DancingZebra267

Let it be known to all heirs of Urguan, We, the dwarves of the Elder Clan Frostbeard, give word of the exile, debearding and tattoo-carving of the one once known as Sigril Frostbeard, no longer counted among our own. In one of the most consequential times of our kin, during this War against the Khorvadic Host of Man, every dwarf has been called by the Grand King to bear arms in preservation of not only our mountainhome, but our freedom as a people. In spite of this, Sigril chose a route opposite of that which the Brathmordakin had laid out for him; he chose to flee. In breaking of the number of tenants of the Nine Pillars of the Azwyrtrumm, Sigril took a cowardly flight to Norland, abandoning his kin as a coward to both kin and country. On this day, Sigril was seized and stripped of all that marked him a dwarf of worth - not by one member of the clan, but by Clan Lord Rhorgvar ‘Rimeward’ Frostbeard, Rhulgrim Frostbeard, and Balin ‘The Redeemed’ Frostbeard. When found, Sigril did not face judgment with what little honor he had left. Rather, the coward attempted to fight his kinsmen, as if his betrayal was not enough of a defacement to his honor. Sigril’s futile attempt to cast an alchemical bomb at his kin clattered to the floor in similar likeliness to his pride as a Frostbeard, hollow and shattering into many dejected shards. The traitor was swiftly disarmed and brought low, as justice was carried out then and there. His beard, the symbol of his honor, was taken from him, shorn in a swift motion by his once-Clan Father and Grandfather, a disgrace to his lineage. So that no trace of Frostbeard pride should remain upon his wretched form, the sacred tattoos of our Noble clan were carved from his flesh, meager blood pooling where proud blue ink once stood. In doing so, he has been cast out not only from our clan, but from the grace of Yemekar The Worldmaker Himself. Let it be known: Sigril is Frostbeard no longer. He is no son of Urguan, no chosen of Yemekar, no brother to any true dwarf. From this day until the end of his miserable days, he shall bear a new name - a fitting one for such a wretch: May he wander without kin; may his name be cursed in every strong hall; and may he never see the silver gates of Khaz'a'Dentrumm. Such is written, So will be, By the will of the Ancestors, Azwyrtrumm’s Decree. 10th of Belka's Embrace, Year 273 of the Age of Silver Clan Father of Elder Clan Frostbeard, Mastersmith of the Rhun, Bearserker of Wyrvun ᚲᚨᛉᚨᛗᚨᚱ•ᚲᚨ'ᚨᛉ•ᛖᚱᛟᚾ•ᚷᛟᚱᛗ'ᛞᚹᛖᛞᚢᛚ•ᚲᚨᛉᚨᛗᚨᚱ•ᚨᛉᚹᛃᚱᛏᚱᚢᛗᛗ•ᚲᚱᛟᚾᛟᚲᚲᚨᛞᚱᛖ•ᛖᚱᛟᚾ•ᛞᚨ•ᚱᚺᚢᚾ•ᚨᚲᚹᛖᛚ•ᛖᚱᛟᚾ•ᚹᚹᛃᚱᚢᚾ Son of Dwengot, son of Grungot, son of Kerwyr, son of Rhewen, son of Karl, son of Drakk, son of Kaz’Ulrah, son of Urguan ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᛞᚹᛖᚾᚷᛟᛏ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚷᚱᚢᚾᚷᛟᛏ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚲᛖᚱᚹᛃᚱ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚱᚺᛖᚹᛖᚾ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚲᚨᚱᛚ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᛞᚱᚨᚲᚲ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚲᚨᛉ'ᚢᛚᚱᚨᚺ•ᛗᚨᛚᛖ•ᛟᚠ•ᚢᚱᚷᚢᚨᚾ

Rhorgvar kept visiting Dugan during his recovery, the worry plain on his face; he had already lost Dwengar - his older brother - and Dugan, Dwengar's son, was all that remained of him. The thought of losing his nephew too sat heavy in his chest, and without much ceremony he set Dwengar's rune stone beside the bed, knowing both father and son had held firm to Wyvrun, hoping the old stone might lend the lad a bit of strength.

+1

Rhorgvar took up the missive and read it aloud for those of his clan who couldn't read.

Chaptermaster Vincenzo de Capua traces the Rhodesian from the Seven Skies.

MC Name: _Zbruh Discord: DancingZebra267 Image: Description of Image: Portrait of Liam Frostbeard Dimensions: 1x2

Rhorgvar heard the news and felt a quiet sadness settle over him, for he had quite liked the young Starbreaker, and wished for the deed's swift recovery, only to pause, his eyes widening slightly before he glanced down at his hands. "Oive trained wit' dis dwarf... hope 'is illness esnae contagious..." he muttered under his breath, the concern lingering.

