Ibn Khaldun

Odoacer lights a candle, resting in his bunk in the Castle Priory of the Order of St Jude. He began transcribing the work.

Odoacer delivered a transcribed document in the city square of Winburgh. He continues to write his accounts of the Battle for Lemon Hill in the Castle Priory of the Order of St. Jude.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 The sound of a mallet echoed. "Pray for us!" With three more corners came three more strikes of a mallet whose refrain was 'Pray for us!'. The Priority of St. Jude swelled in numbers that evening; the recesses of its church and feast hall filled with members of the Order, clergymen & women, and families from the surrounding Veletzian country. The Grand Master of the Order, Halston, made the rounds followed by a select few of his members with carts and plates. Both food and talk they exchanged as they made a beeline through the feast hall to see to every person getting their fill of meal and drink. A page pushed through the crowds, poking his head over shoulders enough to look to and fro. "Halston! Halston!" the page cried, at the same time as a burly Highlander whose salt-and-pepper hair and aged features beckoned Halston to defer to him first. The page discreetly pushed towards Halston as the Highlander unsheathed his falx and pivoted the end of its blade against the floor and knelt. Halston felt a scroll of paper push against his closed hand and took hold of it. As the Highlander spoke, of avenging his dead kinsman and of pledging himself to the Order, he drew his gaze down to the scroll then unrolled between his two hands. Halston motioned for the Highlander to rise. The Grand Master embraced the Highlander by the shoulders and bade him meet him next day. He turned to find a table to stand on and stood. "Lemon Hill is under attack!" "To Arms!" "This heresy cannot stand!" As quickly as both church and feast hall filled, it emptied. Pages and squires ran from stable and armory, retrieving horse and armor for those men and women who composed the Judite contingent. Within the hour, a column of knights, spearmen, and archers rode away orderly from the Castle Priory towards Lemon Hill. As they passed Winburgh and Stassion, hedge knights and rangers decided to join. With night fully cast across the sky, navigating became difficult until the light cast by burning barns on the western face of Lemon Hill led them the rest of the way. Halston commanded the column to divide in three as they approached the burning structure which the Undead decided to take up as a defensive position. He gave the command of two columns to Sir Gaspard and Father Nerium while he took command of the third. Knights and soldiers advanced with one column marching around the building with its walls to their left, one column carefully entering the structure itself, and the last marching a wide flank around the foot of the hill and marching in behind the Undead force. Oblivion described the willingness the Undead fought with, they fought with an unwavering morale despite their defense being forlorn. As axe-head, blade, and spear bit into their bones and with a slowly caving barn-roof over their heads; the af Død dead-men with Deadmund as their leader tried as they could to oppose the Judite advance. Halston faced Deadmund, the former choking for breath with the barn filling with smoke yet the latter unmoved. A cavalryman crashed through the brittle barn-doors from the other side and tossed Deadmund forth; hoofbeats prying away ribs and appendages from his body as it stampeded in fright at the fire above. One of the soldiers grabbed Halston from the back, tackling him just outside the barn as the structure collapsed in on itself. They both looked up as soldiers chanted, cheered, and prayed with their foes dissembled and piled before their feet all around the destroyed barn.

@Chorale__ @Lirinya @Jentos feel free to hop in the Discord, I've got the sub-category for nomad planning up and a separate role to give. If we can come to a consensus on how the nomadic culture is written out and enough players take interest, I think we can try to get land from an existing nation on the periphery to test out the "lobbying" method similar to how the Order of the Dead Men lobby to provide their antagonist events and NLs get on board with the idea. Barring that, we can explore a lair method to get the land needed to set up camp.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 The sound of a mallet echoed. "Pray for us!" "Bidjanek GOD abo aingidiz!" [¹] With three more corners came three more strikes of a mallet whose refrain was both 'Pray for us!' and a foreign refrain in a guttural accent. The Priority of St. Jude swelled in numbers that evening; the recesses of its church and feast hall filled with members of the Order, clergymen & women, and families from the surrounding Veletzian country. Odoacer found a windowsill to sit on and thanked those members of St. Jude who ferried lemon cakes and sandwiches on platters; he bowed his head as he accepted what food he could get his hands on. "Are you from around these parts?" a short, stout man asked Odoacer; he approached him with his own share of meal and looked Odoacer up and down. "'Fraid not. I suppose I've no home at present having newly arrived here in Aevos. I lived in the village of Brigwindosdur in Almaris; a snow-packed hamlet that was founded above the cavern-pass into the Dwedmar colony of Khron'hundmar," Odoacer answered between bites. He chuckled and blew a few crumbs of cake as