Luchian

This brings back a heap of memories and nostalgia. Lovely video! Almost makes me want to dig up my old old computer and rummage through the files and screenshots.

(( RP Format )) Yer name: Torsdul Blackaxe What are yer professions: Foitin Race: Dwed In which cohort do you wish to be placed in: Infantry (( OOC Format )) MC Name: Luchian Discord: you got it Skype: you got it

A Single tear runs down a chubby cheek, as Thorsdul breaks into applause. "Vereh guud! Oyvind fer king!" Raises both his fists into the air, holding them clenched "Nervak Oz Oyvind!"

X

Name: Torsdul Grandaxe Ah vote fer Korhaz Grandaxe ((Am active, just unable to get on atm.))

@Zezimus

MC Name: Luchian RP Name: Torsdul Grandaxe Skype: u already got it Timezone (EST, GMT, etc.): Gmt+1 Professions: Lumberjack (Veteran) Have you been in the Legion before? If so, when: Marshall in Aegis and in asulon, on a different char. *Note: If you were a Stoneguard in the most recent legion you will keep your rank* Do you swear loyalty to the reigning Grand King: Aye

"fokin' shoites want war." He chuckles "Coulda gon' tuu tae Grand King an' demanded justic' instead teh go public, loike tis'. Yellin' loikeh eh beardlin' straigt' frum tae womb. Seems loikeh ah still got use fer meh axe, always som' 'umans to knock some fokin' sence intu"

"A thousand minas, Only minas or would you be intrested in items, and valuables also" A pinned note says, next to the original note.

(( just to make it obivous to the people that read only the last sentence of the post, Kralek and most of the blackfists were all killed by humans. Therefor breaking the rebellion in killing the leader of it, and his supporting staff. ))

