don dada

im on that good kush and alcohol

the calise11 chatgpt complaint and randomly including a numendil duel conducted in roleplay made me fall off my chair laughing cant wait to see this post of mine be additionally added to the document to be likened to some abuser tactic as well

[ BRŒÐRSLIF ] [x] “ Let a man never stir on his road step without his weapons of war; For unsure is the knowing when need shall arise of a spear on the way without. - the Hávamál “ Men will know misery. a sword-age, Shields will be cloven, a wind-age, Before the world's ruin. - the Edda 3RD OF EIRIKSSTANDA IAÁ 554, AGE OF DRAGONFYRE WITHIN THE HOLLOW CRYPTS OF HALLOWCLIFFE... Blades and shields were blocked and waded as attacks were impeded by the martial strength of the Infernal-Knight, making quick work of the encroaching Iulius Rauðrdrakar, and the Ser Kieran Callaghan's offensive. Slamming their weapon into the Númenedain-Knight's weapon, knocking it away from their hind legs, they ask, "It's rude not to respond when one questions you," they start, with hasty breath, intent on a counter-attack upon the Purifier. They took in a long breath before murmuring, "So answer me, mortals. Why do you—" Ksssshk. Crackle. Their voice falters at a hitch, their pupils dilating as something foreign arrives. Crimson blood accented by swirls of a mauve trail along their unsightly mutations: from the edges of darkened antlers, to the maw of a corrupt buck worn like a trophy. Having deflected the blades of their opponents, surely they'd be unhampered in retaliation; but their body froze, as a searing pain drove from beneath the layers of soft bone-armor and into their form. The drums of Hell. To anticipate an arrival. It reverbs of a plummeting heartbeat. It was not long until the Infernal-Knight took one palm away from their weapon, their opponents all but coming to a halt as cracks on their armor all but shatter. Smoke churns out from the gaps when a silvery blade is recognized to have found itself halfway into their chest. The soft chime of a whine, their connection to the Hells broken, as an eye of gold stared right into them to whom the sudden piercing of the sword was wrought by. That hand sought its edge, but what returned was searing flesh. "L-let me ask—" its plea accompanied a howl of pain. "D—do you think this matters!?" Æthelwulf knew a truth in their words. Even as the spawns of Hell returned to their domain, the soil rattled when they returned to the earths, eternally existing to serve as foil, as foe, to wreak mourning upon Descendantkind. Time, and time again. His blade pierced flesh, tip to remain center of the Infernal-Knight's form. A soft nod given to Knight and Purifier alike, who sought to encircle the trapped foe in anticipation. A boot lifts, and settles heel to the surface of ruined armor, before sword was plunged deeper in its entanglement. "No." The sword-Norn answered. "What matters is that I find you again. Be it in your Hell, or to your maker." He took a long, drawn breath. The distance was closed as the air simmers into a stillness, when their helm closes in towards the demon's deer-maw. An eye of gold. The illumination of a flame. The Infernal-Knight grew limp, the longer they were skewered by the damnation of a radiant blade. They could barely read the runic along bronzen accents of the man's helm, and those drums were heard once-more. Fear took the place of a confidence, and from the fingertips of the Norn's gloves around hilt came, "Yol Zakhrii." Impalement. Immolation. It came for the infernal, a whimper escaping lips, before a scream. The scorching of an infernal body. Iulius bore witness to it for the first time, and soon entered an eerie silence to settle gaze on the Nornish elder. To watch inscription be burnt to plunged blade, and the unending wroth that came after. "Iulius," their staring came to an abrupt end, his attention caught by the call from the man themselves. "Collect their head, or affect, so that you may return and deem your people revenged." Having set the corpse off and upon darkened stone as it quickly began to wither, the man who felled the final blow wandered out into the darkened halls of Hallowcliffe after. Dragomir, who seems to've come dissatisfied from the fleeing of the Infernal-Knight's companion, and the revelation that the third was a hostage rather than foe, dubiously grumbled when he accompanied the rest of the party. Something about trophies, heads, so on mumbled under his helm. A set of antlers. The farce deer-maw. What lingered of it were victory, but of Iulius, a long-lasting memory. 12TH OF INN RÍKISMÁNAÐR IAÁ 558, AGE OF DRAGONFYRE Youth at its core. A warrior to make of descendant. That was what Æthelwulf saw in the servant brought before him by the Iulius Rauðrdrakar, now-Thegn of Vjardengrad. He scrutinized their ears, their hands, the way they carried themselves and the way their hands and arms reacted to gestures of the Nornishman. Floorboards creaked when he leaned towards the son of Malin, and they crunched when he returned upright to gauge the fullness of them. His head turned gently and away to an aside. "I intend to teach him of our Faith, if he doesn't know it already." Iulius spoke up, as Lucis was examined by the Norn-elder. "But to follow or not, shall be his call." "Very well." Æthelwulf gave a small nod, facing Iulius. "You've someone with a keen sense, at the very least. Do sharpen his edge. He'll be wetting his blade soon enough, being around Nord and Norn." As the elven helper sought to assist the elven servant with their tunic, and towel, Iulius returned the nod. "I will. And thank you for your words," he replied. "I already plan on training them, and on giving them arms and armor. My clan is one of warriors, of what my father used to say. My lineage will continue to observe history, and tradition." "As I'd observed." Æthelwulf sought to adjust the hilt of a radiant blade, to tuck it against his hip. "For you are Thegn now, and not merely Purifier, good man. That deems you to account for a strong warband of your own, even as it might be presumed you would look to the rank and file of Vjardengrad." "It is appreciated, truly." — "I am thegn, but I am still Human. That is why I asked to speak with you and the Nornish elders. Your experience would help me grow greatly, and give better service to our people." "If you wished to speak more, we may speak now, if you desire." The offer was sudden, and without hesitation. Quickly seeking his wits to respond in kind, Iulius gestured for the Elder to take to