Sham404

Uhtric Vildr reads the missive, carefully places it back upon the noticeboard, and spits upon the ground before it. "This is not the Norland my ancestors fought for. Attacking fishermen and stealing their children... Unworthy." He swiftly returns to the Vildr home, and begins work on his own announcements.

Below is a short story i wrote a while back, it was meant to be a snippet of a larger project. I never got around to doing a 2nd draft of it Bitterbite Bay “You must be mad. If each ship is fully manned, we don’t have the numbers for a victory. It’s more than two to one!” Said one of the officers, voice low. The words were almost stolen by the northern wind, and from his position Kellan had to strain to hear them. The five of them lay just behind the crest of a snow-laden hill, covered in blankets to stave off the cold of the winter night. Beyond their position, the hill stooped to a white beach and from there began a bay, which was the target of their attention. Though it was the early hours of the morning, a clear sky and full moon gave them good vision of their would-be prey. “Watch your tone boy. If you keep your men quiet, we can take half of them before they have their trousers on.” Said Eldan, Kellan’s second in command. The old man had been grimacing since they took position, and Kellan could almost hear the creaking of his bones as he adjusted himself on the hillside. If not for the snow-dusted blankets he would have been hard to spot, pale hair and beard blending him into the landscape. But his words sparked further discussion and argument between him and the two young officers, which brought back some vigour to his countenance. They had been observing from there for some time, Kellan remaining quiet as his officers debated their best course of action. Mira had held her opinions to herself for the most part, though now weighed in to support her father’s plan. “Heavier weather is on its way, and with it will come clouds. With luck and swift movement, it can be done.” She interrupted the arguing men, drawing their attention. Corin spoke again. He lay furthest from Kellan on the hill, as the most annoying and most cowardly of their complement. “We don’t have the numbers to make it clean.” “Damn cleanliness boy, it’s a war.” Eldan put in, waving a hand backward to where their regiment camped. “Some of these men will go home, some won’t. The sooner this ends, the better odds they all have.” “And if this goes badly, there’s a good chance none will return home.” Concluded Harrik, the last of their five. He was young, but he had potential as an officer. A solid head on his shoulders, liked by his men, but rather unoriginal as far as Kellan was concerned. They fell into silence again, looking out to the bay. A dozen dark, sleek shapes sat in the water. Galleys bearing colours of the Nysan Empire, the active enemy of their people for the last three years, though they had been a threat and a thorn for generations. The leader of the enemy flotilla had shown a lack of local knowledge and anchored them in Bitterbite Bay, and Kellan hoped that this mistake would be their undoing. Twelve new ships for the Royal Fleet would certainly reflect well on him. Honours, rank, favours, all good things to have in the Kingdom of Camlorn. His mind made up, Kellan broke the silence. “We take the ships.” His words brought a grin to Eldan’s face, a sad smile to Mira’s. Harrik merely nodded in resignation, while Corin’s face betrayed terror. “Prepare the men, the next night with heavy clouds we make our move.” The four officers began to shuffle back from the hilltop, Eldan moving slowly and grumbling as his limbs woke to the cold. When they were down far enough to stand without the risk of being seen, they did so, Mira helping the old man to his feet before looking back at where Kellan remained prone. She waited for the others to leave, before making her way back to his side. He felt her warmth as she came to rest against his flank, though didn’t turn his attention from the ships below. “Do you really think the war will end sooner because of your actions alone, Kel?” Her voice betrayed concern. It was not for the lives of their men, he knew. “If the Empire has no ships, they can not come to our shores.” Kellan dodged the heart of the question, knowing it led to a conversation they had had many times before. “If my actions weaken them, then yes. I can end this war.” “Father was a bad influence on you. Made you reckless.” “This course of action was inevitable regardless of his presence. With a victory like this, I can get the men some better treatment. Warmer clothes, better food. The King loves heroes, he makes sure any that bring him glory are looked after.” “I don’t want you to throw your life away for glory, Kel. Tell me this isn’t about you, your glory.” He remained silent at that. The questions were pointless, she knew him well enough to figure out their answers. Instead, he shook the snow from his cloak and started to crawl back toward the camp. Mira followed in similar silence, following as they started walking back through the bare trees towards their encampment. Despite ordering no open fires in the camp and the night darkness, it was simple enough to find, the path to the bay being well-trodden by his company of officers and their scouts. Snow crunched