he saw the stout man look confused at the strange name for a village. "It means White Hill Village in Spraekjom, it is the language spoken by a tribe I once belonged to - the Cingedoz," Odoacer followed. "Cingedoz! I like them I do, my best mate Cunimund is one of 'um!" the man exclaimed. A woman dressed in clergy garb approached. "You niet heard the news? Cunimund ist dead," the woman confided. The man looked between her and Odoacer, his face sorrowful. Odoacer offered nothing in reply save for a thousand-yard stare that seemed to bore through the wooden walls of the feast hall. "How did he die?" the man asked. "Slain and beheaded, I fear perhaps by vampyres," the woman answered. Odoacer took in a sudden breath, his awareness returning in a rush. He craned his head to look for the Grand Master and whistled in his direction to call his attention. The man and the woman watched as Odoacer met the Grand Master halfway, withdrew his falx, and knelt with its blade against the floor. Some in the feast-hall turned and watched the strange exchange. "Justice must be wrought from eldritch hands. I, Odoacer, pledge myself to your Order. I cast off the mantle of arrogance and self-conceit and swear to serve humbly you and your Orden-members till my dying breath. I will hunt all that is eldritch and evil, the dēofoloz [²], endlessly for having ensnared my kinsman and slew him," Odoacer pledged sternly, his forehead embracing the warming surface of the falx-pommel. He saw from the corner of his eye the stout man mimicking the same action as he; the man named himself Boon in his own same pledge. The Grand Master looked between Odoacer, Boon, and a scroll passed to him from a youth who darted back through the feast-hall crowd. Odoacer and Boon stood as the Grand Master motioned them to. "Come to me the next Saint's night that I might accept your oath in full," the Grand Master explained, pausing before hoisting himself up on top of a table and announcing "Lemon Hill is under attack!" As quickly as both church and feast hall filled, it emptied. Odoacer jogged to a nearby stable and asked the stablehand to hasten preparing his horse. Within the hour, a column of knights, spearmen, and archers rode away orderly from the Castle Priory towards Lemon Hill. With night fully cast across the sky, navigating became difficult until Odoacer saw a burning barn like a beacon attracting him and the soldiers like moth to a flame. The contingent divided into three, Odoacer and Boon following the lead of a man who asserted a command; the pair followed Sir Gaspard in a right flank around the burning barn to find themselves face to face with Korfiz af Død. Odoacer withdrew his falx and held it over Sir Gaspard's shoulder like a billhook while Boon held his spear and watched the back and flank of their smaller unit. Sir Gaspard led the charge with Odoacer and Ser Bronwyn just behind him. Korfiz bashed Sir Gaspard back with his shield before Odoacer had time to bring the falx down to stop it; Odoacer took a one-two step as he lowered his falx to line up a thrust against Korfiz's collarbone. "Nemetagh Bodbmakos, lǣstanosju ek! [³] Venerated Bodbmakos, inspire my blade to heroic deed! For Cunimund!" Odoacer exclaimed & Boon repeated. Korfiz fell backwards as two soldiers came behind, one tugging him back by the chainmaille shirt and the other lunging for his eyesocket. Both Odoacer and the other soldier skewered the Undead peon, Ser Bronwyn cut into his thigh. Their enemy began to fall limp, folding at the joints lifelessly. Everyone recoiled away from the burning barn to their left as the roof collapsed in a last gasp of smoke and embers.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Night quiet fell upon Bodbwodz, a starry veil glimmered overhead. Cunimund closed his eyes as he felt mountain air buffet his mantle drawn across his shoulders. The cold feels good against my head after my feet walked the hot ash of the Fiendlands. He stood watch in the tallest of the thatch-roofed towers, striding from one end to one end; keeping watch across the valleys of the Reinmaren and the Crownlands. A cruel death that Um'thraka warned me about is farthest in this serenity. His head swiveled, looking over the meadhall to Sendrenx's woodwork shop, pausing and facing a figure pacing between crannogs capped with fur walking in from the north. "Ormar bjarga mér, this is the most civilized place I've seen!" the figure exclaimed, lofting a hand up as Cunimund made a motion with his carnyx warhorn in hand. "That is a first ta' hear, most find us ta' be on ta' precipice af' savagery compared to ta' Heartlanders who live in ta' valleys below from Lemon Hill ta' Whitespire," Cunimund remarked with an inoffensive chortle before greeting, "Wæshæl! No harm will come ta' ye' here." Cunimund looked the man up and down, dressed in thick Highlander garb more suited for winter than for temperate clime. He saw the man drum his fingers nonchalantly against a belt-purse laden with goods near to spilling out. "Ogbiju andlet oiman! We can sit in ta' meadhall down ta' hill a few paces so ye' can unpack wot' goods an' belongings ye've brought an' kick yer' feet up fer' a spell," Cunimund suggested, opening a palm in the direction of the establishment and waving the man through with the other. They both went downhill and reached the meadhall, the pair shuffling through stone mugs until two were found clean and filled them up with spiced metheglin. "Skál!" the man excitedly cried before downing an entire mug's worth of mead. He wiped