where he desired, of which they do by settling heavy leather into the wooden floorboards across from them. His cloak hid much of his armspan, but the berth of furs gathered along shoulders made him quite an overbearing shadow to be under. The young Thegn sought to stand right where they were, clearing their throat. "Sure." Brief time was given to a silence for thought to birth of Iulius's mind. When he started speaking, it came in amble confidence. "I'd like to hear first, what you think of my work now. If you think the capital is safer, or if there are things in which—my work has been inefficient or lacking." A flaw. A need. It spanned every Man's bone and flesh, every thought that wrung itself around the confines of rationality. Æthelwulf, keeping a keen eye on the other's expression, scratched his own cheek. "I see little inefficiency with your work, to assure you first." A soft creak when the Jötunn leans against the edge of timber support. "In truth, what we are dealing with now is a transition. Traveller, exile, newcomer. I nor Vjardengrad would place the weight of that on your shoulders alone, as would we all carry with it together." "It is our duty to ensure that our Norland, this Norland grows and remains strong. Ever-present in matters occuring and to occur, both of our own lands, of allies, and untreaded territory beyond, as dictated by our tenets." And he allowed silence to return again, in soft contemplation. His features expand when he loosens the tension on his shoulders with a long, frosten sigh. "But we can never be perfect. Naturally, we've exceptions. Those who deem themselves pacifist, or clans who've their own ails, their own trials and tribulations, whether by nature of their predecessors—or simply the circumstances that came before, and during their service." "The Nornishmen are present, too. But without one of proper mantle, we become wanderers. Verily are we separated at times, as we've all our own personal matter, and many of the young are yet to come of age to go through the Rite of Searing Water to be deemed warrior, in the same way Conan-Thegn's sons—Haakon, Matthías, and Isleifr have already." In a time of peace, what sows is a stagnancy. Unavoidable by many. The restlessness for warriors who seek more. "Then we need to reorganize, adapt, and overcome the divisions and hardships." Iulius sought to lay his hands against the oaken divider to adjust it gently, before leaning his side against it. "I believe that a blunt sword can be sharpened, and a wanderer can be returned to the path of warriors if one can stimulate their will." "The youth seem promising to me. Many refugees from the exilic Kingdoms and otherwise are eager to help. I believe the transition is presenting us opportunities, and we cannot remain stagnant into a period of change." — "I am trying to find ways to do so. To make Norland, and our people stay strong, or improve even further." There's a satisfaction in the way a smile grew on Æthelwulf's lips, barely hanging his rows to push himself off the wall and gently pace about the space between them. For a while, a silent thoughtfulness erring the Norn's sway to become a gentle softness upon the floors he walked. He collected his seax, set aside on a table nearby, twirling it about fingers. With the occasional tap to the side of his face, it finally pointed to Iulius passively, and finished thoughts became words. "There is a way," he declared. "Tell me, Iulius-Thegn. How many among the people have you seen battle the kin of Grendel, or the Eitr, the undead, or otherwise?" And as Iulius sought to part lips to speak, the Elder answered for him. "Perhaps in your time, many. But of my return, I've come to a short-ended answer. Not many of the new number residing within our lands have been tested before the eyes of the Aesŕ." "The Norns, as is tradition, rely on trial and tribulation to assess who can be deemed drengr: berserkir, ulfhednar, feða. Sword-Norns as I, Dragomir, Faenor, or Isleifr continue to scour the lands for more, as do many of our kin. In truth, we've plenty fighters, but never enough." "..Will that number truly be what allows us to stand by the tenets of our Faith, in its fullness? To Stand against the Long Dark. Spread the Flame. To Suffer not the Unworthy." "Many of us are well-honed, by now. Older. We will stray oft, for personal matters, or to quest to seek the Dark, those Unworthy, or to cater Flame. We will not always present ourselves available." The words were effective to the Nornish-elder's purpose, to seek contemplation from Iulius-Thegn, who now remained of a long silence. In his memories, there were some instances of what they asked of, but what were some became a lack of many. "Many have not been tested enough, I believe." He agreed. "To be fair to the many of our people, I have seen them fight. A great example was, before your return, servants of the Lord of Pride attacked the city. Many had intervened then, but with the coming changes after your return, I can only agree that there is a lack of a push." "..To this, I intend to test them, beginning with the Purifiers. An idea of mine was to organize periodical patrols of our lands. Not only to secure them, but to hunt those who wish to threaten our people." A glint of recognition from Iulius-Thegn to Æthelwulf, who secured revenge for his people against the Infernal-Knight. "I wish to bring them with me. Into the lairs of the fell-spawn, in their strongholds, where their influence is beholden to the lands of our allies, and those undeclared. They need to see. To fight. To gain experience." — "Perhaps even periodical training, in the Pit to keep them sharp." "..What I say accounts for myself, as well. I try to place myself under constant trial. To become contempt would be ruin." The seax's handle is presented before Iulius-Thegn, of which he took. Examining it with a set of dull grays, he noted the inscription of Nornish, and Nordic engravings. At the hilt, was a name. Æthelwulf's dedication to another. A name to tomb the man's restlessness, Lady Rezalisa, her likeness in the color palette of the blade. His strength, no matter the distance, in a dagger by his side. "It is precisely the mentality that allowed the Adunians to flourish. I recall a time when the host of the Númenedain evoked an ire of the ilk of Grendel. When faced with dangers beyond comprehension, the host of the Waldenians under Lord Robert Stroheim, and the host of the Shugonate under Kato Oijin, and too, Atsuko to come to your aid was a sure victory." "..To see the Nornishmen