Esterlen

((excuses excuses you pub crawler))

((Please listen)) The inky blackness of time had claimed Ostromir, and while he may not have welcomed his death, the actuality was that a true crow never died in full. The curling tendrils of the epochs of time may have inflicted upon him a final end, but in their throes they had revealed much and more of the truth. A hard truth and a cold truth but a truth all the same had become apparent in the former king's final moments. The visions were disjointed and seemed if anything to manifest from naught but a grey mist, but their meaning was undeniable. Two boys sat upon rolling green hills, a girl standing over the smaller and weaker one as fiercely as she could. All three had ashen, coal-black hair - the Crow's Plume, some called it, but others would have called it the product of the inbreeding of an insular society. "You're just a stupid bore! I'm telling father!" The girl shouted, her tones biting acid. "Leave him alone, Milena," said the larger boy. He would have been eleven at the most, strong and robust for his age and handsome, but his skin was pallid and his eyes sunken. The smaller boy, who would have been around seven or eight, said nothing at all, his gaze transfixed sullenly on the dirt beneath his boots. "Don't make him cry." "A girl beat up Franjo! Poor baby Franjo! Is he going to cry to mother like a little baby?" Proclaimed the girl, a smirk writ upon her unsullied face. The larger boy frowned deeply, staring at her with an almost tranquil anger. "Leave him be. Or else I'll show you what it means to cry to mother." Intimidated by him, the girl turned about-face on her heel and promptly left, hiking up her skirts furiously as she did so. At last, the younger son spoke up, his eyes practically watering. "W-why is she so m-mean to m-me?" The older one shook his head. "She's jealous because you're a boy and she's not. One day father will marry her to some old man and you'll be free to do whatever you want." --- The slate greyness flashed through the void. Two men, this time, sitting across an oaken desk from one another. The one seated at the master of the desk's position wore a golden crown atop his head, the man opposite him donning a cuirass of linked armor covering his white and gold robes. They stared at one another, their steely conviction equally matched. "Da. I want you by my side, Franz," said the king. "Our work together, with borsa Tuv, Lane and Lord Maric, is unparalleled. We can rule this realm however we see fit! The world is our oyster, Franjo!" The robed man shook his head, looking downwards at the abundance of ledgers atop the table. "If it is your wish, I will follow. What of father?" "Papa is old," responded the monarch. "It would do old heart good to see baby Franjo achieve something, da. Or perhaps even wed." The younger man in robes smirked broadly at that, lifting his gaze to meet his brother and speaking. "Lady Amber is most fair to look upon, of noble birth and most clever. A suitable match, do you think?" "Suitable or unsuitable, I will have your desire done good, Franjo! Whatever it may be, you are a prince now and princes will have what they want." He gave him a toothy grin. --- It shot forth, this time to a pitch dark passageway, the stones lining its walls dank and dripping wet. A hooded monk bore the only source of light in the corridor, a heavy lantern that he held up to illuminate his surrounds. A regal-looking elder man stood opposite him, the cap of a Raevir boyar upright upon his head, a thick and spindly grey beard falling down to his waist. He spat out his words at the monk, disdain and disappointment mixed amongst them, his voice richly accented with the tones of Kralta. "You failed. Hopefully the Cross boy will atone for your mistakes." "He will. You must protect him." "I won't. You are heir to throne, but you will not take it. Nor will the boy. Good-nephew Heinrik will take it and do what you cannot and will not. My line has ended, and you abandon me, fool boy, you and your brothers. Tuvya flees and you make flee like coward." He continued, the words furious. "The last words your mother's father said to me were that 'The family is all, now'. He was a scheming rat, and even he had enough sense to see truth. You do not. You make me look like idiot, scourging Stafyr whelp like that. I saved the people, I killed the soft dragon-hatchlings, I won the war." The monk paused for a moment, contemplating his words carefully. "The war's not won." "The rebels are broken. Ostromir is dead, Milena a *****, Fyodor a cripple, you a coward. We will die, you and I, but you do not understand that the name must live on. The family is all!" The monk scowled, staring at his father with sullen, hateful eyes. "Whenever have you truly been concerned about the family and not yourself? You gave me a scepter but never taught me how to use it. You only gave me your word, and no man can rule without fear or gold or love. That is what the people give you with your every breath, what the people have never given me. Not one piece of it. And when I take it as when I scourged the Stafyr, you chastise me like some sullen child. Nay, I say that you are the fool." With that, the old man struck him across the face, sending him reeling back. His stern gaze settled upon the monk, his words hissed through clenched teeth. "Go. Flee. Otto is hiding, not dead. He will be king no longer under me." With that the monk and his lantern disappeared, plummeting the passage into utter darkness. --- The view changed yet again, as it had done so many times before. They were now on the deck of a ship, where a tall man stood next to the thick mast. A well-dressed little boy approached him full of confidence and ardor, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. "Uncle, can you tell me about my father?" The tall man turned to him and paused, seemingly contemplating what he would proceed to say. "Your father was a traitor and an evil man. But we must not speak ill of the dead. When you're older, I will tell you more of him." What enthusiasm the boy had vanished and he turned around, walking away disappointed and cowed. With a flick of darkness, the position changed again. --- At some high lord's lavish feast, roast swan and peacock, boiled apples and partridge pie were all laid out on a long table. The food was eaten-at and what leftovers remained were claimed by the smallfolk who worked in the kitchens. The feast was over and none remained in the great hall but two middle-aged men at the end of the table. One of them was handsome, though maimed with only one eye, and had a mane of thick black hair with a few streaks of silver in it. The other was rugged in a way, broad and almost bald with but a fringe of black hair. He had the ruddy complexion of an excessive drinker. The handsome one began to speak. "You must do it, Sigi. You would be a good king. A true king. Heinrik...Heinrik is a drunk, and a-" "That makes two drunk crows, Baz." The other man lifted his goblet of deep red, pouring the liquid down his parched throat. "The nobility would support you. Briarwood, Bedevere, Othaman would all rally to your cause. And me." The bald man lost his jesting smile, his eyes shooting daggers at his friend. "I will not raise my blade against my kin. I will not. The throne is poisoned." "The realm is lost in injustice, Sigi...you have to. For your family. For humanity. What law states that kingship must be the realm of the craven, the dishonest or the gullible anyway?" The balding man looked downwards, falling silent and raising a ponderous hand to his unshaven face. --- "Get these banners out of my keep." He did not have enough hair to grab at, so the soldiers had to restrain him by his arms. His crown was on the tiled floor, the ancient sword he bore in the same place. The crowd before him was wild in a mixture of fury and eagerness, screaming and jeering with hate not at his captors but at him. "If you want to do it, do it properly, damn you. Get a block and a greatsword." He had struggled with them, defiant to the end, his own blood splattered upon his face. "You don't deserve such an honour," said the man who had been sworn by every oath known to humanity to protect him. "Deliver the death blow, then. Kill me and be cursed, kinslayer." He spat at their feet and the cool edge of the knife ran across his throat. His limp body fell to the ground as the life ebbed out of it, and his last thought was of his homeland and his brother as he saw the one-eyed lord and the chancellor perish in front of him. Ostromir would never have failed like I have failed. And then he felt nothing. --- By the great hearth of Dragonsmark, the flaxen-haired justiciar tossed a raven-feathered scabbard into the flames. The weapon that the sheath had belonged to rested across his lap, straight until its point where it became wickedly curved. A hybrid between a knight's greatsword and a horseman's curved sabre, if he ever saw one. Lifting the blade aloft so he might inspect it better, Lothar Horen took note of the impeccable craftsmanship that had gone into the weapon. It was some of the finest steel he had ever seen, impossibly light and heavy at the same time, and its pommel was simple but of a beautiful design. He ran his index finger along the naked blade, smiling sadly.