his soaked beard with the back of a hand and began to undo knots along his belt purse; he had seal pelts, Hyspian bracelets of gold and sapphire, and octagonal coins of no distinct minting. In response, Cunimund stood up and fetched polished fragments of amber, rounded beads of precious coral, hides from bighorn rams, bronzen torcs, and a few books. The two sat at their table, sliding different goods across from one another as they negotiated an exchange. "The goat hide interests me, as does the amber, and the armhringr too," the man said, pointing to the bronzen torcs at the end of his statement. "I'll take ta' seal pelts an' ta' bracelets af' gold an' sapphire," Cunimund said with a tone of agreement. The two exchanged goods for goods, three seal pelts and three Hyspian bracelets for two pieces of amber, two rolls of hide, and two torcs with terminals shaped in the form of crows. "I have one question for you o' member of the Cingedoz tribe" the man began, leaning his head forward and removing his fur cap. He rested it gingerly on the table, the oblique bill facing Cunimund. Cunimund nodded, smiling with the exchange of trade and words. "I want to fight one of your tribe, is this possible?" the man asked, as matter-of-factly as he spoke while trading. Cunimund eyes lit up with full attention. "Would ye' accept me as duel-partner?" Cunimund asked in return. The man nodded. "Let us agree to an arm, a shield, an' a sidearm. Neh' armor an' we shall fight upon ta' earthenwalls facin' Merryweather," the two men nodded as they stood from the table in the meadhall. They went one after the other outside and towards the walls. "I assume like most southlanders, you are disinclined to a fight to the death?" "By mine honor, I accept t'is duel ta' be one to ta' death. Let it naught be known that a Cingedoz warrior flees ta' prospect af' perishing," Cunimund responded. By then, the two stood face to face, ten paces from one another. Cunimund, having chosen a falx as his main arm, brings the blade to rest flat against his nose and his lips embraced against frigid steel. "You are the first one down here to gain my respect o' Cingedoz," the man conceded as he removed his lamellar hauberk and woolen undershirt. His torso glistened in the moonlight with a dozen freshly healed-over scars; his arms and legs seemed like vine-stakes with swirling blue tattoos winding around them shaped in serpentine iconography. He held out a round-shield and held a spear underhand. The Baron began the duel with a single step, crouching slightly and holding his scutum shield forward to afford him coverage from neck to knee. He kept his falx-blade upright and behind the shield. His opponent stepped forward in unison, the two soon coming to clash. Metal against metal, Cunimund's opponent thrust his spear forward and struck against the boss of the scutum shield and worked it over the top of Cunimund's shield. The Cingedoz warrior ducked, pressing his right ear against the back of his shield and swiped his falx from edge to edge against the top lip of the shield; his opponent's spear clanked against the side of the shield as the falx pushed its shaft from over the top of the scutum. The opponent sidestepped as Cunimund pressed forward. Cunimund felt the boss of his opponent's round-shield drum him in the right shoulder, he continued with the momentum of his falx-swing and the opponent's hook to spin completely around and bore down falx-steel against spear-shaft. The Cingedoz took the opportunity to press his scutum shield against his chest as the opponent's spear was thrown back. He is smiling. The opponent hiked up a boot and kicked Cunimund with all his northern might. The shield whined, wood warping slightly, as the boot squarely met the shield and sent Cunimund wheeling backwards. The Baron winced, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he was sent flying into the earthenwall parapet; up and over the Baron fell off onto the other side. Um'thraka warned me that death would give chase to me upon accepting his grimoire, but this is a good death. A hale death dictated by honor. Cunimund gasped for breath as the wind was knocked out of him, having fallen off the wall and onto the snow caped ground below. Strong breath came to him before clear vision, a blurry figure grew to nearly encompass his sight. His hands reacted instinctively, gripping a cold shaft of wood that stuck out of his chest. Yellow-green eyes met his as his face froze, a death mask set in rigor. "Thank you good warrior. . ," the opponent bore witness. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Men, women, and horses streamed up through the Langkette Mountains towards Bodbwodz. Ser Ferdinand Barclay led a troop of Minitzers towards the Cingedoz village as towers of smoke teetered with the carrying winds lofted above. The first to arrive crossed themselves and bowed their heads with modesty. A decapitated body with an impalement wound bounced with all its dead weight, having been strung up from the earthenwalls that faced Merryweather. Scattered belongings including two books written by the Baron laid around a slight impression in the ground below. The firefighters passed through the walls and found crannogs, hovels, and towers crumbling in on themselves in a burning inferno. A single set of footprints and drag marks from stools dotted a beeline from the meadhall to the centre of the village. Only the runestone circle stood unaffected, though scorch marks from flame flashes and coughed embers streaked the limestone.