and Nordic banded together, with steels from depths unknown, and chins risen above the heights of the Long Dark, was sure victory." He rends another breath, to greet the window that spanned the square of Vjardengrad. His hands find the smalls of his back, continuing, "The generation that comes after me must be of the same as what my generation once was. A generation of warriors. Heroes. Men and women who did not toil of wetting their blades, dirtying their feet, sympathizing with the poison of the Eitr." "..To see the execution of victory. Because for all the peace that we have now," "It was not brought by peace equally." Eyes glimmering with awe fell upon the form of the Norn-Elder, coming to an agreeing nod. The memory of the battle in Hallowcliffe returned to him in kind, to see the Flame wring the Eitr into nothing but ashes and embers. "And what do you suggest to grow them strong? So to make sure that even after our passing, they can defend their kin, should need arise?" A hammer is settled unto the oaken floorboards. The Hammer of Björn. With a palm buckled at the top of the haft, the Norn-Elder spoke. "Grant them the steels of our forebears." "Let them establish bonds with one another, through trial of the mind, of the body, and through battle. Let that bond become brotherhood. Sólgaard. Karoslund. Ledna. Dunrath. Let that brotherhood become kinship." "That is what the Nornishman is. That is what it was, even before I. That was my perception of the Nords, when I were a stray boy arriving on shore. Ellenore av Eiriksdóttir, and the Dragonslayer, Iosefka Anarore were my mentors, a long time ago. There must be a change, a want to evolve past the tribulations of peace and silence." "I never stagnated, even after I'd gone to different pastures from their mentorship. I had that want, that change, as had many others around me. We were all separate once, after all." "..And when we'd finally united—I, Haraldr Fairhair, Conan-Thegn av Arichs, Beowulf, Hundr, Tancred, Thor, Faenor, Warlock—it did not matter what it was that stood before us. It was that by the might of our swing, and the volume of our voices, we were welcomed by the ALL FATHER in battle." "You are pondering the fire, again, Æthelwulf. Something on your mind?" Hrungnir asked. Æthelwulf looked up, drawing a tired grin across his features. "Thought about what's left." He says. "Not a lot, these days." "I find much of what was in the past, in what is now. Perhaps, it simply does not persist in the way you want it. You rather live in the past. Yes?" "It's not about that." The sword-Norn wafted a palm gently, eye spanning the halls. "..I lived in the past. Fifteen, twenty winters. More now, since I'd returned." "Conan would say I always have. A nostalgic man. Even before I came to be considered Norn." "..But I've given time to look at what remains. Not a whole lot. Not from our time. And I look at what has come after." "Dragomir. Haakon." Some silence. "My son." "I doubt that I'm to live long enough to see more than grandsons. I know it to be a truth. Others pursued the timelessness. And yet here I stand," "..Like I still remain in the past. With Conan. With Izel. With Emma. With Deia. With Adalia. With Villorik. With Haraldr, and Beowulf. With everyone that I'd met, and lost." "I do not think I will ever be able to grow unless," Æthelwulf rose his palm. The flame manipulates to grow about the cauldron, and yet it came weakly. And when he opened his palm, his hold on the blaze loosens. It returned to the way it was, a state of contentedness. "I let go." "Perhaps my time in past winters have shown me to. My last decades, this next half of this lifetime—it should not be spent still afoot in an old shadow, a flame that's staved." Hrungnir spent his time simply watching, listening to the old soul. Not once, however, did his mood sour. "I'll need someone to open the door for me." "Are you sure? Do you really think that removing the gift that severs your path from our Father's Garden will help?" And Æthelwulf scoffed. With a silent confidence, he says, "..Yes." "He was no Father of mine. I've known this since I was deemed to receive his influence. This brand, a connection between Man and Dragon. That was all it was, for a while. To seek peace between them, but the An-Gho and Izel knew it was a fate damned by centuries of history." "..I never belonged to seek Drauchvoszias. He is of another path, as are his sons." .. "And I will never be one. I was never born of it, neither my soul birthed for it. I will never shape myself into something that I am not, as my soul once denied the influence of Ixris. To become demon. To become dragon." "This, all know. I have always ever been one thing." "Man." .. "To live, to die. My sword in my hand, my regret to the soil, and my soul to what shall come for it after." "..A man with many dreams, and many failings." He whispers. And so did they descend. To the heart of the forge of the Aesŕ. It was here, that Æthelwulf knelt before the eyes of the Gods, and Hrungnir stood behind to present him. And with a palm to the brand of Azdromoth, a gift that once bonded him to the fallen Haraldr Fairhair and Hundr, the Dragon-Man invoked his freedom: “ Dratho Rihk. ” [x]

[x] "He may not live through this." The thegn, in an adjacent room admits. Whispers a-plenty scour the mood of the small house by the lake. "No, no," the other's eyes begin to widen. Her words come to a stutter, as desperation seeps in. "There must be a way—" "Please. There has to be." Branded, for death, for agony, for suffering. It came upon three. Surtr, Haraldr, and Conan. It brought with it a horde, upon Deia's doors, and so the three fought. And at the end, Surtr could do nothing but whine on a bedside, littered with ichor from his self, and much else from what they'd faced. His voice stretched to speak, but a strain came instead. Conan could do little beyond the cleansing of himself, in that they'd carried them within, and had nothing more to provide for the wounded man, no matter the plea to ear. Haraldr, however, stood beside him. He knew little of him, admittedly, in that he were merely friend to the one in the next room. He stared at a dull, sullen eye that sought to close, up until a palm settled on his arm. A soft realization settled. The soot, the ashes, the embers. It came from Surtr, where a glow settled upon the nape. The brand of Izel—no, it were the brand of Azdromoth. And as the silence bid the house, where they made intent to hearken that long silence that washed over them, Haraldr's hand held Surtr's own. And so he spoke in whispers, "You'll be alright." With a hearty breath, one stranger to another, he invoked: "D̴͎͎̈́̃͝o̸̹̱͋̓͠ͅv̵̧̘͚̊̾͊ṙ̷͚̈̅ă̶̜͘͝ ̶͍̕k̴̢͙̹̂̎̚u̴̺͓̗̓l̷̩͂.