underfoot, with the occasional dark shape in the wilderness around them fleeing from their passage. It took nearly an hour to reach the camp, and it passed without a word between them, and Kellan enjoyed that peace while he could. The scurrying nightlife, the rattle of the winter wind through the trees, the cold burn on his cheeks and numbness in his toes, all reminded him of simpler times. Not better, just easier to understand. Mira’s presence shadowed him, stopping when he stopped, and not for the first time he wondered if this time it was their difference in rank or their past that kept her quiet. A bird call sounded in the woods, bringing a wry smile and a raised eyebrow upon Kellan as they walked. He noted that Mira did not seem to pick up on it. Not long after, the palisade came into sight. One of his sentries greeted them at the gateway, offering shaking salutes to the two officers in turn. The man was slim, though they had all lost weight in this winter campaign. Kellan noted his cloak seemed too thin for the late watch, seeing that the man was suffering in the cold. “There’s a scout out there that just made a warning call as a robin. It's night. Ensure they are reminded that a nocturnal bird would be more appropriate.” Kellan instructed. Another day he might have had the scout thrashed for such a mistake, but morale was already low enough. When the guard nodded his acknowledgement, Kellan removed his own cloak and thrust it upon the man. “And in future, ensure you are properly attired. You can’t stand guard if you freeze to death. I expect this to be returned to my quarters by dawn.” The man nodded again, eyes downcast as he wrapped the cloak about his shoulders. Kellan felt the immediate bite of the wind now that he was deprived of his cloak, though quickly turned away from Mira who had started to remove her own, and walked toward his tent at the centre of the camp. She chased after him, the two passing rows of tents filled with sleeping soldiers of the Kingdom. According to their ledgers, Kellan was in command of nine hundred and seventy-three men, not quite the full regimental complement of a thousand. While their numbers from battle were replenished when possible, in the winter they lost many to sickness, and the cold. Even in the deep night, the camp was alive, patrols made their way through the maze of tents, while some groups of soldiers played dice, and cards, or pursued whatever activities they had no time for in the day. Kellan knew at least one of his soldiers was paid by the others to put together letters home, and saw that man scratching energetically under the moonlight. His thoughts trailed to his own home for a few moments, far both from his person and from his heart. He barely lingered upon it before turning his attention back to the now, and the flap entrance to his tent, warmth, and bed. He reached to enter, almost forgetting about Mira until she spoke up. “Kel. It’s…cold.” It was a simple enough statement, but laden with complexity. He turned his gaze on her, seeing who she used to be. Remembering what they had been to each other, and how that had ended. “Yes Mira, it is.” He answered, his hesitation prompting her to take a few steps toward him and his doorway until he raised a hand to stop her approach. “Stay warm.” Kellan advised, then swept into the tent. As the flap fell into place behind him, the change in the air was immediate, from biting wind to the almost cosy warmth within. Two braziers smouldered in the tent, giving off a hazy heat that prompted Kellan to strip his gloves and hold his hands out to one of them. The snow that rested on his boots, beard and hair began to melt, creating a small puddle around his feet. Kellan glanced towards his bed, upon which had been laid a towel and fresh clothes for him, drawn from the storage chest that lay against one wall of the structure. While transporting all the furniture did slow the regiment somewhat, being an officer had its advantages. His fingers tingling from the change in temperature, Kellan moved from the brazier. The tent was equipped with a table and chairs for dining, a desk burdened by maps, letters and papers in addition to quill and ink, and finally a stand bearing his arms and armour. Kellan made his way to the desk and grabbed the map of Bitterbite Bay, marked with the shapes of the long Imperial galleys. “Twelve ships, two hundred men a piece, if fully manned. A hundred of them oar slaves.” He mused aloud. At this stage in the conflict, it was rare for the ships to have a full crew complement - able bodies were too valuable in the bloody battles that raged from spring to autumn. And yet, the ships had sat low in the water. “Very well. A hundred fifty per ship in the first assault gives us six, should surprise hold.” Kellan began to scratch upon a fresh sheet, his spidery script weaving across the page to leave behind a breakdown of the numbers to be employed, and under which officers. Kellan had never taken much to writing, and he grimaced rereading the ugly work. It would suffice, and his subordinates were well used to his scribbles by now. Leaving the paper to dry, Kellan stripped. A bowl of water lay upon the table for him to wash, though it was unpleasantly cold upon his face, no doubt made from snowmelt. Eventually settling himself into the bed, sleep came quickly