For you @Chorale__ and anyone else interested in the prospects of this project, I'll create a sub-category in this Discord to see we can throw ideas on the board and see what sticks: https://discord.gg/fmYNvhrxxJ

A topic that popped up recently (kudos to @Javertfor bringing up the discussion) regarding nomadic entities & player-groups on LotC has sparked my interest and an offer to any who would be interested. Would players like to see a detailed (culturally [with example], aesthetically and in terms of in-game presence) nomadic group on LotC? If so, would they be willing to play a main or alternate character as part of this group? I am not going to lead it (for the 100th time lmao), but I would love to help someone lead the group, create its lore, and generate innovative ways to keep players interested.

Before I start my reply, let me preface by saying that I respect your opinion and appreciate you replying in a neutral tone rather than a belligerent or defensive tone. Thank you: I certainly do not deny the existence of bad-faith actors. I do not know what all maps you have played on before retiring, I was only around for 1.0 Aegis, 2.0 Asulon, then helped firespirit44 run the antagonists in I think the 5.0 or 6.0 maps before returning last year to a semi-active playing position. I think it would benefit the discussion if we name and explain who the bad-faith actors are and give as detailed examples of their bad-faith actions as possible so we can identify "red flags" in general both from a player's perspective & moderation perspective. Perhaps it is the nostalgic & idyllic times of Aegis, but I personally have difficulty wrapping my head around the existing system of "warclaims." I think nomadic player-groups should forfeit the ability to "claim" land in a warclaim, but can "claim" a parcel of land to leave a camp if they succeed in defeating a sedentary nation. Likewise, perhaps harkening too much to the "Aegis" days, Im struggling to understand why an attacked nation wouldn't be able to find the nomadic camp and raze it to the ground. I think my question regarding naming and explaining bad-faith actors & their actions will go a long way to working through a lot of the consternation towards promotion of conflict roleplay. I remember when I returned in Almaris, a consistent issue I observed and anecdotally heard was the sheer sluggishness & stagnation of the map changing to reinvigorate interest in the majority of players who would be bored of only Slice of Life roleplay. I think players need to come to the table more to negotiate good-faith conflict and I am seeing it in this map: Petsch2k and his "Deadmund Order/Order of the Deadmen" undead-thrall group is a great example - he has negotiated with various nation leaders that he will attack, sets parameters on what he will do (if he fully succeeds in an attack) and does a good job fostering conflict where both sides have been enjoying it (see Petsch2k's ST application for anecdotal evidence). Cheers mate and have a wonderful week yourself! PS: I read your side note and re-read the thread. I wouldn't be opposed to nomadic groups being restricted from warclaims that "claim" land, if anything, I think culturally nomadic groups can reasonably be expected to avoid "settling" for cultural or other reasons.

I'm finna cry like this when I collect that tens of thousands in backpay minas.

