Esterlen

In the words of Noah Taylor as Locke from HBO's hit series Game of Thrones, that was a shameful f*cking performance. As strong as the characteristic Melburnian abhorrence for anything Australian that isn't Victorian may be, I was hoping in my heart of hearts that at the least the provincials would put up a decent fight and achieve victory. After all, the Sunshine state has produced its fair amount of my own idols - Joh Bjelke-Petersen and Bob Katter amongst them - but it seems my hopes were in vain, as they were promptly 'rekt' by the filthy New South Welshmen like some kind of cheap slattern. Bloody banana benders.

it gets bigger when i pull on it

Edmond doesn't understand.

((as my good friend al says, kingdoms are ruled by kings, if you restyle yourself to a more fitting and apt title for a city-state then it just increases the chance that the other realms wont want to instantly shrek you addendum: regardless of whether a city-state is under a monarchy, a city-state being solely a single holding/metropolis means that unless it possesses tracts of country its completely inappropriate to call it a kingdom not all monarchies are kingdoms, and a realm which is made up of a single city is hardly enough to warrant the title of kingdom. if you really want to go the monarchy/aristocratic root, then the title of baron is much more fitting as it refers to the lord of a single city/castle/holding, whereas a kingdom is a country made up of many holdings and a decent amount of land in-between and no using proper feudal titles doesn't necessarily mean you have to be under oren i dont see much of problem with you calling this the kingdom of ravinca, if you cede a bit more land, but calling yourself a city-state and also having a king doesnt mesh))

It was so said that the relics of Saint Adrian had seen more travel than the man himself had when he drew breath. It had been forty-four years since his death, and after his burial at Ard Kerrack the war between the Adunians and the Raevir had left his resting place a swamp, a muddy wreck of debris. Still, his faithful nephew Arjen had dug up his skeletal remains on the command of Emperor Sigismund and entombed them at the priory of Cavan, at that time managed by Prelate Zacarias de Mosquera. Before the flood had struck Anthos, Arjen's son Maurice had broken open his tomb at Cavan and placed him in an oaken casket, carrying him on a litter to this new world, where he had died at its side. The legacy of de Sarkozy had been lost to the wind. Saint Adrian's second daughter was Sigismund's empress whose name was lent to the Sarkozic line of Carrion, but other than that the scholarly saint's legacy had ended. Even in Leuvaarden, the memory of the dreaded Maurice the First slowly faded out of the people's minds. Only the bastard son of a bastard son remained. Nevertheless, Maurice the Second found his absolution in death. Despite all his flaws, he died repentant of all his sins. From the Seven Skies, Saint Adrian welcomed his grand-nephew with open arms. Arjen and Maurice had been the dutiful, loyal sons he never had, the sons that his own sickly sons could never have been, and for that he loved them more than anything.

((This is Imperial-perspective lore. In the Imperial perspective, Harren was Horen's bastard by an elf who was dethroned by the rightful heir, his trueborn brother Owyn. If you do not like the Imperial perspective, write the Adunian perspective. CasualGhost isn't dictating anything.))

Edmond de Savoie furrows his brow, almost unable to comprehend that one of the savage and base negroids of the Far South has the audacity to denounce the 'barbarity' of the Raevir people. That, he thought, was hypocrisy of the highest accord. The blackskins had no place in this country, for they were base by their very nature, prone to worshiping animistic idols and consuming human flesh. Backwards and bestial, devoid of personal hygiene and capable of fashioning only the most simple rock spear, it was almost fact that they themselves were inferior to all the other mannish people, Heartlander or Highlander.

"Good man like Hadrian Fitzroy would never do such a thing," says Jean.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fSXr8_kXWa0 Schlomo's clever scheme...

this is so cool and thoughtful thanks knightei...