((Pretty sure it's 1:30 PM. School time on a normal day, but obviously not on the weekend.))

((This.)) Ser Lothar the Darfeyist will most likely be attending provided he recovers from the crippling cough he has been afflicted with as of late.

Some more (somewhat less serious) snaps I've found from late 2012 through to mid 2013.

((My election services are always on offer, friendo.))

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gGLteEaPTgw "It's treason, then."

Lothar wonders if the grandmother he has never met is dumb, for she had birthed a multitude of children by Horen V that were including but not limited to: Owyn, William, John, Adrian, August, etc etc. (Of which William was the only one who really did anything, however ineptly he may have done it.)

"Actually, friend, this was established during the reign of Lucien II, Lord Radomir took an autocratic approach to the management of the Church," says Father John Natalis.

sorry this topic is no girls allowed :/ genderbender

Carduin 'Silversmile' Maeyr'onn does no weeping at this announcement - instead he simply smiles the sun's silver smile at his son Calendir, giving him a knowing look.

Isn't this the wrong Mel Gibson? From a completely different movie?

tycho nestoris

Ser Lothar the Darfeyist scowls at the sight of the anti-papal denunciation. "If he wanted to be taken seriously as a High Pontiff, perhaps he should not have taken the most accursed papal name in Oren's history."

Lothar nods in approval at the appointment of his great-grand uncle John of Darfey to the pontificate.