“The Vanguard was destroyed, broken upon the mountain hillside. The legion flank had been met, and what had gone so well one second had suddenly turned into a one sided bloodbath. Unexpectedly the dwarven reinforcements had arrived early, and chaos had taken ahold of our forces” - The Journal of Magnus Blackfist, Jarl of Kal’Krest. “Feck” Magnus thought as the horns of retreat sounded, this was all going to hell too fast to save. He had expected a large force, but this...this was ridiculous. And as he was about to flee to the safety of the forest, his gaze was caught upon a familiar face. To his side Varuk Frostbeard was locked in single combat with Dwain Irongut, neither one yielding to the other. Suddenly, a movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention and as his voice was about to break free, it happened. A dark elf had nimbly snuck up on Varuk, and before Magnus’ warning could escape his lungs the dark elf had taken quick use of his knife, stabbing it deeply into Varuk. The dwarf turned to the elf, he grimaced with pain as he lunged out towards the elf with his sword. Though the blade would never reach its mark, Dwain brought his sword down upon Varuk and as Magnus turned his back sprinting towards the forest he heard the thud of a dwed body... “The forest was dark, even though the sun still stood high upon the sky. Vision was limited, and I was split from everybody except from Gomvar and some human. We had to regroup with the remaining forces if there was any chance of victory, little did I know this forest would be the final resting place of my clan.” - The Journals of Magnus Blackfist, Jarl of Kal’Krest. His eyes darted around the area, looking for either friend or foe. To his side stood Gomvar and a human he knew not the name of. As he was about to end his search his glance fell upon shape leaning face down towards a tree. He gestured for the two to watch his back as he drew close, and his face lightened up as he recognized the face and a laugh rose from him as he glanced down seeing the puddle beneath the dwarf. “Oi Grumdul, mate ye cannae pi-” his voice was cut short. The dwarf was not leaning towards the tree - he was collapsed upon it, it being the only thing holding him up. Magnus took a step to the side, and let his eyes roll over Grumdul; he soon saw the axe embedded into his back. “We had adopted guerrilla tactics in the face of an overwhelming enemy, though poor decisions would once more lead to death. We thought we had found a few of them alone and split of from the main force, little did we know they were but bait and further down the road a chapter of human knights were waiting for us to step out and reveal ourselves.” - The Journals of Magnus Blackfist, Jarl of Kal'Krest “Feck” he thought once more, his thoughts returning to the moment they had been found. Behind him he heard the heavy chain boots of men slamming against the wet ground. He turned his head, casting a glance towards his comrades and the humans following them. All it took was a moment. “Heelp” Grun Blackfist said, as he was falling more and more behind. His face was red with exertion and riddled with sweat; even from here Magnus could hear his heavy panicked breathing. One moment he ran with us, the next his feet were caught in the roots under us and he fell to the ground. The humans barely spared poor Grun a glance as they trampled him to death, chasing madly after Magnus and the other dwarves. “Varuk, Grumdul, Grun, had all died. Our army was destroyed, and only the few of us remained. Yemekar made us short, strong and sturdy but never fast runners this simple fact was to prove the downfall of the Mountain King, and never before have I cursed the name of Yemekar so loudly as when I saw my kinsmen and my king fall.” - The Journals of Magnus Blackfist, Jarl of Kal’Krest. Their short stubby feet could not outrun the bloody manlings chasing after them, he cursed Yemekar for making them short, at this moment he would love nothing more than to run as fast as an elf. His armor hardly helped either, and the forest floor did nothing to assist his flight. It was then he heard the voice of Verthaik, loud and proud. “Ah’m ‘urt... Badleh” looking over the king he could not understand how he was still running. The wound on his side was still leaking blood, and his face was pale from blood loss. “Tis’ beh et’ fer meh laddehs.” the king said, turning around towards the humans closing in on them. “Wait fer me, ah cannae run anehmore. Meh leg will nae listen tu me.” Korek said, turning alongside the king. What had once been an army was now down to three Blackfists: Magnus, Gomvar and Morug. The last they ever saw of their king was his fall to the ground, a sword piercing through him and next to him Korek standing valiant, though wounded beyond saving. “To turn your back on kin, no matter if they are dead or alive is something that will cloud your heart until the day you die. I suspect Gomvar will never be the same. Who could? After hearing the terror filled screams of your brother getting cut short only sixty feet away.” - From the Journals of Magnus Blackfist, Jarl of Kal'Krest The steady rhythm of my boots slamming into the ground as he jogged, alongside the sound of Gomvar’s labored breath, was suddenly broken by a voice yelling in fear “Ah surrender!” Two times it rose over the surrounding noise, before getting cut short a third time, accompanied with a sudden silence. Just as Gomvar was about to step towards the place the voice came from Magnus extended his hand and grabbed ahold of his shoulder, dragging him back. Gomvar turned his face, the tears flowing down from his eyes over his cheeks and down onto his plate mail. Magnus shook his head once and said “Dere is nuffin’ ye can du, Dungrimm watches over ‘im nuw.”. “We turned our back on our dead kin, our clan was butchered and our king was slain. The forest which we ran to for protection became the graveyard of my clan, Blackgrave forest I hear they call it, a suitable name for the last resting place of my clan I suppose. There is nothing left for me here. Me and Gomvar have decided to leave Kal’Krest. Dungrim curse the dwarves, loyalist or not. "We rose against a dwarven king, but it was human hands that brought us down." So the Journal of Magnus Blackfist ends.

Bringing a hand to his head Magnus whipes away the newly formed sweat around his nose and on his forehead. He treads lightly into the camp, looking around and as he is about to call out his gaze falls upon the dead dwarf. Uncertain his hand falls to his sheated blade, and rests upon the pommel as he nears the dwarf, a curious but wary glint in his eyes. As he draws near the cause of death is obivous, and a muffled curse escapes his mouth. His hand leaves the pommel of his sword, and he leans over inspecting the dwarf in an attempt to identify him, though he quickly realises it is futile. Magnus straightens his back, taking a few steps back from the dwarf. He stands before him, and utters a prayer before departing. "Dungrimm akhoral voz sirk"