MC Name: _Zbruh Discord: DancingZebra267 Image: Description of Image: Portrait of Karl Frostbeard Dimensions: 1x2

Grimbol grumbled, only if he still had the Shugo's Bat..

Rhorgvar Frostbeard would read the missive, penning a letter to the legion grunt. "Yeh can count on Clan Frostbeard tuh deal wif suc' ah beast."

Honestly, for a server that has been around for over a decade and has the reputation it has. You'd think they want to improve the server, or listen to feed back. I know some may not agree, specially since I'm not staff, but from what I've seen, and the lack of problems fixed, I think dev team is pretty lazy. Sad to see you go Crunchiest, though we hadn't had much conversations, I know you generally were looking to improve and make playing LoTC less of a headache. Though I'm sure I'll see you around, enjoy your freedom.

Bring back Spoopy and Xarkly!

damn... they really icing people out here.

When you trading in the cat for a dog?

MC Name: Zbruh267 Discord: DancingZebra267 Image: Description of Image: Portrait of King Rhewen Dimensions: 1x2

[2001 - 2062] 13th of the Sun’s Smile, 2062 It was just like any other day for the old veteran. Willik Ragstone awoke from his constant night terrors in the sewers beneath Alba. After steadying himself, he began his day by crawling out of the sewer and soon overheard talk of a ball within the Imperial Capital. Surely there would be many nobles there, and possibly generous ones as well. With that hope in mind, he limped toward the capital. Upon arriving, Willik found himself near the clinic. Unable to read the room or the tension within, he was quickly shouted at and driven away. Still, not all were cruel – one young man offered him food and a handful of minas. With thanks given, Willik prepared to head deeper into the city. Before he could, another young man called out to him. “You’re looking for food and coin?” the man asked. Willik stopped in his tracks and turned, making his way over as his horrendous stench filled the air. “Oh yes, m’lord,” Willik replied. The man offered to let Willik follow him back to his house. Unknowingly, it would be the last choice Willik ever made. Upon arrival, the man held out a sack and motioned for Willik to peer inside. Naive and desperate, Willik did just that. The farmhand struck him upon the head, knocking him out cold. When Willik awoke, it felt like something torn straight from a nightmare. He found himself confined within a cobwebbed coffin. Confused and panicked, he looked about and withdrew his Slayersteel mace, a gift he had received many years ago from his Chaptermaster beneath the Temple of Ard’Karden, the fortress of the Order of the Grail of Saint Lucien. Forcing his way free of the coffin and through a nearby door, Willik emerged into an eerie basement. His vision was poor, but he could make out a large silhouette in the darkness, accompanied by the sounds of bones breaking and flesh tearing. Clenching his mace, Willik limped toward the stairs, only to stop short upon seeing a young girl. Petrified, he demanded of her, "Where is the farm boy? Where is the exit?" The girl appeared terrified, covered in blood, clearly another victim. “I do not know. I do not know what you mean!” As she spoke, the sounds of breaking bones returned. The horrendous noises echoed through the room, twisting in Willik’s ears until he could no longer tell nightmare from reality. His good eye went wide, glassy with terror, breath hitching as his grip tightened around the mace. “This isn’t real… it can’t be…” he muttered, limping closer, every step unsure. “If you won’t help me… then I’ll find my own way out,” he rasped, desperation and fear warring across his face. With a broken cry, Willik swung his mace toward the girl, not out of hatred or malice, but blind, overwhelming fear. The girl managed to dodge the attack and retreated deeper into the darkness. “Let me out!” the horrified veteran screamed. Not wishing to waste time fighting an unarmed girl, Willik turned and limped toward the stairs, slowed by blood loss and injury. Just as a flicker of mercy crossed his shattered thoughts for the young girl, his foot caught by her hand and he tripped, the world pitching forward in a helpless stagger. In the split second he hung in the air, a helpless gasp leaving his lips, the beast struck, catching him mid-fall and hurling him aside with force. Willik slammed into the wall and then the ground, the impact driving the breath from his lungs as his body crumpled against the stone. The creature stood over him and threw him across the room once more. His frail body struck hard and collapsed again, he whimpered uncontrollably, hands raised in a useless attempt to shield his head. “Please… don’t hurt me no more…” he sobbed. “Please… I beg of you… let me live…” His body trembled violently as tears mixed with grime on his face. “I’ll do anything… anything…” The creature pounced upon the war veteran, laughing at his pleas. In desperation, Willik fumbled inside his filthy cloak and pulled free a grey-blue metal ingot, clutching it to his chest like a lifeline before extending it outward. “I'll… I’ll give you this,” he whimpered. “Please… just let me leave here… I’m very good at taking orders!” The girl cried out as she stood beside the beast, “Fight or DIE.” Something in him snapped. With a dry cry, Willik lunged forward and swung the ingot toward the beast’s head with all the strength his body could handle. The ingot of Rokodra did nothing. Willik fell to his knees, hands raised in surrender. “Please…” he sobbed. “Let me leave here… let me serve, and it’s yours…” The beast stopped. Its lower jaw sealed as it loomed over Willik like a winged shadow. “Where did you get that?” it asked. “I… I…” Willik stammered. “I was given it… I asked for food and a man gave me this… I tried selling it, but nobody wanted to buy it… I swear it.” He pressed his palms to the ground. “I just wanted to eat.” With trembling hands, Willik handed the ingot forward.. “I swear it on my brothers,” he pleaded. “I’ll serve… I forgo my oaths…” Then the beast asked, “Heads or tails?” as another creature emerged from the shadows. “Heads…” Willik answered. The coin fell uselessly against the stone. In that hollow instant, Willik understood that GOD had abandoned him. The last of the fight drained from his limbs. He barely had time to look up before the beast struck. Winged arms swept him from the ground. A toothy maw closed around his head with crushing force. There was a brief, terrible resistance – and then his skull gave way beneath the pressure. Willik’s body fell limp and collapsed to the stone, utterly still. The fight, the fear, and the voices ended in that instant.

