SethWolf

The First Great Epiphany Tales of the Nameless Wanderer A man with no name sat in a dark forest of pine nettles and tall fir trees that seemed to stretch all the way up into the sky like boney fingers grasping for the clouds. A fire was lit before him, and he watched the flames lick up at the desiccated pheasant that sat skewered above the flames. His eyes watched the embers dance up into the night sky to join the stars before reaching to a waterskin. It had been some time now since he had become a stranger to all he once knew. He felt marooned, a single castaway on a barren island in the middle of a great and vast ocean. In his past life, that had been much the same. He had never been capable of making human connections as others had, and that deficiency had always left him to feel misbegotten. Yet, now even the things he knew to be familiar were gone. The orchestra of chirping crickets and frogs continued to fill the air. It dawned on the wanderer then, that this was the first time in his life that he had not known war. Out here under the canopy of the trees he had found his first true sleep in decades not plagued by terrors. It was peaceful out here, hidden away and secluded with nothing to bother him or beg his attention. He could simply be, and in being he found himself capable of introspection. Who was he, then? A blood-soaked beast who would kill without a second’s thought. Through violence, death, and carnage he had found a sense of purpose. A beautiful, shiny shield to protect him from the harsh reality of what he was doing. Yet, when his purpose was taken from him he found himself unable to ignore the reality of his actions behind that protective cloak of purpose and duty. For the first time in his life there was nothing standing between him and the mirror that he had to face. In that mirror of his mind’s eye, he saw only a murderous villain who was drowning in the blood on his hands. The revelation caused tears to silently fall from his cheeks as the walls came tumbling down. But he found that without the influences of his past life tugging at his soul, he had come to know peace, and in peace the wanderer found the means to explore something lost to him. The tears that streaked his face were his salvation, a thin glimmer of hope that a man was still in there, somewhere in the depths of his soul. The wanderer was capable of change. The path before him now seemed much more demanding of him than he had previously anticipated. A journey that would force him to dive into the very depths of his own soul. The wanderer extinguished his campfire, and climbed into the canopy of treetops to find another night of peaceful sleep, to continue upon the treacherous path that was now taking him into deeper waters, into an unknown abyss.

A hooded man with no name traveled the dark forests of Aevos, as if he were shadow. In a village far to the north did he find the missive. His eyes scanned the parchment and his lips pulled taught. Perhaps he would have smiled, but he found himself unable to do so. He planted his walking stick into the ground to check his map, only to be interrupted by a gathering of ravens overhead. Perhaps it was a good omen. Perhaps the opportunistic birds could sense a dead man walking. Neither of these possibilities gave the hooded wayfarer any sense of assurance. But his personal feelings no longer mattered. That was now the only truth he knew in this world. One of the birds came to land upon his walking stick and shift to his shoulder. After a moment, he surrendered himself to fate, and tossed away the map in his hands. He knew that the path that lay before him was one that could not be put to parchment. He continued on, deeper and deeper into the black conifer forests that seemed to swallow men whole. The flock of black birds circled over his head all the while. Yet he knew no fear. For within the forest, he could still find home.

atleast get rid of the part where im not allowed to even see that something happened directly infront of me.

I know people who have spent hundreds of dollars on single digital art pieces of their characters, with the vast majority of art going for 15-50$ a pop, I'm sure there is a market for people who wish to have a physical little trophy of their character as a shelf decoration or desk ornament for around that same price depending on the quality of material, paints, and effort put into them! (I am part of that market.)

Walter Weiss recieved the letter. He paused a moment, and began to pen a response to be sent via bird!

Walter Weiss sat upon the mountains overlooking his family's keep, and he drank from his steel flask, quiet and stoic. The war he had been born into, from Almaris to now in his middling age, was finally over. How many countless friends he had lost. He stood, and poured the Carrion within the flask onto a ground, a brief memorial to the triumphant dead. And then? He got back to his hunt.