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DPMqmoUwzCc&feature=player_detailpage#t=70 19th of the Sun’s Smile, 1424 - 4th of the Deep Cold, 1460 Ser Lothar was a man fueled by cynicism. The world had not been kind to the knight. Born a bastard Jrent to an emperor it seemed the whole world hated and the daughter of a dispossessed nobleman, from his very birth he had been sequestered away in monasteries, and when he came of age he hastily earned a knighthood from Otto of Renatus, boarded a ship and fled the realm of man, undertaking a wild quest of which few knew the details. No god had helped him, no king had helped him, so the knight had resolved to help himself. He had no illusions, he saw that the world was not just or true, but he knew he could try to deliver what stark justice where he could. There was no room for arbitrariness or weakness, there was only right and wrong. Those who did good deeds needed to be rewarded, and likewise those who undertook ill works needed to be punished. He had fought a dragon in Khazav alongside Joren of Greywyn and his contemporary Siguine, but no challenge he had faced in the lands of the Autumn Sea could compare to his true purpose. A man had to have a code, and so when Olivier de Savoie ensured his appointment to the position of Justiciar under the new empire of the sparrows, Lothar jumped at the chance to preside over trials and give the people of Oren what they might not have wanted but needed - not food, nor shelter, but justice. In a way, he had done that. He turned against his blood, John of Darfey, in favour of his liege where lesser men would have proclaimed ‘neutrality’ or joined their relatives without a second thought. His blood or his lord - that was a difficult decision for him to undertake. John of Darfey’s sins were many, that was without a doubt, but nevertheless they had shared a family name. The scorching sun of the Fringe shone down upon Lothar as he and his escort lingered on the outskirts of Alras. He was clad in his boiled leather jerkin, a departure from the usual suit of plate-mail he wore while presiding as justice. There would be no need for armor here, for this was a mission of peace. The knight detested those of the ‘Krughanistan Bloc’ as much as any good Imperial, and he detested diplomacy likewise. To him they were a rabble of lack-witted abhumans who ought to be taught a lesson in government, but the justiciar had been sent to parlay with the Alrasians and would undertake this task with what vigor he could muster. They had sent a message to the merchants in advance, and their party awaited on the other side of the river, ready to escort him into the city. At last, the Alrasian party gave the signal for him to approach and Lothar proceeded alone across the bridge to treat with them, his modest cohort remaining behind. With pensive strides he reached the other side of the crossing. A human man took a few steps forward to greet him. “Justiciar Lothar, sir. Remember me? I was with you in Mt. Augustus. One of the Goldcrow’s men, do you recall?” The knight furrowed his brow, his eyes narrowing as he attempted to recall the Siege of Mt. Augustus. His final foray that day had resulted in him being peppered with arrows from all sides, just barely surviving, but nevertheless the Goldcrow had succeeded in defending the mountain in the face of the oncoming Lucienist hordes. He gave a slow nod of recognition, finally recognizing a man who had in recent times doffed his red bandana. “Aye...of course. What are you doing here of all places?” “Working for the Krughani, sir,” the soldier said. Lothar had scoffed at that. “I know sir, it’s not the Jolly Ruskans, by no means, but a man’s got to earn his salt though, eh?” “True enough,” retorted the knight, his lips pursed thinly. He glanced at the armed men who made up the Alrasian delegation, noting a peculiar lack of robed diplomats or perfumed seneschals. “What’s all this then, soldier? Not much of a welcome party.” The man looked around somewhat nervously. “You know the Alrasians, sir. It’s just their way. Funny people.” “Aye, they are. Onwards, friend.” The justiciar extended his hand to the soldier, who shot back the gesture, firmly grasping his palm. After a few brief moments Lothar tried to pull away, but the soldier held fast onto his wrist. The knight looked him in the eye, at last understanding the situation as the mercenary ripped his dirk out of its sheath and buried it deep into his stomach, impaling him on the blade. Lothar gave a heavy grunt as the soldier knocked the wind out of him, doubling over on his arm. He went light-headed, moving to fall to the ground, however he was supported by the man as he continued to force the knife into him almost apologetically. When the assailant at last removed it, red ichor poured out of his wound staining the dust and dirt. The knight fell to his knees in silence, just barely remaining upright. Clutching the hole in his belly, he looked upwards at his would-be killer. The mercenary took a step back, discarding the dirk as one of his companions offered him a heavy axe, as thick and wicked as a butcher's cleaver. Taking it from him hastily he brandished the weapon, holding it aloft in the air. Lothar had conducted this kind of procedure before countless times, never once suspecting he would meet his own end by it. In defiance, the bastard knight held his neck high as the soldier swung at his prostrated form, taking his head clean off with a single blow.

koto, cruz and kai = pretty cool gemmylou and irenefortytwo = kinda cool everyone else = really dumb

Upon finishing his bi-annual game of jeu de paume with Vibius, Ser Lothar congratulates him with a jocular tap on the shoulder.

ths slight can never be forgotten

Ser Lothar the Darfeyist cries internally, amused at this pathetic display by a race that is not in actuality real.

I appreciate your inclusion of Baron Killblitz

The House of Horen recognizes the ecclesiastical and spiritual primacy of the Emperor as Viceregent of the Faith, and welcomes and accepts the Church of the Reformed Communion, as well as its dogmas and doctrines, as per the Emperor's wish. Ser Lothar of House Horen, acting on behalf of Lord Crius,

((there are a lot of sigmunda carrions, you dont wanna get them confused))

Edmond de Savoie mulls over the texts in his office, deciding to pass them on to the Viceroy, his brother, and send them off to Crown Prince Robert.