Rigorous

Meanwhile, the Acaelanites and their Sage celebrate their own holiday, the Passing of the Flame, and the jovial cheers of the Aen Sovs fill their camp as snowfall surrounds them. A winter wonderland to behold, a timely respite from the concerns of politics and the mundane, as now they commit themselves instead to the happiness and safety of their families. @Esterlen@Malinor@Mirvam

Grisha enjoys a cigar in the Veletz Palace's lounge with his feet kicked up on an ottoman.

Grisha and Meruasul assist the Ferryman Adzy with piling the equipment in a cart for proper transport to the Veletzian armory.

Get Back 10th of the Grand Harvest, Year 159 of the Second Age. The Aen Sov brothers stared across the field from their horses as they accompanied Captain-General Gaspard van Aert’s relief force. Multiple groups had been organized in order to dismantle the Haeseni Empire’s coalition of nations. Grisha and Meruasul stood together and disembarked from their saddles for the moment. “They outnumber us nearly two-to-one,” observed Grisha. “That’s what the scouts say anyway.” Meruasul shrugged his shoulders, “I’ve heard of worse odds. I am told the Valah army in Helena held out against vast numbers of soldiers from a castle. Let it be known then brother that the Creator of All is our castle.” Grisha paused, “But we had a castle. Breakwater and Brasca have fallen. We have no castle, are you not concerned perhaps that Acaelan is with our enemy today, brother?” Meruasul let out a chorus of prideful laughter at his brother’s words. “Acaelan? No, the Lord God is with us today, brother. He would not support the Valah colonists over His own people. We, Malin’s sons, were given guardianship of Nature.” With that Grisha allowed a somber smile to play out upon his lips, his pallid features growing joyful. For Grisha, the Elfin Ferryman formerly known as Sul, there were few people in the world that brought him as much joy as his family did. Meruasul and Grisha had trained together since they were boys. If Meruasul was Grisha’s left hand, then his brother Grisha was Meruasul’s rightmost one. They had grown up together in the glades of a village far from where they were now. Together, they joined the Ferrymen seeking fame and fortune, and to resist the imperial powers that dominated their world. Meruasul galloped away leaving Grisha to his thoughts. Grisha beset his task of riding his horse about and bolstering auxiliary forces and skirmishers who took priority in the front. As the Haeseni blob of soldiers swept in and out of the tunnel like torrents of streaming ants, Grisha and his fellow reservists would pepper them in the backs with arrows. Grisha had seen many of the Valah warriors fall, wounded by his bodkin-pointed arrows, and perhaps he killed people that he had not spotted dying joining with the grass of the Veletzian steppes. Streaming like ants, so sad that is, to be so short-lived and to have your life cut short so soon nonetheless. An unfortunate man garbed in traditional Teutonic armor came before him, and was cleaved in twine under a barrage of strikes from Grisha and other members of the combined Veletzian, Stassionite, and Ferryman forces. The Orcish berserkers led by their honorable Rex Grommash slew the cavalry force at the very beginning of the battle. As the enemy soldiers closed ranks, they began to break and their lines bent, the soldiers' Daemonsteel armor being curved under the blunt trauma inflicted by Grisha’s warhammer. At one point, a Haeseni soldier attempted to gut him, and the elf whirled around to jab him in the armpit with his mechanical hand that transformed into a knife. The poor Haeseni soldier let out a cry of terror before bounding off into the woods. Countless enemy soldiers ended up ensnared in the murky pits that the wily Ferryman Vyllaenen had constructed, and their numbers were quickly whittled down by javelins and arrows, as the horsemen pierced their rear flank and struck many of them down from behind. Grisha dismounted from his horse at one point and then allowed his fellow Acaealite warrior Adriel to take it. Offered brief respite from the battle, the tall and limber Elfin warrior stooped to one knee and then offered Acaelan prayer, his hand resting over his ferrum-plated breast. His heart beat like a Lambeg drum. Da-dum-da-dum. Ba-dum-da-dum. “O’Immortal King, August Father, Malin…” Grisha trailed off. “Lend me strength. O’Lord God, Immortal Creator, lend me your gaze. Keep me alive.” The Ferryman lifted himself up from the ground and then felt blood stream down from his left nostril. He had taken a blow to the head; but thankfully not a single Coalition arrow had found its mark upon his mortal flesh. The work of God, surely. Before long Grisha emerged from the bloodshed triumphant. It was said that Adriel and Ruben together had slain countless amounts of soldiers, seemingly incalculable given the present odds. Two-against-one, the Elf thought as he mused to himself about the Teutonic ghost from earlier, contemplating whether or not it was real or merely a vision. Nonetheless, the old adage came back to him in his head, a historical tidbit from old Hansetian records. Always outnumbered, never outgunned. Nonetheless, Meruasul and Grisha returned home, briefly sharing a meal with their Acaelanite compatriot Adriel before they returned to the Ferryman encampment in the city of Veletz. As he returned home, Grisha tossed his hand in the air along with countless other people, cheering: "Ave Veletz, Ave the Ferryman, Ave Stassionites and the Orcs!" Grisha and Meruasul got merry with the soldiers, dancing around the campfire, drinking mulled wine and eating juicy brisket. Together, the brothers then made an offering of lamb to their Lord God before turning in for the night after the field battle with nothing but relief and joy in their hearts.

wiped due to new rules on war participation & realms - my realm is veletz

Royal Officer $25

Grisha finishes his pull-ups for the day, his arms trembling like he's got the jitters. He hears of the successful raid and smiles ear-to-ear, "There we go boys. There we go."