̴̣͔̔̿" One Day Later... "I should thank your man," he greeted Conan with. Surtr and Deia were both brought to the castles of Sólgaard to rest, and heal. Whilst the latter sought to make leave, the Herald opted to stay, by rites of a guest and to accept their company. "I did not know that he was—the same as I." The admission carried gratitude, but it also sowed some surprise. One that the Thegn of Sólgaard did not reciprocate, in a silent gaze. "You should find much of what you require here. For as long as you need it, you will be welcome in our Halls to recover." A pointed statement, but one cordial. A nod is carried, and feet to bring with it. When they part ways, Surtr sought the entrance of the motte, only to stay for the shortest while. His gaze found the high castle. But he would not urge it, yet. A feeling of belonging, among Norns. He would not dare to ask it, the question of what lies of the people he were saved by: brotherhood. Perhaps in time, he'd learn. Or perhaps he'd die, among those of his own. All that he could truthfully think of is the thought of another, like Haraldr, among them. And so without the man to greet, he bid away, long to greet them again of his path. A path he did not quite think that they would become more than he'd hoped. Five Winters Later... The man's helmet shifts, and it adjusted steady on Surtr. "For how many years have you roamed, how many seasons?" Surtr pondered quietly, at that. He looked up at the skies in short rumination. "I'd landed on this place at the age of ten," he reminisced. "..Held my first sword at thirteen. First bounty— at fourteen." To count the years, softly. "A quarter of my lifetime has passed since I began roaming. Perhaps a little more then." There's a slow nod from the thegn afterward. "Tonight, I will be forty," he said. And he looked up, pausing to point towards the skies, namely two stars upon the northern stretch. "Every year, on this night, I see how much they change. Sometimes, they look... bright. Were it not for these clouds, I'd get to count it all—how far, how few, and how bright." "Time is demanding, I've learnt. All-consuming; a great vast of ocean of nothing, and yet everything. Perhaps that's where the stars come from; all the grain from all the hourglasses in the world. Maybe it's a thousand eyes with a thousand stories... eh," "I ramble—" "..Was there ever a time where they did not shine so brightly; where there was nothing but darkness, and you could only ever do anything but walk forth, into the unknown?" The helm lowered, looking back toward him. The scarred man returned the look, of a desperation for that answer. He hearkened from Conan, "Always." "Every night is different, every twinkle or drift of the starlight especially when the fall, is different. There was a time where I had once counted four stars. The bear's snout and jaw, and it always led me to my next meal." "When I were sixteen, they vanished. I did not see them until it was this camp was built, and when I had turned twenty. On that night, they reappeared." And when Surtr looked up, he found the culmination of all that came to be trial to Norn; the appearance of the cosmos, that had long scoured with stars aplenty. "It could very well be that my mind was playing games on my soul. It could have been the manipulations of the witch who'd cursed me to be doomed. Riddle, rhyme, song and all." "Or perhaps they were meant to be gone." "When I lost the bear, I followed the antlers. They always guided south-west." Both men took a turn to continue the gaze, to see the constellations as they were, and as they saw it. Conan saw a bear, again. Surtr saw a wolf, instead. "I followed a trail, every few winters. It was not as vivid as yours. It had never led me to much else; a mountain, a nation, a fell beast." "..Except this." His digit raised to trail the wolf, in that Conan watched him do so, silently. "I'd never stopped to take a look. Ever." The present tension on his shoulders was lost. The rigidity of his militant body - settling itself. And so he sat, on those steps, gazing off. "Same mistake as I. I were eight, and just lost my father to the sabretooth. For years, I never looked up, and I scorned the very notion of taking my gaze off the ground out of fear I'd fall into a rock and get stuck, like he." "Many will downplay the strength of a wolf. A bear. They'll take a hunt and make a mockery or a game about it." "The advice to you is the same as I gave to the king's bastard: Learn to look up. Learn to love life for what it is." "Appreciate the wonder, and spend less time sulking. To brood is one thing - to rummage in a bile of shadowed woes is another." "You'll find yourself on a path. Whether that is war, in solitude, in reading—keep to that path. The path is never a tragic thing, you know. It's only the ignorance of others that is." And so tears fell. For the first time in his life, to stretch beyond that which once hexed him cruelly to never feel again. Surtr felt it all come together, the end of that part of his life, and the beginning of another. "..I suppose I was always in the wrong crowds. To never take my gaze off where I walked, to tattle about long shadows that never came closer." He grits his teeth. "This is nice," he adds, wistfully. "I'm glad to have come here, I speak it true, Conan." Surtr's head rose gently, to the motte, to the crowd that gathered—small dips of his head in a flusteredness having not noticed them. And then, he looked back to the thegn, "I've... yet to know what I shall follow next, what direction it shall lead me. I'd never taken a hold, a keep, nor a home to call mine own since I were but a boy landing on a small sailboat at the rivers of Vjardengrad," "..I do not imagine you, or your people would welcome me yet, but perhaps after I've tied loose ends." "Even just to look at this, every now and then." "You would be surprised to know what you might find up this way," a life, a love, a joy. "If such is what you wish, then know that it is possible- yet to become part of the tribe will mean that you will take responsibilities." "When I told the prince who wept false tears that you were thus under my claim, I had meant my word then. You are of Norland; whether you choose to accept any invitation is to your decision alone." "..I do not own you, though I put forth claim. In my duties as chief, as the High Keeper's