Sure but I'm speaking in the context of people arguing that aurum testing may be too easy and it stops roleplay from happening when it really doesn't. There's a thousand ways to get around a border guard aurum test, and a place that gets routinely raided by darkspawn will obviously do routine darkspawn testing. Metagaming would happen if aurum wasn't a thing anyway.

I'm personally all for aurum testing. If you're a darkspawn then you should be focusing on raiding the villages and vassals that cities have orbiting them. On my deadmen we could still routinely capture two or three people at a time browsing the southern coast of Aevos from Balian to Helios. Also, if you're a darkspawn dumb enough to walk into a gatehouse where you know they test people then you win the prize you earned. Many darkspawn I know employ mortal, uncorrupted servants to infiltrate cities for them as to not risk exposure and do their deeds in their stead. (Kidnap, murder, sabotage, ect.) Make friends with people with keys, sneak in with them, buy a house and get keys for the citizen doors and you've just circumvented like 70% of city gatehouses and are now free to infiltrate to your heart's content. There's so many ways you can get evil done without even encountering a city guard.

Laird Kalador of Kaladania smiled quaintly as he held his certificate in his hands. "Ha! I'm a Laird, and for a good cause aswell!"

I have never played a W*ldenian nor will I ever play a W*ldenian but any opp of the Greater Reinmar-Minitz Freestate is an opp of mine

Walter Weiss read over the missive, his armor still misted and stained with the blood of non-believers and savage orcs. Duke Wilheim of Reinmar stood side-by-side with his brother in arms and Walter's grandfather, Felix Weiss when house Weiss had petitioned King Karl III for their enfoeffment of nobility and so the Weiss felt bittersweet at the news that they would no longer be able to refer to them as peers. But he knew no matter where in the world there was a Barclay, one would never find rest nor rust. "Dobry luck, comrades." He then headed to the tavern to drink his fill and sing the songs of victory.

Walter Weiss hoisted his pint of inky black liquid into the air as the bard played the tune of his most beloved drink! "The first sip is the vilest bit of swill you've ever had. The second's guaranteed to be at least three times as bad It only gets worse going forth until your glass is drained Then you'll never want another drink 'sides Carri'n Black again!" He belched loudly as the verse ended, falling back in his chair and clattered onto the floor.

Tech team keeps garnering W's like they were born to it.

The Br*t is correct. Us complaining about it on a basket weaving forum isn't going to fix it though. Vote with your wallets - tis my two cents on the matter.

Walter Weiss received news that he was to be summoned by a divine messenger of Godanistan whilst he was deadlifting fourteen plates for a clean set of 600 in the palatial gym. The bar fell to the ground, leaving craters in the oaken panels of the gymnasium floor. A feeling a patriotic zeal overwhelmed him. "I ******* love the Duma."

Walter Weiss had received the letter, and sat upon his Vikomital throne in the empty halls of Novkursain late into the night. His eye scanned over it, and he felt a pain in his chest. He never knew how to connect with his mother, and there were times it was easier to hate her than understand her. He was a terrible son. He knew that, and so he took no offense in her letter, for it was the truth. She knew him about as well as she might a total stranger. Walter sank slightly in his throne. There was a part of him that always wished to be able to repay the genuine love and acceptance that she had shown him. Even when he hated her, she had only wished the best for him. He was a terrible son. That thought rang out in his mind once more. He hated her because he hates himself. In his mind, he concluded that she deserved better than she was given. Though, that was likely a thought most have at some point or another. He closed his eyes, and he tried to remember a time far back in years past, to a sunny coast with lilac flowers as far as the eye could see. He wondered that one day, when death came for him, would she be there waiting for him? He hoped, somewhere deep down in the emptiness of his heart that should he ever see her again, he would be able to love her as a son should. His lips moved, "I'm sorry, madre.." The throne room was empty, all except for him, and the silence continued late into the night.