to him, ushered in by thoughts of slaughtered Imperials. * * * The morning brought heavy snowfall and grey skies, clouds swelled with potential. As the regiment mustered, Kellan could not help but smile. “Perfect conditions, if it holds up.” Eldan said at his shoulder. They both knew it, but it was likely said for the benefit of Corin, who stood behind the two. The young officer had reacted poorly to the news that he was to be part of the first wave aboard, despite assurance from others that it would be an easy command. “When the time comes, I want you in reserve.” Kellan changed the topic, giving the instruction quietly, knowing how the veteran would react. “It’s only seventy men, but they may make the difference if things go badly.” He added, and waited. He felt Eldan looking at him, but kept his attention on the men. Today would be an easy day for them, he needed them fresh for the night’s activities. But easy did not mean lazy. “I know I am getting old, Kellan, but…” Eldan began, though a glance from Kellan stopped him from continuing that line of argument. “Ah, here’s where you say ‘As my most experienced officer, that’s where I need you.’ Isn’t it? I won’t waste my breath on you then. Just make sure my little girl is safe.” At that, both looked at Mira. She and Harrik were making their way up and down the forming ranks of soldiers, making liberal use of their canes to smarten the lines. After more than ten years of military service, and being raised by Eldan before that, Kellan stifled a laugh at the idea of calling her a little girl. “She would not have me do her any favours.” Kellan answered eventually, patting the old veteran on the shoulder. He noted that his words brought a frown to his old friend’s face. “You know I love you both as my blood. But on to duty now.” Mira had raised her cane, signalling that the men were ready to be addressed. Her expression indicated they were just barely good enough by her exacting standards. Kellan stepped onto the upturned crate that would serve as his podium and cleared his throat. The slightly elevated position gave him a view of most of his warriors, and his gaze wandered across a sea of pale, gaunt features. Three months in the winter countryside had been hard on his men, blessed as they were with guarding the eastern shore of Camlorn from Imperial incursion. They all knew that the glory lay in the south, where the bulk of the enemy had occupied their cities. Kellan knew the men wondered what their commander had done to get this posting. He wondered too. “Not for the first time, welcome to the arse end of Camlorn.” A few of the men laughed, a dry and subdued attempt. “I have good news. Our friends from across the sea have once again shown their lack of familiarity with our northern winters. In Bitterbite Bay are anchored a dozen galleys of the Imperial fleet, and the gods have sent cold winds to punish their commander for his stupidity.” A few of the warriors familiar with Bitterbite had caught on, though others remained unsure of what Kellan was getting at. “The Bay has frozen through, its shallow waters now host some very large, very trapped, Imperial ships. Out of sympathy, I shall be sending you to aid their captains with this problem!” A ragged cheer rose from the ranks at that, followed by a few laughs. Already Kellan could feel the improvement in morale - what a difference it made to have an enemy nearby. “Tonight, we will introduce ourselves. Until then, I need you to prepare yourselves. Tomorrow, we will celebrate a great victory for the realm.” * * * With the regiment put to work, the day had passed quickly. Continuing snowfall had piled drifts about the encampment long into the night, and now that the time was near, Kellan felt anticipation crawl up his spine. At various points along the shoreline of Bitterbite Bay, his regiment waited for the signal to move towards the ships, six squadrons to take six of the ships, and Eldan in command of a seventh. Kellan lay upon the hill from which he had earlier spied his prey, though he was now clad in thick armour for the coming battle. Moonlight streamed down through a gap in the clouds, catching upon snowflakes and steel, giving Kellan just enough light by which to see the torchlight of the sentries upon their ships. “Steady lads.” He murmured, though only a handful were close enough to hear his words. Most were armed with axes and shortswords for fighting under the galley decks, though a dozen or so carried bows. Others were equipped with ropes and grapples, while the outline of hastily made ladders could be seen resting in the snow. As he watched the dark clouds track across the sky, Kellan sent up a prayer to whatever gods were listening. Let it be enough. Let me be lucky. All fell into darkness as the moon fell out of sight, and Kellan rose. Over a hundred men rose with him, grabbing their tools and weapons, and rushed forward. Looking across the bay, Kellan saw the rest of his officers follow his lead, a tide of dark shapes flooding toward the frozen bay. They hit the ice at pace, though there was a slight hesitation as the weight of a thousand men loaded onto it. They all knew how capricious winter water could be, but after a moment it seemed it would hold well enough. Feet crunched into ice as they ran, their heavy boots adorned with