. Once, it was Leofric who fell in love with the pandemonium of combat, of the scent of ozone neath a visored sallet with the clash and brim of steel on plate. Once, it was Leofric who gave his blood for Roger, and then it was Leofric who gave his blood for Tiberias, and then for Hadrian, and finally for Marcus. He gave his blood, and it was Hadrian who gave his blood back, that same blood that joined ruler and conqueror, that joined prophet and king at the stem of the brain, at the center of consciousness: the blood of Horen, the blood of Helane. To be entered into the Court of the Dragon was to reconcile the life of war-strife bedlam with the peace his successes, and the successes of the colossi he stood on, with the peace it had ushered in, that Pax Tiberias. Many men had given blood, but few had given sweat like Antonius, and in the salt and brine and ash and smoke and blood and fire and blade and horse, he gave way to Helane, and Helane gave way to Valmont, and Valmont gave way to a son. Once, it was Horen Helane, who grew motherless and denied the chaos his blood oh-so-desired. Once, it was Horen Helane, who shot out at brother, and at sister, and at father, and at the stranger, who cried orders in the entitlement borne of the velvet and ermine that every noble was pampered from. Once, it was Horen Helane who barked a crossbow to be aimed at a princess, of his own blood, and it was Horen Helane who lost the name his father had earned him; all the ire and mettle and storm and metal of his father had no path through the olive-branch woven thistles of peace, and so for him it must have burned. Once it was Horen, who slept on stacks of hay, and who ate only bread, and drank only ale, for clean water was a luxury for the rich that an acolyte had no place consuming. Once it was Horen, who had his boyish ambitions of power so curbed by devotion to his vocation. Once it was Horen, who sat at the Isthmus of Kramoroe, and who bathed in the waters of Gramesh, but now it was Horen the boy, Horen the Monk, who sat and festered until that dragonsflame in him had no more straw to consume save that stuffed in his pillow. Once, it was Horen, who was denied what he saw his right not in birth, but in merit and dedication; it was Horen who would never see the cloth. Once it was Remus, and once it was Antonius, and where one grew eager, the other grew bored. Once there was a monk, and once there was a knight, and neither could be either as the dawn of peace faded into twilight. For a dragon does not hoard cloth, and a drake does not spit prose and play; to the dragon goes the crown, and to the drake the circlet. In the dusk of my middling age I find my greatest regret to be my failure of sparing my son of bloodshed. The illness of my lady-wife left me to my own devices in the infancy of my children to raise them as I saw fit; I aspired alone to raise them to be greater than I was, to be more good, more honest, more full of love and kindness. When I gazed upon Horen, not the first time, but in his youth, I lamented that I saw myself, I lamented that I saw my departed, dear brother Hannibal. How I wish now, more than ever, that he was not taken so soon so my son would have a better man than I to look up to, to adore. And yet, for all my faults, I know my son to love me, and I know my sons to love each other too, and so I know I am proud. I know that love exists for he is full of it. I know that love exists when I look unto them, Remus and Pontia, and I see Priscilla and I in our youth, and that they are happy. It is thus not with pride, nor without reluctance, that I must burden my son with the wardening of the Empire’s far, long South. It comes from a knowledge of my own aptitudes, and of my own failings, and it comes from an appreciation for the statesmanship of the boy I once discarded as a failed heir. I know he is nothing near that now, and I know he will not fail me, nor the commonwealth of my realm. So I say ‘Valete, amici’ and I give my gracious farewells and thanks to the giants of men that raised me in their tender palms to the peak of my life. My flower has bloomed, and now I wish to sit on the high branches I forced to push through the canopy to take in the sun while my color still stays. Thank you Tiberias, thank you to the Skies for Hadrian, and thank you to Marcus for the band that wraps around your sister's finger, and my son’s hand.- There is nothing that brings me more pride than what I have accomplished alongside you. There will be nothing that brings me more pride save what my son will. Ever loyal, and ever serving, HIS GRACE, Antonius Lucien of the House Helane, by the Grace of GOD, Duke of Valmont, Knight Captain of the Imperial Order of the Red Dragon. Patriarch of House Helane, Lord Commander of the Blackwyrm Company. AVE, DUX NOSTER HIS GRACE, REMUS AURELIUS HELANE by the Grace of GOD, 2nd Duke Valmont Patriarch of House Helane Lord Commander of the Blackwyrm Company.

CALL TO ALCHEMISTS Anno Domini 1948 “In uncertain times, wisdom is a treasure no less valuable than gold.” Georgius Vilac ━━━━━༻☩༺━━━━━ By decree and blessing of House Helane, these words are carried forth unto all practitioners of the alchemical arts. Already do our halls shelter two esteemed alchemists and their pupils, whose works have brought wisdom and prosperity unto our lands. Yet the Duchy of Valmont seeks to further cultivate such knowledge and thus extends its hand openly to any alchemist wishing to reside within our duchy. House Helane also offers education for those who wish to receive it on the basic arts of alchemy, the construction of automatons, and smoggers. Those who answer this invitation shall be granted: Free housing and residence within Valmont’s lands For instructors a stipend will be provided saint weekly as support for teaching a pupil of the Duchy. Protection under House Helane and the Duchy of Valmont Opportunity to study alongside fellow practitioners and their students A welcoming court wherein learning and discovery are encouraged Those interested are encouraged to send word unto House Helane or present themselves within the Duchy of Valmont. ━━━━━༻☩༺━━━━━ P E R F I D E M I M P E R I I HIS GRACE, Antonius of the House Helane, by the Grace of GOD, Duke of Valmont, Knight Captain of the Order of the Red Dragon, Warden of the South, Patriarch of House Helane, Lord Commander of the Blackwyrm Company.

Petrified one dragonsblooded, for he knew it was far too long.

this is sick

I AM AT YOUR SERVICE MY LORD!

Antonius fell strangely silent at the sight of the babe in his second son’s arms, his scarred hand lowering just enough for the infant to grasp his finger; a faint smile touched the old knight then.

"This is pure auric make," Antonius mused, the passage having stirred interest in him.

The clangor of a lifetime of war falling strangely as the duke's gaze came to rest upon the dragonborn, a hand hovering before it dared descend. "Why is he so fat?"

"Yeah." the Valmont duke commented.

MANNN WHY WONT YOU PLAY IN VALMONT?! IM SAD NOW!