Grisha puffed one of his cigarettes - a gift from his friend Daija. "That Haverlock fellow was truly a King Amongst Men for his bravery." The Ferryman touted to his compatriot Vyllaenen. "If only the King of Aaun and his peers behaved with similar dignity and venerable honor. Alas, instead they commend themselves for the loss of good men such as he, and hide behind their stone buttresses to allow their friends to suffer. It is up to Acaelan to forgive them now." (Just want to say I commend your behavior in and out-of-character for the extent of that role-play. It's never easy to be put in that situation and you had every opportunity to badmouth us or make an unnecessary gripe out of it. I respect your commitment to continuity and hope to pay it forward in future encounters, even if other people have not necessarily given us that same courtesy. Actions like yours remind me that there are some real role-players on here who still care about their characters and world building, and not their own prestige or ego. Thanks for the great times Ragnar and I hope to see you on another character!)

Ferryman Grisha sat at the gates while awaiting the advance of a Haeseni rescue party. He desired nothing more than an honorable fight. "Here is to hoping they come and try to save their own men. It would be disadvantageous for them to merely ignore this issue and prolong the inevitable."

Ferryman Grisha felt the gears whirl in his new mechanical arm, lowering a cigarette from his mouth as plumes of white smoke wafted from the end. "Took them long enough." The elf walks the ramparts of Winburgh and then checks out the cannons, making sure that the artillery is well-stocked and ready for the battle to come. Though he dreaded moving the machinery, his anticipation for the battle had his hair sticking up with glee. "They better bring more cannons this time."

"Hozh!" Exclaimed Zuk Braduk.

At last...

Grisha prayed to his lord, the Creator of All, God: "Let him suffer less in the Seven Skies than he has here on this material plane, o' Maker of All, and shelter his soul. And when his time comes again to be loosed upon this world once again, as all souls do, give him that which we could not have in the world right now. Amen."

Grisha makes his descent along with Sir Johannes, potentially for the last time; but he does not fret for there is no deed greater than doing that which is right.

Freedom. That which does not leave us. Even as we take on the world. Get back from my home, and begone. Even when Sul was a boy, the elf had pondered often the nature of the divine. God, the Creator of All, the being that was responsible for the conception of the material and spiritual world was held closely in his heart. Despite that brilliant light in his life that illuminated the porous depths of his spirit, he had at last seemingly split apart at the seams, and had found himself before his fireplace at home in Amathine and on his knees, his blinded eye covered with a bandage. He could not forgive his own failure. He thought of the countless lives that had depended on him, as well as the seemingly countless swarms of enemies. A blur of memory passed through his mind, the image of cannons firing visible, accompanied by the harsh stench of sulfur that filled his nostrils. For the first time in his life, he felt nauseated from fear, and perhaps in over his head. Did Malin feel this way? Did the August King himself, the eldest son of the First Man and Woman, the King of Kings, did he too feel himself encumbered by such hefty defeat? And did it linger for all his days until he achieved soul-sleep, and will he still remember it once we finally attain Nirvana? But then Sul, now Grisha, reminded himself of a simple fact. He was not a boy anymore and the fear of losing his comrades was well-founded. While the world might wish to extinguish him and his friends, there was no reason to give up. He did not forgive his failure, but even still he knew he would persist, and that hard days would merely shape him to be stronger. iyul’maele asiol oem Acaelan ito kae’leh, El’tuva Uelln’ehya El’bilokir Tuva’leh, illern’leh El’taynuel maele’ehya ay evarn’sae ahe’Malin’onn Lye’ehya. I bear witness that there is only one God, the Whole of Existence and the Creator of All, and I bear witness to His bequest of El’taynuel for the stewardship of Malin and the Elves.

Grisha prepared to defend his friend Lady Brasca's keep. He said to her, "Though I cannot guarantee your safety, I can guarantee I will not rest until I have killed every single one of them that I can." @tadabug2000