I personally believe that good lobbying from good-faith players can usually overcome this obstacle. I have had good outcomes from simply sitting with Nation Leaders and negotiating reasonable "encampments" being pitched. I know you to be a good-faith player, so I will not interpret this uncharitably. The real-world consequences you speak of are actually more mitigated for nomadic civilizations versus sedentary civilizations. You also ignore the very obvious benefit of "waging war on a nomadic group" which is the promotion of conflict and to give players the opportunity to break monotony of SoL roleplay. This feedback is probably the most valuable regarding the topic broached by the OP. Nomadic roleplay is only as good as the members composing it and since nomadic roleplay tends not to feed into the nation system mechanics - you don't find a lot of players staying consistent unless they are driven by something other than the accrual of land, OOC clout, or min-maxing variables (though I abuse the use of the min-maxing part). TN_Turkey was actually part of the nomadic phase of the Cingedoz in the late Almaris map that, quite frankly, was bust given we were mainly composed of older semi-retired players who didn't give a damn about that land, clout, or min-maxing but had difficulty navigating the different migrations; so he speaks true about the matter. For the sake of putting my money where my mouth is. If there are enough players interested in a nomadic cultural player-group, let me know. I won't lead it, but I'll certainly write for it and will try to build connections between the smaller existing nomadic groups.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Night quiet fell upon Bodbwodz, a starry veil glimmered overhead. Cunimund closed his eyes as he felt mountain air buffet his mantle drawn across his shoulders. The cold feels good against my head after my feet walked the hot ash of the Fiendlands. He stood watch in the tallest of the thatch-roofed towers, striding from one end to one end; keeping watch across the valleys of the Reinmaren and the Crownlands. A cruel death that Um'thraka warned me about is farthest in this serenity. His head swiveled, looking over the meadhall to Sendrenx's woodwork shop, pausing and facing a figure pacing between crannogs capped with fur walking in from the north. "Ormar bjarga mér, this is the most civilized place I've seen!" the figure exclaimed, lofting a hand up as Cunimund made a motion with his carnyx warhorn in hand. "That is a first ta' hear, most find us ta' be on ta' precipice af' savagery compared to ta' Heartlanders who live in ta' valleys below from Lemon Hill ta' Whitespire," Cunimund remarked with an inoffensive chortle before greeting, "Wæshæl! No harm will come ta' ye' here." Cunimund looked the man up and down, dressed in thick Highlander garb more suited for winter than for temperate clime. He saw the man drum his fingers nonchalantly against a belt-purse laden with goods near to spilling out. "Ogbiju andlet oiman! We can sit in ta' meadhall down ta' hill a few paces so ye' can unpack wot' goods an' belongings ye've brought an' kick yer' feet up fer' a spell," Cunimund suggested, opening a palm in the direction of the establishment and waving the man through with the other. They both went downhill and reached the meadhall, the pair shuffling through stone mugs until two were found clean and filled them up with spiced metheglin. "Skál!" the man excitedly cried before downing an entire mug's worth of mead. He wiped his soaked beard with the back of a hand and began to undo knots along his belt purse; he had seal pelts, Hyspian bracelets of gold and sapphire, and octagonal coins of no distinct minting. In response, Cunimund stood up and fetched polished fragments of amber, rounded beads of precious coral, hides from bighorn rams, bronzen torcs, and a few books. The two sat at their table, sliding different goods across from one another as they negotiated an exchange. "The goat hide interests me, as does the amber, and the armhringr too," the man said, pointing to the bronzen torcs at the end of his statement. "I'll take ta' seal pelts an' ta' bracelets af' gold an' sapphire," Cunimund said with a tone of agreement. The two exchanged goods for goods, three seal pelts and three Hyspian bracelets for two pieces of amber, two rolls of hide, and two torcs with terminals shaped in the form of crows. "I have one question for you o' member of the Cingedoz tribe" the man began, leaning his head forward and removing his fur cap. He rested it gingerly on the table, the oblique bill facing Cunimund. Cunimund nodded, smiling with the exchange of trade and words. "I want to fight one of your tribe, is this possible?" the man asked, as matter-of-factly as he spoke while trading. Cunimund eyes lit up with full attention. "Would ye' accept me as duel-partner?" Cunimund asked in return. The man nodded. "Let us agree to an arm, a shield, an' a sidearm. Neh' armor an' we shall fight upon ta' earthenwalls facin' Merryweather," the two men nodded as they stood from the table in the meadhall. They went one after the other outside and towards the walls. "I assume like most southlanders, you are disinclined to a fight to the death?" "By mine honor, I accept t'is duel ta' be one to ta' death. Let it naught be known that a Cingedoz warrior flees ta' prospect af' perishing," Cunimund responded. By then, the two stood face to face, ten paces from one another. Cunimund, having chosen a falx as his main arm, brings the blade to rest flat against his