companion, and as this thegn." "I'll take the time to think on it, then," than to outwardly decline as he always had. "You've given me more than I deserve. More time to settle things, before I accept." "I would not wish to bring the vestiges of a past life upon you, nor your people." "One torch in a sea of shadows has only so much influence, Surtr," he nods. "You are welcome to my words, for what worth they may be. You are welcome to my torch." "I suppose you are right in that," he cleared himself in the sea of tears that fell on his face. "..Surtr," he coos. "It was a name given to me to hide among the southron folk. The Aesŕ of Flame," by an old, mythical man. "Æthelwulf. I remember it as it came from my mother, before she'd passed to the seas and left me to arrive to shore alone." "A nice name, I think." "A name of my great-uncle. It is a strong one. Wear it with pride, and if you should fall— die well." Ten Winters Later... "ÆTHEL!" Haakon yelled, as his arm made to curl along the backside of the giant-turned-Norn. "Did you see, brœðr?! How their faces reclined in fear of our might. Hah-haha!" "Haraldr, my—" he winced. "OH—Oh, sorry. Heh. Does it hurt?" Coming victorious of a long quest, Haraldr, Æthelwulf among those other Norns strode into the Great Halls bolstering with visitors. Ale was served all across, whilst Nornvikingr and their company alike sought to cleanse themselves of the battle. "You know, I could do that again, but where is the fun in recovering so quickly? Battle-scars, brœðr." "I would oblige, but your mug and your touch would only make me wither away. Huh-huh-huh. Ack—BASTARD!" The Nornishmen both sought to chase one another, across the hall. A wounded giant and a sneaky Nornishman, who dashed across tables and flooring and servants. Those within the hall can only bear witness as they skipped and hopped about. Play-fighting, even with... "HAH-HAH-HAH!" "We'll pay the damages for that." The ambiance of chaos wreaked by both men. At the cusp of it all, Æthelwulf decided to sit, finally, to let the de Lorraine address his wounds along the bench of the Great Hall. Haraldr came after, standing before the man as another matter birthed itself of conversation aside from other kinsmen. In dated whispers, he spoke to Æthelwulf, "You are well, aren't you?" The question seemed to seep of something that had happened in their quest. "You have never raged the way you did before." His set of blues settle on the man's form, of which was smoky whilst being tended to. "I am, tsk—I am, Haraldr, I assure you. It was just... something I'd never expected to bear witness to. Not again. Not after all these years of twining and enjoying what I have here." "Temper yourself, brœðr. What would the lady Rezalisa think of such an endeavor, for you to've thrashed like so? It is unbecoming of you. But that you came out of it well, I am merely gladdened." "They would think of it little," though the eye of the de Lorraine erred a meek look, and so he lowered his head. "But," he clears his throat. "Yes, maybe." "It has been quite a while since you were once a dying man on his deathbed, and the bond was shared. Shown, even. But I only ask this," "If it was myself, I'd hope you would come forth and direct the acknowledgement to my ear. Imagine that I'd unfolded into the rage, and had hurt kin of ours. Would that not sour your mood, as well?" "It would," he sighed. "Truthfully, it was my fear. I had long spent enough time without it that with it, I come to be unpredictable. Imagine a life where you were made never to feel, and you are now again able." "A damning concept," he readily agreed. "But one I and our kin would triumph over, even then. You think too little of yourself to not be able to see yourself thrive, instead of returning to the darkness you sow." "What worse will be that you see the death of kin, too? Will you damn yourself there? Seek a rage that can do nothing but hurt? Or perhaps you will toil, and lament, and seek to cast all aside beside the path you walk?" "I cannot ask for more than what you ask of me, then. Maybe. Just maybe. But I can only rely on you to seek me, as would you ask of me to seek you in those times of a strife that may come." "So would I not have it any other way." His smile grows, before a pat on the shoulder, much to Æthelwulf's disdain. He carried himself with a staunch confidence, one that evoked the same from the newly-accepted Nornish giant. And yet, for a while, there was a silence. A contemplation. What could they really do, in a time of need? Haraldr were ordained with the blessing, whilst Surtr always remained a fledgling. Worry sets in. A dread that comes in short waves. ..And so he would worry, forever. Worry of their fates, and what the world may come to throw at them. And too, would he grieve, when... A Winter Later... "NO!" A blood-curdling scream. His hand reached for his, and yet he was unable to come to a connection. "HARALDR!" "HARALDR!" "HARALDR!" It was dark. Too dark. Imagine that you were in a room where you could see nothing, feel nothing, and only barely hear the voices. Voices of men and women, before a sobbing, then silence. Æthelwulf found himself belittled in that room. The dark corner of his mind, where he would be able to do nothing beyond the processing of what had just happened. Fighting a giant on the way to the Top of the World, it all came in slow droves, tormenting. Faenor made to flank the giant at the front. Conan, Hundr, and Warlock, and many others sought to do damage as they could. Both Norns Æthelwulf and Haraldr came to understand what they must do, and so they mounted the trees, the banks, the camps to make for higher risings. And just as Æthelwulf, with a blade damned by its maker, and Haraldr, with a blade blessed by its own meant to make the final blow; the Norns looked at one another. A wordless gaze at the eye. And it only told one thing, that would carry the sorrows of what came after. "Sorry, brœðr." It was not here, that he would grieve. Not even in the halls of Sólgrunnr. Neither in the house with his beloved, who sought to soothe the man of his ails, and yet could not do more beyond her words, her touch, which he sought and yet could never feel anything more than that stricken heart. It ate at him. Everyday. The way he walked came limp. The way he spoke became lifeless. When he stood, he stood meekly. And when he sat, he froze into it, alike to confine himself to whatever would allow the passage of time. Time Haraldr was not given, to be before him. To be given life after a wandering, and