Magnus stands along his Blackfist brethren, fresh is the memory of the insults thrown at him by the stark king. He nods his head agreeingly as he listens to the words of Verthaik, and as the speech comes to an end he raises his fist in the air for all to see "Tae' Mountain Monarch! Tae' Mountain King!" A smile forms upon his face, and it soon turns into a wide grin. His golden tooth shines in the sun, and behind him the banner of the Blackfists is raised, for all to see where their allegiance lies. Behind him the black gauntlets are raised, as the other blackfists raise their fists into the air along with their leader and banner.

=(Election Ballot of Urguan)=- Place an X next to the candidate of your choice. Your Name ((RP and MC)): Magnus Blackfist (Luchian) Race: Mountain Dwarf Kalion Grandaxe (Dashing_Knight) Lathros Irongrinder (Lathros) Verthaik Frostbeard (Kralek) Skippy Irongut (Skippy369) Fili Grandaxe (Cpt_Noobman)

Blackfist Senators: Magnus Blackfist (Luchian) Thraid Blackfist (MyStronghold)

RP name: Belron Irongut MC name: Luchian Vote: (Put an x next to name) Grabthar Irongut: Vorstag Ireheart:X Fili Grandaxe:

[[This is a submission among the Undead Library in Drauchreim, meaning only those with access to the shelves may find this text. Please do not metagame this information but feel free to read as you wish out-of-character.]] A Second Wind and A New Crown Prophet Balin The departure of one of our ranks reached my ear yester Malin’s day. Whilst tending to the Ichor Farms, Korvan approached me on the slopes. He spoke of Wrothgar’s predecessor, Sprat, the now missing sole Pariah of the also missing Chancellor and relayed to me that the horned boy had fallen into the grips of the afterdeath. Iblees was dissatisfied to reach news of the “youngling”’s slipping and following with Korvan’s debriefing I set out with the instruction for my Sect to extract the boy from his seal and to return him to Drauchreich’s heart, in the Throne. I summoned two of my Inquisitors and we made our way from the Nether, headed towards where Korvan believed the fiend to linger. After disguising ourselves as musky peasants and traveling merchants, the three of us came upon the demon’s old graveyard beside the cliffside that harbored Nerezza. The stonemolder formed a shovel of pale crystal and dug away at where we believed the child to lie. After two days, the hole encompassed the urn which what we assumed hosted the hellion. Our excavator unscrewed the cap which housed the second cowl to the jar and then lifted the gloomy sculpture of the boy. We found him dunked and drowned in some jet liquid. I assume it to be Mephitic Ichor, although Wrothgar only made so much, unless the boy was taught its process as well. What perplexed us more than the child’s situation was his condition: Korvan nor I know why, but once we exhumed the demon we found his hair had wilted from its vibrant turquoise / teal to a dreary shade of mauve. As well, the child’s flesh had paled to a papery white. Disregarding the aesthetic alterations, one of the Inquisitors departed with the fiend to Drauchreim while the second and I headed to Kal’Agnar to quell brewing hostilities. Once I returned to the capital, trailed by two bound men and a chained woman -- a knight, a lumberjack, and a seamstress respectively, and headed from the tower to the Throne. I came to the heart, the three nearly melted to what they truly are; putrid flesh sacks of goo and festering disease by then by the taint of our home, and quickly got to work with Korvan. Refer to the text on lichdom for understanding the process Korvan and I used for returning the boy; we crafted a great catalyst to store the late child’s Mind and Soul. It’s an interesting prospect, for the only Pariah among Wrothgar’s brood and now Chancellor to bear such a great weakness. His permanent demise is upon an unsure horizon and with such lesser attunement to such a position his potential may be untapped or nonexistent.