nose and his lips embraced against frigid steel. "You are the first one down here to gain my respect o' Cingedoz," the man conceded as he removed his lamellar hauberk and woolen undershirt. His torso glistened in the moonlight with a dozen freshly healed-over scars; his arms and legs seemed like vine-stakes with swirling blue tattoos winding around them shaped in serpentine iconography. He held out a round-shield and held a spear underhand. The Baron began the duel with a single step, crouching slightly and holding his scutum shield forward to afford him coverage from neck to knee. He kept his falx-blade upright and behind the shield. His opponent stepped forward in unison, the two soon coming to clash. Metal against metal, Cunimund's opponent thrust his spear forward and struck against the boss of the scutum shield and worked it over the top of Cunimund's shield. The Cingedoz warrior ducked, pressing his right ear against the back of his shield and swiped his falx from edge to edge against the top lip of the shield; his opponent's spear clanked against the side of the shield as the falx pushed its shaft from over the top of the scutum. The opponent sidestepped as Cunimund pressed forward. Cunimund felt the boss of his opponent's round-shield drum him in the right shoulder, he continued with the momentum of his falx-swing and the opponent's hook to spin completely around and bore down falx-steel against spear-shaft. The Cingedoz took the opportunity to press his scutum shield against his chest as the opponent's spear was thrown back. He is smiling. The opponent hiked up a boot and kicked Cunimund with all his northern might. The shield whined, wood warping slightly, as the boot squarely met the shield and sent Cunimund wheeling backwards. The Baron winced, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he was sent flying into the earthenwall parapet; up and over the Baron fell off onto the other side. Um'thraka warned me that death would give chase to me upon accepting his grimoire, but this is a good death. A hale death dictated by honor. Cunimund gasped for breath as the wind was knocked out of him, having fallen off the wall and onto the snow caped ground below. Strong breath came to him before clear vision, a blurry figure grew to nearly encompass his sight. His hands reacted instinctively, gripping a cold shaft of wood that stuck out of his chest. Yellow-green eyes met his as his face froze, a death mask set in rigor. "Thank you good warrior. . ," the opponent bore witness. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Men, women, and horses streamed up through the Langkette Mountains towards Bodbwodz. Ser Ferdinand Barclay led a troop of Minitzers towards the Cingedoz village as towers of smoke teetered with the carrying winds lofted above. The first to arrive crossed themselves and bowed their heads with modesty. A decapitated body with an impalement wound bounced with all its dead weight, having been strung up from the earthenwalls that faced Merryweather. Scattered belongings including two books written by the Baron laid around a slight impression in the ground below. The firefighters passed through the walls and found crannogs, hovels, and towers crumbling in on themselves in a burning inferno. A single set of footprints and drag marks from stools dotted a beeline from the meadhall to the centre of the village. Only the runestone circle stood unaffected, though scorch marks from flame flashes and coughed embers streaked the limestone.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 In the space of a single inhale and exhale, a dozen hoofbeats drummed the earth and a half-dozen arrows whistled through the air. A thunderclap and a snap of a burning wooden beam broke Cunimund out of his daze. He instinctively reached for a javelin and held it overhand, yelling a challenge in his tongue before joining the back ranks of the Reinmaren cavalry wedge that narrowed and poured through a narrow street. Drumming and whistling made for a rhythm that the horses seemed to match as they charged towards Frankish horse archers who rode in a Cantabrian circle in between burning hovels; they turned what used to be a village on the periphery of Kanunsberg into a shooting gallery. "Werruekoz ach Frankaroz!" [¹] Cunimund watched one of the lancers in front of him buckle and be thrown off his horse; an arrow stuck out perpendicular to its front right leg like a weathervane. He released his javelin instinctively and watched as one of the Franks slumped from his own saddle with a wooden shaft half-buried in his back. The remaining lancers continued their charge, breaking off towards separate targets who feverishly tried to turn their horses and break off from the Cantabrian circle. Cunimund and other horse archers and javelineers in the back rank slowed to navigate the kicked up mud, writhing men, and the growing stream of villagers panicked and escaping burning hovels. A woman shrieked as Cunimund's horse reared, carrying a babe and a disheveled blanket laden with belongings. He yanked on his reins, redirecting his slowed steed through the traffic of friend and fallen foe. Arrows continued to whistle past, notably more off-target as the Frankish horse archers' cries grew fainter in the distance. Everywhere he turned, burning buildings blended together in the flame and smoke. He blinked away imagined images of Drauchreich that camouflaged against the very real sight of the Frankish-born inferno; he swore away those memories from his journey with Um'thraka through the Fiendlands.