to watch it be taken away from the man who once allowed him to continue on, only so few would recover from such a damnation of the mind. Æthelwulf took the bidding whispers of his beloved, who worried for him, worried for his future, and where he'd go. Rezalisa, for all her ails, mounted the task of comforting the broken man she sought to reel away from it all; as did he once. "His soul is not here," he tearfully says. "..I cannot feel it. I can't." No matter what had happened between them, all the Norn can do was to wander. Towards what he could seek, to find that flame that once bonded himself to Haraldr. But it was no longer there. It was weak. A plague upon Man. The life that Conan described was no longer there. At least, for a time. Until he would return. Until he would mount the scales again, to seek the most out of what remains. Until he could see a son, which was birthed of a promise between to return, for even a small amount of time. But for that time being, all he can do was think of what was lost. And so the lost, he would travel towards. [x] Twenty Winters Later... "I once thought myself damned. All that I truthfully knew was that life will never be what you imagine it to become." "So when I'd watched you die, it threw me into an emptiness. I'd seen many men die before, but not of kin." "To seek one another. You told me this, but went where I could never find you. Not unless I wish to leave her. To leave them all." "Perhaps you meant it. Perhaps you meant to leave, to show us that it can come at any time, at any place, in that you ask us to cherish what we have here. To cherish the life that we were given." "Were it that I'd asked you if when you spoke those words you meant that your time was coming, you probably wouldn't have said. That you didn't know, either." Tears fell unto the snow. An eye can do nothing but gaze, before wandering away to behold the sights around. "We all miss you, brœðr. The sons you never got to see grow now, even as I might not see it myself until I finally return to see my own son." "And, and—" his heart churns, and so he sought to dig nails in the snow when he fell on his knees. "We all loved you, brœðr." ... "I w—will return. Not in shame, but in celebration of t—the life that you l—lived. The life you shared with us. The life that birthed, even as you'd gone." "And so it is that I leave this place to thank you. To thank you for everything you've done, and shown, and allowed us to have." "Haraldr Fairhair. It was an honor to be your brœðr." And so he rose, mounting leather tips to the surface, and his head held high to greet the skies that shroud the mountaintop. "Goodbye, friend."

fairy cannons for the boss fight machine

[x] "All of them, Lord?" spoke the young squire, whose presence were debatable due to his allegiance to another. "All of them. All de Rouens." The Nornish- elder spoke without pause, nor restraint. Simply pure conviction. "Leave no ******* stone unturned. And if they hide, show them how our people felt at the tavern."

Ysgramor looked to the pair of Konanssons. He shrugged. He supposed he would rally too.

[x] “ Mighty is the bar to be moved away for the entering in of all. Shower thy wealth, or men shall wish thee every ill in thy limbs. - the Hávamál "It is done?" The foul vocal of F̶͉͎̩͇͕̱͒̈́ë̶͈̺́a̷̽̊̉́̍͜͠r̶̼͓͍͙̗̿͗̃͛̆͒ manifest crept to open ears. "It is. Our Drengr saw it through." Ysgramor bid, without folly, nor care. Something small were thrown their way. Catching it under the folds of blackened veins, a hiss echoes, and the veil turns to spangenhelm. "So. Do we have a deal?" A dry, jagged laugh, like rusted bells and splintered bones tumbling down a well. Ĭ̸͍̈́̀͌t̴͙̬͛́ smiles.

accept this and ill swap deities

[x] Settling leather-toes upon the plot, were two men. A man named Conan, and a man named Æthelwulf. One Jarl of Sól, and the other, his serf, brought about by the likes of Haraldr Hárfagri, who shared a bond with them by kinship of a gift. Ruduhr, one god among many, shared their blessings upon them—and so they were both bonded, of their likeness to that Aesŕ, and all men of Sól, including that thegn by brotherhood. Conan approached what had once been a runestone; there were carvings to be found within. Still in the thegn's grasp is the regal hat. His nose wrinkles slightly, and he approached. "Every man has a path," he said first. "Every man a fate. Made by his hand, by his actions, and yet the only thing which is mandated is death. You understand this, yes?" "Death," echoed Æthelwulf gently. "I accepted it, thricefold of my life. I was denied all three times—perhaps I denied it myself." A frown grew on his face, contemplative of those memories, with a melancholy that settled upon the concrete they stood on. Though the nature of his being remained unclear, what was were that he remained mortal, of all things. "Perhaps." Conan spake, "There are many others who cling to life desperately; there are ghouls crawling under the flesh of man, elf, uruk and almost everything in-between. How we get to that finale is up to us — for our acts along." He stepped forward, looking to the stone. His brow knits, and he contemplates something heavily, that runestone of yore. The eye of the other man narrowed upon the flakes of frost that danced about the stone, tracing the crooks and lines illuminated by candlelight. Silence came of him as Conan spanned the tunnel of his vision, just as he stepped half a foot to where he was just then. And soon, one more step to find himself adjacent to their leader, the man who claimed him. In a snap, the Thegn created a small owl from within his core. It flies forward, snowflakes descending from its wings before it went to settle onto the stone in front of him. It peers back at Æthelwulf with golden-blue eyes. "Beware them." He warns, "I will not be of them. I will not have an opportunity that you were afforded — willingness in death or not as you were. I carried your remains back — what ashes there were." Æthelwulf trailed that owl with a singular eye, naught were there violence in his reaction but an astute observation, meeting golden-blue with his own sea-blue eyes. And as the details of his undoing came, a strain, both in sight and mind came, waning his attention from the owl and of that time that almost seemed surreal, and yet were not for him to pursue, nor remember. "I did not say why it was you had been executed, but rather that you accepted it. Arathor was undeserving of coming near your fate." A silence settles in the space between them. "But that, however, is