Clan Lord Rhorgvar Frostbeard heard of the old dwarf's death, his posture stilling as the weight of it settled in, before he drew a slow breath and placed a fist firmly upon his chest, lifting his gaze toward the moon. "Ah honorable end fer ah honorable dwed." He held the gesture for a moment longer. "Ah'll see yeh in Khaz'a'dentrumm. Narvak oz Gror."

"Narvak oz Urguan, Narvak oz da Dwedmar! Victoreh!" Rhorgvar raised his hammer into the air, as he watched the enemy flee.

I have a solution... - kill all spectators

Rhorgvar raised a brow as he read over the missive, studying it in silence for a long moment before lowering the parchment with a faint scoff. "Hmmm... thralmar, deh lot uv dem, whether dey see et or nae. An' when dey cry n' scream tyranny deh moment dere gods are stripped away, dey'll 'ave only demselves tuh blame, fer dis es deh fate dey chose wit' open eyes."

Clan Lord Rhorgvar Frostbeard would stand before the Grand King, and his clan, raising his hammer high in the sky, he'd shout. "Narvak oz da dwedmar, kavir oz da oramar eron umros!"

Rhorgvar read the missive in silence before crushing the parchment in his hands, his expression hardening as he turned and marched toward his clansmen, distributing gear before raising his hammer high. "Kavir oz da oramar eron umros!" he shouted, his voice carrying through the hold as he lifted the weapon overhead. "Weh will nae fall, fer weh 'ave DUNGRIMM on our side! ARRRRUUUU!" Rhorgvar roared. Hans gripped the hilt of his blade tightly as he began to pray aloud beneath his helm. "GOTT, mein Lord above all, ich stand before du, ein servant auf righteousness und justice. Bless mein blade und strengthen mein hand, fur ze time hast come to strike down ze wicked und protect ze faithful. Grant mich courage, as du hast granted it to Saint Lucien und all ze holy martyrs before mich. May joor will be done on ze battlefield, und may ve bring ze wrath auf ze seven skies upon ze enemies auf joor Church und ze Reich. Amen."

"Vengryn yoth da dwedmar." Shouted Clan Lord Rhorgvar Frostbeard.

Rhorgvar Frostbeard rolled his eyes as he finished reading the emperor's missive. "Ow es anehone supposed tuh take dis man seriousleh? 'E preaches uv oaths an' loyalteh loike ah street priest preachin' virtue, yet deh moment et suits 'im, 'e breaks alliances an' lets 'is dogs butcher three innocent dwedmar." He scoffed, shaking his head. "Dis es nae leadership, et's cowardice dressed in crowns. Hadrian deh Mad, dey should call 'im, fer all 'e es doin' es pissin' on 'is fatheh's legacy, an' dat es ah rare feat considerin' ah actualleh respected deh last emperor." A low snort followed. "Dis one? 'E es tagum, plain an' simple." Hans read the missive of the Kaiser in silence, then shook his head slowly, jaw set in disdain. "Cowards, ich say gut riddance, ze Reich hast nein place for weak men." He reached for his sword, drawing it partway from its scabbard. "Death to ze deserters."