“A blade, so dark, so twisted, that the unholy creation could be nothing short of a monstrosity committed by its maker.” Deep from within the unholy depths of the realm of Drauchreim, upon one of the many plains of the nether, a baleful energy pulsated and rose in potency with every tick of power it consumed. For the land in which the energy hailed from was one of great corruption, its aura radiating outwards as it continued to draw in the undying souls it had entrapped. For such had begun to satisfy its ever growing hunger, yet acted to serve as nothing more than a drop in the ocean of its dark master’s surplus. There from the ground, tendrils of shadow and flame arose, arching themselves upwards into the sky. They seemed to gather at a single point, before suddenly being drawn downwards towards a figure in the centre of the desolate plain. The land itself begun to dissolve into ash and dust, as its tainted energy was torn away. Meanwhile the eternal fires of the nether were quelled and drawn into tendrils of shadow, coloured in a deep shade of crimson red. The Prophet turned his silver gaze from the energy gathering above him to the altar of obsidian and gold, whereupon it rested an ornate sword. Its hilt was decorated with an intricate design, and upon its pommel rested an ivory eye. The blade itself was black as night and appeared to swallow what light passed it by. Yet it bore an empty feeling, as if it was only a vessel, awaiting its truest potential. The Prophet moved his hands slowly upwards, almost as if carrying some great burden. From there, he rested both his palms slightly above the blade, and from them channelled a great burst of shadow, flame and miasma. The energy quickly spewed forth, coating the length of the blade in a thick shadow. The blade itself appeared once more to swallow the dark energy, draining it hungrily, as it served to fuel the full extent of its power. The Prophet shifted his hands slightly, as his gaze now focused fully upon the sword, his stare unbreaking. Then the plain around him all but turned to ash and dust, as the tendrils seeped out from the ground once more. For soon there would be nothing left but the Prophet, a wicked blade and an altar in the middle of a desert of fire and shadow. At last the final tendril faded away, consumed by the blade. From its sharp edge, it now radiated an ever strengthening power, undoubtedly felt by all in the realm of Iblees. The Prophet ran a single skeletal finger over the blade, hovering it slowly towards the hilt, before grasping the full grip of his hand around it. He proceeded to lift it from off the altar, studying it for some time, before speaking, his voice in the form of a booming echo. “Awaken, bane of the living! Awaken, extinguisher of light! Awaken, Herald of Darkness!” As the words were spoken a single urge rose from the blade, growing ever in strength as he called to it. He felt the blade flair to life at last, its purpose shining like a beacon in the wasteland of dust and ash. The world will wither and die in the coming tide of darkness, and all light shall be devoured. This sword is but the herald.

The light around the campfire seems to dim slightly as the shadows of the forest linger amidst the bitter air, growing darker by the moment. The foul stench of death and decay slowly spreads itself along the treeline, halting around the small clearing where the cultists are stood. As the discussion continues on, animals, both big and small flee in seperate directions, as if faced with some unholy presence. As time passes, the shadows seems to grasp at the trees until all grows stil. What few murmurs of the group can be heard seem to fade to silence before they reach the outskirts of the clearing, swallowed up by the deep miasma of shadow. Only the clearing itself is without the unearthly presence, as it wades through the forest seeking out those not welcome.

Your Name: Hodor Grandaxe ((MC Name)): Luchian Candidates for Grand King: Grunmin Starbreaker ((Grunmin)): Fimlin Grandaxe ((worldiswar28)): X Lathros Oilbeard ((9coolman9)):

Loreh did nae 'ave tae toime tuu resist arrest, an' killin' dae 'oigh prophet ov' dae brathmordakin is nae tae woi tuu guh. Dae meanin' ov eh dvarven King is tuu serve tae people an' dae brathmordakin nae tuu shame em boff. Tis' is even doe yeh 'ave sumefin agoinst tae 'oigh prophet ye cannae just say dat dae King attest rashleh, 'er acted agoinst tae laws ov dwarves an' dae laws ov' dae brathmordakin! says Hodor ((om mye phone, so this is the best I can do))

Has been around for a good while, just used a different name.