a testament to death. To fate. Even the undeserving could be the ones to fell you. The greedy, the gluttonous — the lustful, the proud." For a brief time, Æthelwulf's gaze finds Conan, but his attention lurks to the avian that remained. "Those presumed righteous." The owl hooed, before flying up and seeming to stand on top of the large runestone. It peers at the pair of men, looming of an untold fate between them, as they discussed one of their own. Conan, however, approached the stone and ran a hand along what were charred, cracked, and fractured remains. "We built this stone, when we first settled." He makes a gesture toward it. There were names inscribed, and the carving of a boat — the very same to the dock at the right. "Brom," he says, referring to an underlined name. "Merewing," and another. "Bjorn," and another. "These three are no-longer with us. Merewing fell to the dragon I silenced the spine of. Brom bled out from wounds sustained from a skirmish against a draugr. Bjorn, however, was the first. Taken by a basilisk who dragged him off." Æthelwulf did nothing but note each name, be they rune or Common, those before He; They who had fallen before them. Silence met that stone, and the weathered warrior — who seemed equal, if not greater than what they were born of, fated to have, and made to be. Men of the cycle that refused to allow the will of others to overtake them in their aliveness. "And someday, my name will be on stone. Or it will be on another. Someday. Yours will, too." The prospect inscribed itself into Æthelwulf's imagination. "Yet never in vain, their names carried along stone, and men," he found Conan briefly in a passing gaze, sharing pursed lips, as though knowing what that meant. He were initially outlander, to these people — to become serf, under the rule of another — up until today, where Conan seemed to regard him as if he were brother-kin. "It is never a death that should be in vain." The owl continued to simply observe, hopping closer, and studying Æthelwulf. "For it is life that determines it so. You understand this, yes?" The once-lost son of Myrkviðr, ruler to small, betraying lands sauntered forward with steep steps, greeting the runestone with his own touch; eye passing from owl to names. "I've come to, recently." His eyelid drooped. "This life," in forbiddance to death, "To stagnate; to live life in vain. I'd once lived simply for what was next," to guard a Kortrevich, a Barclay, a Petrine queen. A cold breath came and went, one unpermitting of his warmth, to be reminded of great battles against hordes of undead, their generals, a life of endless battle without a chance to part for rest — the rest he sought of a hearth he could belong to, a hearth he now belonged to. "And now I live for what will be." His hand floated between names, and reared itself to lose the stone's touch, leaving death itself. "A good life. One to remember." Æthelwulf's arm fell to his side. A dated exhale. "One to be proud of." Conan nodded. "Good," and this was a definite statement. "There are many temptations in life; there is little to gain in heeding every little voice or glamour that you might encounter," and the beast of an owl hooed again towards Æthelwulf. "But to deny them altogether, is to not be as you should. You would forsake humanity. You would shirk from the mandate of your soul's very creator." The owl flapped its wings, shedding snowflakes down and around the runestone. Some of the flakes had even gone to settle onto the rocks themselves. "But I repeat what is already known; my voice a simple echo in a cavern. A cavern of truths." The animal says nothing, but Conan looks up towards the spectral familiar. It is reminiscent of a barn owl, though smaller. Clean and unscathed. Æthelwulf wandered a look aside, palm titled gently to catch a flake at the center of it; that molten arm of his that refused to be replaced by the machinations of advancement, to remain human, as he were no matter the costliness of an ugliness. For a while, that flake lingered, until it melts to sow itself into skin of water — becoming one with the glow of forged war on the limb. He followed Conan's gaze, after, "Truth that are yours and mine," for they sought it, and made it so. Conan glances. "And in spite of them, we have mysteries. Wonders of this place — things I've come to learn. The weight of practically being a widow is not dragging me through muck, yet it inflicts grief upon me all-the-same. The melancholy of having lost my kith and kin so brutally weighs on my mind regularly. Nights are accompanied by dreams — such odd things. Human things." "And I find their mystery, and their enchantments still lure me on. Through worlds, through planes. Into deserts and into tundras. Jungles. Mountains and oceans." "Even you are capable of dreaming, are you not?" ... The question needed little answer, while the weary warrior blew another cold breath. To dream, he had, giving a small hum of affirmation. He tilts his head gently at that looming familiar again, a second? A third time, perhaps? Only to finally settle on Conan. "Shall it not be that there is little else but the world that we see, but I was once asked a question." — "What lied beyond the stars, across the skies." "At the time, I knew little. And I gave few." Stars to line the sky, but none they knew quite well, only to be something to reach for, yet never grasp of the Men they were now. "Yet now," Æthelwulf's head wandered up, the same sky he had once foregone to look upon, was reminded to gaze of before his eye on soil kept him grounded, and what shone over him and Conan now. "I too, dream." Conan laughed, so smally. "Odd things. Unique things. The unknown." There's a small nudge to Æthelwulf, who also grew a smile of that half-joke, half-truth. "A boy once dreamed he would travel far, he would scurry wide," as they had, Men of different paths. "He'd learn to walk through planes so many had tempted him. The mysteries would be traverse." "The old things would meet the new. Spirits would meet the life. Those boys were now Men." "And those men, still in possession of those dreams." "See to it that ours do not flicker out, Æthelwulf of Sólgaard, no longer of Nothing. In this life, or in another if we are so greedily clinging to what semblance of a soul that you might have." And Æthelwulf, as a result, nudged Conan of that tease; given that he were once considered soulless by a deity's envoy. And when the laughing, the joy, the reminiscing and the lectures came to an end, "Perhaps those men will walk