The Black Rider had got his hands on the missive. He sat tall upon his steed, bedecked in blood-stained half-plate as he trotted along the sleepy hollows of the dark forests that line the road to Nor'Asath. "Go on then.... end it." Her final words echoed in his mind as he quietly stalked the backwoods and seldom-traveled paths within the dark recesses of the forest floor. He had only known the dwed for a few moments. The pain he saw in her eyes - it was unmistakable. There was something else, though. Something within her countenance that knew no pain, and no fear, and no hatred. He had killed many, and the manner of their deaths were as varied as their stories that led up to them crossing paths with him. Rage, cowardice, defiance. He saw all of their faces, all of them twisted with foul emotion before his knife met their throats. Yet when death came for her, she expressed none of these emotions. He finally realized what he had saw in her eyes, in her final moments. Relief. The Black Rider silently halted in his path, a long exhale of breath came from under his helmet. She fought courageously, but when he had bested her she had greeted his knife like an old friend. She had made him to be a specter of death, who had rung her death-knell to call her home. He looked down to her heart, which lay in his satchel. The missive fell from his hands like the many leaves from the trees, quietly drifting down to lay upon the dense undergrowth. The Black Rider would never forget her... And he promised himself that her sacrifice would not be in vain.

Walter Weiss had been there, when Stanislaw passed, his hand on his chest. He thought long, and hard in the moment of his brother's passing, to the man he was, and the boy he'd grown up with. His Brother. Of the time they shoved cake in their father's face upon their fifth nameday, all the little fights they'd had running around their family's flower fields, and the adventures they had upon the streets of Karosgrad. He'd always been quietly jealous of Stanislaw, of the Golden Baby of Karosgrad, who was born glowing a brilliant golden hue and who could make flowers grow with their footsteps. Though, it was a childish jealousy. Walter had always loved Stanislaw as the goofy twin he was, and divinity would not change that. He thought of their adulthood. Walter had always wanted to be a knight, or a priest so that he could stick with his brother on his numerous holy adventures as the two had always dreamed. However, the realities of life soon set in, and all of those plans seemed to eek away with time. As the heir of Weiss, he knew he had another road to walk. And upon that road he still would walk. But now, he had to walk it alone. "Keep my seat warm, Borsa. We'll walk those flower-fields again. Some day." A tear fell from his eye. "I'll miss you. Va ve Maan." And the tears kept falling.

Walter Weiss thought for a moment, upon the Battle of Breakwater, where he upon the breach in the mote waded ankle-deep in the blood of elves and bandit alike. He also remembered the crossbow bolts he had taken - for despite his enemy's dishonor, they were proud warriors, and keen marksmen. "Nothing compels a man to fight harder than fighting for his home. This war is far from over, and they'll make us bleed for every inch we take." He thought to himself. Then, he drank from his steel flask of Carrion. "Let us hope to be home by Tuvmas. Our Peace will be secured." He thought once more, and prepared to march.

THE LION’S SHARE “VA VE MAAN.” Issued by THE VISCOUNTY OF NOVKURSAIN On this 30th day of Tov and Yermey of 506 E.S. HERE BE THE WORDS OF VISCOUNT WALTER WEISS, The Vikomital House of Weiss, dutiful to the military affairs of our kingdom in all things does hereby part a gift unto the crown: A sum of three thousand two hundred minae, alongside fifteen hundred and twelve units of iron to assist in paying for the logistics and salaries of our brave brothers and sisters in arms and to arm all appropriately to the fullest extent. May we continue to serve the crown, the kingdom, and the security of its people dutifully and with courage until the end of days. Krusae zwy Kongzem; Va ve Maan. IV JOVEO MAAN, The Honorable, Lord Walter León Weiss, Viscount of Novkursain, Baron of Zvaervauld, Lord of Staalgrav, Lord Palatine, and Marian of the King’s Own Retinue. Her Highness, Veronica Isabella Weiss, Princess of Hyspia, Curator of the Crown Jewels, Armsman of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl.

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