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Anteutavahālig [Common: Dignified Boon] This unique Anteutavahalig has been commemorated in Year 150 of the Second Age and is a gift from Traskaath Dhrolo ( @DankuzMemuz ). This is a gift of Elvellyn medicine, provided by Traskaath of Nevaehlen for the good relations that the Cingedoz kept with the Wood Elves and aid rendered to expatriates of the southern forests.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 OOC Note: This particular roleplay instance is restricted in-game knowledge, not to be meta-gamed. A step through the threshold and Cunimund felt his foot plant, but saw the arch of his foot span towards the visible horizon. His breath caught as he visually experienced himself lurch forward into an archway filled with colorless black. In a split second, he felt a hand against his chest hold him in place as he and Um'thraka shunted through to a new plane. A second after, Cunimund felt himself lean forward half-expecting to fall and his breathing become agitated, excited. The elder Ork appeared next to him, still with his arm braced against Cunimund's chest, unflinching and unaffected by the sojourn between the mortal plane and where they stood now. The first step after the sojourn tossed fresh embers and smote wood up as if the earth beneath him belched the fiery remains of a forest fire. Cunimund's breathing grew exasperated as black dust choked him; his eyes welled with tears agitated by the odious air beneath a forehead already smearing with dust and debris. He closed his eyes and batted his lashes as ash blew with forge-bellowed winds and danced across the ground in front of him in little dust devils and harmattans. The surface of the ground both Cunimund and Um'thraka stood on spread unevenly, alternating in color between pitch black and a rich, striated orange one might see when an ember is fed a blown breath. The firmament above them ran the same alternating colors; the two of them had shunted into a cavern. Um'thraka bade Cunimund to follow, having found a solitary exit from the chamber they just arrived in. The two approached the mouth of the cave by shuffling against the cavern walls towards both sides of the opening. A dull, grotesque drumming echoed into the cavern they shared; its sound low enough to indicate a far distance. They both peered out and onto an expansive plain whose sky glowed a sickly pink and towered overhead starless and unremarkable. The Ork grunted and jabbed a thumb to the horizon where the sky and the open plain met. Cunimund's face sagged with the weight of forlorn and regret. Two-hundred yards from them marched a wicked host. The demons that comprised this host varied in size and in form; some marching on two feet while beasts of burden pulling unwieldy siege engines dragged them on four or eight feet. Some carried polearms and zweihanders with two hands while others carried smaller arms in four hands total. Their bodies were scored with eldritch tattoos and jewelry, some had grotesque horns and appendages of bone jutting out from their heads.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 A pack of children, under the watchful supervision of Cardinal Arnaud, had gathered at the bar and handed off to each other banter and drinks; they extolled the holiday of St. Godwin's Day and challenged each other to tell tales intended to frighten. The children gawked at Cunimund as he entered the Whitespirean tavern. Cunimund wore his bear-helm, a boiled leather helmet with a bear head mounted over the skullcap and an accompanying cloak made of bear fur skinned from the neck to the midsection with bear claws on both ends. The Cingedoz Baron took a seat and wrapped himself with the fur cloak, acknowledged first by Philip Laurent. "Have you a spooky tale to tell Baron?" Cunimund stood up then and leaned his head forward. The bear-helm cast a shadow over his own eyes as he lined it up straight on his head. His fingertips had a painted mint green hue where they met the helmet's surface. He swiftly leapt from his corner of the tavern to the bar, resting his hands on the shoulders of two of the children sat there. The fur cloak rolled over his hands and draped over the children's shoulders. What looked smooth of the fur cloak felt prickly against the skin and against clothing. One of the children gasped and expressed dread as if a spider teetered up and over their head. "There once wos' a mighty bear whose hide was needle-bare an' sharp to ta' touch like t'at af' a porcupine! Ta' bear could swaddle no cubs fer' its hide wos' too barbed, it left ta' ground beneath it torn as if toiled by farmer's plow. Threes would be scored by its needle-bare fur!" The other child whose shoulder the bear fur spilled onto winced and let loose a piercing shriek. Cunimund shrank away, a finger instinctively plugged into his affected ear. The fur felt smooth again to the touch. Philip comforted the panicked child and the other children gathered at the bar were stunned. "Very spooky, ea liked it!" "Thank you!" "It vas niet true zhough, zhe bear und zhe prickly hide?" Cardinal Arnaud looked at Cunimund incredulously as the question was posed to him. Cunimund shook his head, running his two hands against his enwrapped cloak and held out his palms; they looked smooth and without abrasions or cuts. "Nay! Ta' tale is merely made up an' mine fur is actually as smooth as one might expect. I slew t'is bear onta' Aaunic highway near ta' mountain pass between Minitz an' Whitespire after findin' ta' bear near ta' accostin' two travelers. As fer' how I made ta' fur appear so like mine tale, ahm' a magickal Bard! Ta' Cingedoz have an affinity fer' ta' magickal Bardic arts."