The news that his daughter Arianne may wed the future King of the Reach causes the heir to House Hightower, Garlan Hightower, a great joy. His father, Lord Banfred, is somewhat less impressed that his wife Amerei had the temerity to use his sigil without his consent despite the fact that as a result of her efforts his granddaughter might be queen some day. He does nothing, though, and retreats to the Hightower in quiet solace. Meanwhile Garth Hightower, Lord Banfred's third son, leads a small escort containing his niece Lady Arianne towards Hightower, to present her before the court and have her stay at the Reach's capital for a time so as to familiarize her with Crown Prince Luthor. Lord Banfred does not respond to the offer of a betrothal from House Royce, not wanting repercussions from its rival House Hoare whose tournament his son and grandsons are about to attend. As he is far too infirm to undergo the lengthy journey to the Riverlands, Lord Banfred raises the one-thousand Reachman knights he previously mustered and raises a thousand light infantry and a thousand heavy infantry, forming all three into a cohort led by Garlan, his heir. Garlan Hightower leads the cohort northwards so he might meet King Mern's host and join him in the field on their journey to Harrenhal, the lands of House Hoare, along with his eldest son Ser Damon, his youngest son the squire Mace, and his bastard nephew Ser Oswell Flowers. While he has an unfortunate repute for being somewhat slow and unperceptive, Garlan is also known for being much more reasonable than his father, and is a kind, amiable and gentle man who is well-liked within the Reach. OOC - ACTIONS TAKEN IN THIS POST - Arianne Hightower and her uncle Garth Hightower are sent with a small escort to Highgarden, where Arianne will be introduced to court and meet Crown Prince Luthor. - Lord Banfred remains infirm within his tower, beginning to delegate many of his tasks to more capable underlings. - Garlan Hightower, Ser Damon Hightower, the squire Mace Hightower and Ser Oswell Flowers proceed to join King Mern's host with their own on the march to Harrenhal, consisting of one thousand light infantry, one thousand heavy infantry and one thousand heavy cavalry.

"Was Anne Horen not Godfrey's sister who wed Lord James Hightower when he was Duke of the newly-conquered Salvus? I have never heard of this other Anne."

Whereas most high lords of the Reach were in attendance at the austere affair that was the funeral of Queen Margaery, the delegation from House Hightower of Oldtown was peculiarly small and unremarkable, headed only by Lord Banfred's bastard grandson by his third son, Oswell Flowers, as well as a handful of house guards. The bastard Oswell, when asked for the cause of his retinue being so small and lacking, stated simply that his grandfather's health prevented him from leaving the Hightower on extended journeys such as one to Highgarden, however to the cunning eye a more sinister reason could be gleaned from his words. There had been bad blood between Lord Banfred Hightower and the King ever since the latter passed up an offer to wed the former's daughter Janna and make her his queen. Lady Janna was passed up in favour of the Redwyne girl, Margaery, which House Hightower as King Mern's most powerful vassals saw as nothing but an insult. As if to get back at the royal line, Lord Banfred had refused to attend the Queen's burial and refused to permit any members of his house to attend in his stead. Instead, he sent his baseborn grandson to spite his liege lord. Oddly enough, the current Lady of House Redwyne was Hightower by birth, Banfred's niece from his younger brother, a marriage brokered by his father and predecessor. On the other hand, Lord Banfred's wife Amerei (Born of House Florent) had devised a plot that extended beyond merely spiting King Mern. Unlike her lord husband, Amerei Hightower understood that being friends with her liege would make for much better profits than feuding with him. As such, she compiles a missive to King Mern, signing it with Lord Banfred's writ: House Hightower does however obey the command of their liege and raises a force of one-thousand Reachman knights, although they cut as many corners as there are to be cut and endeavor to spend the least coin they possibly can. In addition to this, they send a response to those holding the tourney at Harrenhal, alerting them that Lord Banfred's son and heir Garlan will be in attendance. OOC - ACTIONS TAKEN IN THIS POST - Delivered an insult to House Gardener by sending bastard grandson Oswell in Lord Banfred's stead to the funeral of the Queen. - Requested that House Gardener's heir, the Crown Prince, wed Lord Banfred's granddaughter Arianne. - Mustered 1k heavy cavalry (Reachmen knights), costing 550 gold. Remaining Treasury: 450 gold. House Hightower members Lord Banfred Hightower [Age 71, wed to Lady Amerei] Lady Amerei Hightower [born of House Florent, wed to Lord Banfred, Age 63] Garlan Hightower [His first son, Age 47] Luthor Hightower [His second son, Age 44, Unwed] Janna Crakehall [His first daughter, wed to Lord Crakehall, Age 42] Garth Hightower [His third son, Age 39, Unwed] Lara Hightower [born of House Dayne, wed to Garlan, Age 39] Damon Hightower [Garlan's first son, Age 21, Unwed] Arianne Hightower [Garlan's daughter, Age 15, Unwed] Mace Hightower [Garlan's second son, Age 13, Unwed] Oswell Flowers [Garth's bastard son, Age 19, Unwed] Nathen Hightower [Lord Banfred's younger brother, Age 59] Lady Redwyne [Nathen's daugher and sole child, born Hightower, Age 23] ((Just taking over from Leland as Hightower, having been instructed to do so by Crackerjacker.))

Lothar Horen, Son of William III, Imperial Justiciar and Castellan of Dragonsmark

this is a VERY. emotional post for me we have had a beautiful friendship from the day we first met adeon zachariah francis fablenight from when the young pubescent adeon was being illicitly groomed by some disgusting elven pedophile to when hadrien met adult adeon and they both went on all sorts of adventures such as lynching adunians and elves o'malinor to when adeon slowly became more and more like geralt of rivia to when i was banned for what has been posthumously described as 'neo-nazism' and you were subsequently banned for pugsying never forget our friend and great ally adeon of rhoswen https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8jPg1n8st9Y