those planes, and both greet what lies beyond the stars. Hmh?" "Until it is made reality." "Aye." "The bastard," Æthelwulf's tankard resigns to the table with a loud thud, "So he's went and done it, then? Hah-hah-ha! Oh, how happy am I of this news, and at the same time, I stress that I return from the lands of [...] after thirty winters, and now he is to walk off and do the same in [...] ?!" Eventually, he exudes a smoky sigh, laden with flakes of frost that seem to unnaturally ebb and flow. "Yes, Lord-Elder. Some have already begun to say that he were felled in battle, by great enemies, but the truth cannot be all but betwixt." The boy of Nornish regard did little to address their fears of the man's burdening, booming voice — filling tankard with mead up until the contents nearly spilled out of timber. "The few that know have been attempting to correct this, I should say—" "Nonsense. If the people believe him dead, then let them believe. Were it not for the same for me, once upon a time boy, I would likely have been hunted to the ends of Middle-Earth." And though he evoked a look of concern from the Nornish boy, who made way to sit next to him, the elder Narvaukiaan finally says, "Let their deceit evoke attempts from the ilk of GRENDEL to come." He loomed on the tankard: their dreams now of their hold, their make as Æthelwulf returned victorious of realms unknown, albeit he would neither say beyond the trophy of an axe that shone of runic inscriptions from the very ilk he sought to hunt for thirty a winter. "If only he had sent crow; I would have likely returned far earlier. It may have sated my beloved's wishes not to travel far to even spend small time with me," as he fathered a son in the midst of his pilgrimage, due occasional reunions in secret with his wife. A sigh came. A stare unfolded. The Nornish elder eventually moved tankard away, collecting from himself a mythical piece of parchment — empty, until he too brandished quill with feathers flickering of an untouchable flame that burned of aeternum. The boy could do nothing but be evoked of a look. Awe. Surely, this ancient Man, whose legends were told by sons of Conan would enlighten them eventually of his nature, but they would not press, instead asking, "Do you intend to send for them, elder?" "What? No, no-no." Æthelwulf began a penning of a missive, "I intend to simply tell him how much of a turd he is for not informing me sooner of his intent. That, and to tell him of what shall come of Sólgaard, the Norns." Soon, he looked up. "For what would I be but a herald of his will? If he were to die, as we'd asked of one another — he would grovel at the idea that our tribe had stagnated simply because he were not present." "Ah." The elder's words continued to confuse, even concern him. The idea of the death of Conan-Thegn, if even Æthelwulf was something told to be impossible. Others even perused the ideas of them both, including that of a Dragon-Man among them, wolven man alike the Nornish elder, and an elf who was said to have built the highest peaks of the Northern stronghold were immortal. Though in the end, he did nothing but lament of them all, and simply bask of time with each one still present. Without further interruption, and upon the conclusion of that silence, Æthelwulf stood to greet the deathly aviary that seemed mythical in nature, whose messengers could withstand the Northern bite of cold, and was said to even send word to the dead. In the end, they were all rumors. Silver were traded for scroll, and so he and the boy could do nothing but wait. "And so, we both continue to chase the next dream, while the previous ones are now present and possible before us." [x] Heill þik, I dream of the day we reunite. I'd fussed that I had barely missed your presence in the motte by way of word from those close to you. I would wish to speak of it all, someday. So may the ALL-FATHER guide you, and let the high spirits of the tribe allow you to emerge victorious of your present travels; that I silence tongue of mine for a grand tale to the sons and daughters of Sól, along with Faenor, Ljúfvina, Tancred, Smári, Thor, Beowulf, and all who live yet. Ysgramor, Noble & Old Wolf

The northern cold bit through fabrics and furs, yet it did not withhold Ysgramor from speaking forthwith to Haakon-King @Milenkhov, "So shall it be," the Nornish elder settled parchment upon a countertop. "To the Balian, we march next."

[x] UNDER THE DARKENED SKIES OF NORTHERN AILMERE... Ysgramor knelt amidst the carnage, the body of the last berserkir lay crumpled on the ground, its once-powerful form now a lifeless heap. The weight of the fight slowly settled into his bones, each movement was a testament to his victory—gritty, raw, and desperate. A deliberate ambush by not just one, but three bull-men of an unprecedented strength alike those of the extinct Nornskan giants. His last pursuer had been the most formidable—a towering figure with armor that sulked alike rotten steel and balked of corrupt oaken, its eyes once filled with merciless rage. In the end, it was a desperate strike, a precise lunge that had caught the beast’s throat, silencing it before it could bring down its spear in a final blow. The bi-pedal’s armor had been expertly crafted—ornate and worn, with the marks of battle scattered across the surfaces. Their weapon lay discarded, the shaft splintered from the champion’s final strike. He reached out, fingers brushing the cold metal of the centaur’s chestplate, tracing the edges of intricate designs etched on all sides. Something familiar in the craftsmanship—symbols of an ancient order, and yet the amalgamation of the creature's armor put together were nothing short of First Age raiders. Upon both sides, the pair of direwolves of colors dulled brown and white came to Ysgramor's aid, nudging and nursing different wounds about Ysgramor's dented armor, all the whilst taking patrol for the wounded Narvaukiaan. The victor could do little but heed words to his companions as he rose, using their bodies as temporary solace when the large man came to. "The tribe and the Kingdom must know. These ones will be consumed by the northern cold." The weight of the question lingered in the silence of the tundra. Ysgramor stood, wiping the blood from his blade with a quiet solemnity before turning a gaze one last time to the fallen beast. Heill þik, “ Gattir allar, aþr gangi fram, vm scoðaz scyli, vm scygnaz scyli; þviat ouist er at vita, hvar ovinir sitia a fleti fyr. - the Hávamál Written by Ysgramor

first amerinorn starbucks @M1919