(Art by Jenny Dolfen, titled "Maedhros the Tall"). In his many years drifting the high seas as a corsair and roaming the lands of Aevos as a sword for hire, there had been no battle as difficult for Grisha to fight as the Siege of Breakwater Keep. Throughout the fight, the Elven warrior stood resolute, donning his Daemonsteel armor and his sword in the pursuit of glory. This time it was for more than money. For the first time, perhaps ever, the Ferrymen found themselves beset by an enemy that sought to take from them their home. The world stood united against Grisha and his brothers, the armies of a combined nine nations took camp outside of the Captain's walls. Petra, Haense, Norland, Numendil, and other smaller nations that accompanied them had come to steal his home from him. The Ferryman looked across the ramparts to the great host that had assembled on the outskirts of Veletz and he realized that though the hope was dim for victory, he entrusted his faith to the Creator. Among the Alderfolk it was custom to simply accept the lot in life that the world gave you. In the words of an ancient philosopher, while you might pass through a stream many times, no man will ever cross the same stream of water and remain the same afterwards. Though the Captain was bedridden and ill, Grisha knew he could count on his compatriots to stand beside him, and he knew that he would rather suffer a million defeats than to ever forsake his oath. He lifted his left hand and eyed his missing pinkie finger, the one that had been severed to give him admittance to the organization as a full-fledged Ferryman, and he simply laughed with joy. Love far outnumbers hate, he thought to himself, and our love of our sacrosanct banner and our home shall carry us through. But like a ship that finds itself breaking upon the rocks, Grisha could only watch now in horror as what had begun as a simple enough siege devolved into a crude folly. Lyulen looked to Grisha with a questioning glance. The Dark Elf was a good friend of Grisha's and the two had trained together for years. Everybody present was somebody that Grisha had known for years. Fifty of them, he realized. Maybe even sixty-years. This is where it all leads. Though the enemy's army may have been somewhat bigger, Grisha simply continued with his mission. He considered his words in the past month that he had shared with a Wood Elven woman named Arle and her compatriot in Elvenesse, the words coming to mind as cannonballs shattered his walls and shredded an unfortunate occasional soldier underneath the brunt of the artillery. "I wonder," Grisha ashed Lyulen. "Have you ever considered what happens once we die?" Lyulen shrugged since he was always the silent sort. Behind closed doors, many of the Ferrymen had dubbed him to be "The Silent Friend". Although he spoke from time to time, he was candid enough with his actions that he much preferred silence to the obtuseness of words. Words which were simultaneously daggers and air at the same time. Words, Grisha observed, were empty. Lyulen's only answer was to say, "We have bigger concerns than being dead." Though the fight was a rigorous and taciturn affair, Grisha silently agreed and paced off to take his position on the trebuchets with the Captain-General. We have bigger concerns than being dead. No truer words had been spoken. Needless to say, Grisha had barely escaped with his life that day, suffering a blow to the head and extensive wounds to his body that would take time to heal. He was grateful to be only missing a hand and quietly pondered how many human mothers would mourn the loss of their children. Grisha realized now the irony in the name he had taken for himself upon working in human lands. Watcher. Was he destined to watch as these shorter-lived races killed one another? Perhaps. But in the pursuit of his San'taliyna, his calling for life in the Elven Tongue, he was willing to debase himself by participating in such affairs. Grisha mused to the horizon from the infirmary, his bad eye covered by a large bandage to obscure his sight due to the sensitivity he was experiencing from a concussion. "O' Captain, my Captain."

Canonist depiction of the Ferrryman heretics. Grisha shakes off his brain damage and then cheers, throwing his gauntlet into the air, shaking his fist with glee. Another victory. The land lovers would pay dearly for their crimes against Veletz and the Ferrymen.

"Bold," said Ferryman Silas. "I like bold."

Silas rubs his hands with glee, "Glad to see I lead by example. GOD brings us all closer."

Silas stood atop the deck of a ship that was coming at last to port. At his side was a Scallywag of little renown, just as he was sure that his own legacy was neither one of ill repute nor famed military prowess. He had spent many years at sea raiding the coastal villages of small, insignificant piastdoms to the East. All the same, he had friends he could not fail, and that is what guided him home faster than any compass. He cared little for the politics of who killed who. In fact, he did not even know what a Stassion was, nor did he think he would give a damn if he did. The Ferrymen had built their reputation ripping apart aristocracies and redistributing their wealth to the poor. He greeted Vyllaenen from the bow of his ship, "If only we were meeting again under worse terms. I am positively buoyant, knowing the time has come at last to kill some prickly noblemen and cast their bodies into the sea. Seeing as the Captain's out of commission, guess I'm taking orders from you boss. Where're we going first?" @Orlanth

As the Ferrymen are nothing but kind to their prisoners, Silas slides Paul Alexander a bit of beef jerkey behind the Captain's back, as well as a loaf of bread. However, what Paul Alexander did not yet know was that the bread had been baked in a kitchen with peanuts, and that Silas was a regular consumer of peanut and peanut-based products in his free time. Needless to say, despite the sophisticated kitchen and excellent food, Ferry Keep was less tolerant of peanut allergies than it was Petrans, and that was saying something.

Ferryman Silas, pious as ever, spoke thusly. "May our enemies face a profound Kiss of God, as we guide them back into the bosom of the Creator and His magnificence. All Mighty, God, may this test of faith you have granted me be met with the mettle of my steel, and the steel of my brothers. Amen." He then prepared to depart from the keep to wreak devastation upon the lands of the colonizers, his teal bandana wrapped around his face and his Thanhic blade gleaming cold as snow. Before these coming years were up, Silas was sure that many men would be buried, but that mattered little to him for his own cause was just. I pity the fool who thinks that The Ferryman has not considered their transgressions upon their fellow man. All the same, may each man who dies be commended the highest accolades in the Seven Skies, for there is no greater deed than dying in the defense of your homeland, even if your leadership is not quite so humble.