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Adelheid, Cunimund, Haus, and Philip sat altogether at a table in one of the corners in the meadhall. Stone mugs clinked against tabletop and hands slapped against shoulders and knees as the four bantered and spoke. Cunimund leaned an oil painting gingerly against a stained-glass windowsill adjacent to where they sat, thanking Philip for it while keeping the painting from any of the splashing mead tossed up between the four seated. "And what do you hope your tribe here advances? Will you one day have walls and stone houses spread across the mountain?" Philip asked between sips of spiced mead. Cunimund leaned forward, chortling abruptly. "Fat chance af' t'at! Mine tribe will always be af' ta' earth an' wood. Our earthenwalls do jos' fine. And we dun' have no fantasy in our minds ta' be a vast folk buildin' beyond our need. We have always been few in number an' comfortably so!" he exclaimed. A young Cingedoz page and another his elder entered the meadhall; the youth held a letter scrunched underneath a closed fist. The older Cingedoz, Owain ap Fawr, folded his arms with a look of mischief. Ambactorix, the page, unfolded the letter and held it mockingly like a Heartlander herald holding a scroll to read from. "His Lordship, Cunimund hal'Cingedoz, Baron of Bodbwodz," Ambactorix began, cheekily reading in a higher pitched voice the end of the sentence, "and his esteemed pedigree. . ," with a wiggle of his eyebrow as he looked first to Cunimund and then to his three other guests. Cunimund playfully acted as if poked in the gut, responding with an upright middle finger and a tongue partly stuck out. Ambactorix and Owain jovially did a quick square dance, facing each other and calling each other Lord & Laird; the dance done not of malice, but of jesting. Cunimund clapped a tune for the dance, slowing down as Ambactorix waved off his comedic skit and read the full contents of the letter in plainer tone. "They have t'eir traditions an' ways jos' as we have ours good Ambactorix an' Owain. They've dun' no deed whereby t'ey act to pry us from our own tradition. I dun' want any af' ye' lot calling me lurd or laird or any such title, I am merely a waxtolangoi or rix, but lord such titles o'er ye as if I expect ye' ta' kiss mine feet. I wouldn't even kiss mine own feet!" Cunimund counseled after Ambactorix read the letter in full, the end of his statement spoken in a lighter tone. "Richard wos' a good man. A man one could count on whether in battle or in distress. I wish his family none but ta' best."

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Adelheid, Cunimund, Haus, and Philip sat altogether at a table in one of the corners in the meadhall. Stone mugs clinked against tabletop and hands slapped against shoulders and knees as the four bantered and spoke. Cunimund leaned an oil painting gingerly against a stained-glass windowsill adjacent to where they sat, thanking Philip for it while keeping the painting from any of the splashing mead tossed up between the four seated. "And what do you hope your tribe here advances? Will you one day have walls and stone houses spread across the mountain?" Philip asked between sips of spiced mead. Cunimund leaned forward, chortling abruptly. "Fat chance af' t'at! Mine tribe will always be af' ta' earth an' wood. Our earthenwalls do jos' fine. And we dun' have no fantasy in our minds ta' be a vast folk buildin' beyond our need. We have always been few in number an' comfortably so!" he exclaimed. A young Cingedoz page and another his elder entered the meadhall; the youth held a letter scrunched underneath a closed fist. The older Cingedoz, Owain ap Fawr, folded his arms with a look of mischief. Ambactorix, the page, unfolded the letter and held it mockingly like a Heartlander herald holding a scroll to read from. "His Lordship, Cunimund hal'Cingedoz, Baron of Bodbwodz," Ambactorix began, cheekily reading in a higher pitched voice the end of the sentence, "and his esteemed pedigree. . ," with a wiggle of his eyebrow as he looked first to Cunimund and then to his three other guests. Cunimund playfully acted as if poked in the gut, responding with an upright middle finger and a tongue partly stuck out. Ambactorix and Owain jovially did a quick square dance, facing each other and calling each other Lord & Laird; the dance done not of malice, but of jesting. Cunimund clapped a tune for the dance, slowing down as Ambactorix waved off his comedic skit and read the full contents of the letter in plainer tone. "They have t'eir traditions an' ways jos' as we have ours good Ambactorix an' Owain. They've dun' no deed whereby t'ey act to pry us from our own tradition. I dun' want any af' ye' lot calling me lurd or laird or any such title, I am merely a waxtolangoi or rix, but lord such titles o'er ye as if I expect ye' ta' kiss mine feet. I wouldn't even kiss mine own feet!" Cunimund counseled after Ambactorix read the letter in full, the end of his statement spoken in a lighter tone. "Richard wos' a good man. A man one could count on whether in battle or in distress. I wish his family none but ta' best."