studs, nails, stretches of chain or fragments of arrowheads, anything from the camp that could offer additional grip on the ice. Kellan had selected the commanding vessel for himself. He could have done so for any reason, as the commanding officer, and though he claimed it was to benefit their strategy, they knew it boiled down to his personal glory. To his left, Mira had almost reached her target, preceded by a few select arrows which dropped the watchmen. Kellan watched as she raised her own bow to release a shaft into a dark shape on the rigging, followed by the thud of them landing on the deck. He signalled his own archers, who stopped upon the ice to snipe the sentries upon their ship. Kellan kept running, before skidding to a stop at the base of the ship. Icy tendrils snaked up its flank, holding the ship secure in place. A cocktail of relief, apprehension and excitement in addition to the sprint had set his heart racing, accompanied by a slick of sweat down his back, which quickly began to cool. Glancing back, he saw an assortment of dark shapes scattered on the ice and chuckled to himself. Not all of his warriors were graceful on the ice, and their makeshift crampons were not all equally effective. Harrik’s men were already aboard their ship, while Corin’s seemed to be halfway up their ladders. “Let's hurry it up, lads! Can’t be the last to take our ship.” Kellan half-whispered, jumping on and rapidly climbing one of his ladders as soon as it made contact. He launched himself over the rail, landing in a crouch and quickly stripping the studs that were strapped to his boots. His landing had been far too loud, his eagerness getting the best of him, so he drew his weapon - a vicious spiked axe - and crept toward the doorway at the rear of the ship. His unit followed, making their way to the various hatches down the length of the galley. They padded far more quietly than he had done, but it seemed the damage was done. Just as Kellan reached the doorway, it opened. A heavily armoured figure began to emerge, though Kellan’s axe took him in the neck, sending him tumbling back inside. Kellan followed, his men ripping open the hatches elsewhere to flood within. It didn’t take long for his eyes to adjust to the shadowy interior, aided by a flickering lantern hanging from the ceiling. The dead warrior clattered to the floor of the cabin, and Kellan had but a split second to take in the familiar insignia on his armour before his attention was occupied by the other three figures in matching dress inside the room. “Back so-” One began in Imperial, looking up from the cards that lay upon the crate between the three men. A curse began on his lips, though was arrested by the spike of Kellan’s axe, thrust into his throat as the officer leapt forward. The other two reacted quickly to the sudden attack, one rose to grab at Kellan, the other turning to where a large scabbard rested to draw his weapon. The first man was smaller than Kellan, but faster, managing to grab his wrist and stop him from swinging the axe. Kellan heard the rasp of a sword being drawn, and stepped into the small man, drawing his knife and slamming his forehead into the nose of his enemy. The man reeled, releasing his wrist in time for Kellan to duck as a length of steel swept over his head. His second opponent was large, wielding a two-handed blade, and had recovered from his wild swing quickly. Sounds of fighting elsewhere in the galley reached Kellan, and he turned his attention back to the smaller man. His nose was crushed almost flat, blood beginning to flow freely from it, and he had drawn a long dagger from his belt. Kellan judged him the more dangerous of the two and sprang into action. Eldan’s lessons came to mind - when you’re outnumbered, it’s always better to be on the offensive. Moving toward the smaller man, he tossed the knife at the face of the larger opponent, though when the warrior raised his sword to deflect it, obscuring Kellan for just a second, he changed direction, springing forward with his axe reversed to land in a crouch and slam it into the foot of his opponent. The spike cleaved through flesh and bone, prompting a roar of pain from the large warrior, and Kellan rolled past pulling the axe out as he went, narrowly evading the retaliation of his target. Rising to his feet, Kellan raised his axe into guard and grinned. Then the door at the back of the cabin opened, revealing a middle-aged, well-dressed man. The richness of his person was apparent by the assortment of jewellery he wore, with only a golden-hilted knife stuffed into his belt as a weapon. His arrival drew the attention of the smaller man. “What’s happening, Jamari? Who is this?” The man’s gaze flickered from the two armoured warriors, to Kellan, to the two corpses, and back to the smaller man, Jamari. Even in the dim light, the draining of blood from his face was apparent. “Master. We will handle this intruder. Please retire,” Jamari responded, turning to walk towards the door. He reached for the handle, gently pushing it closed. “Forgive me. It is unseemly for you to witness this violence.” The door remained open, as the blade of Kellan’s axe lodged itself in the back of his head. Across the room, Kellan turned his attention to his final opponent, rather pleased with the throw, though it now left him unarmed. The Master’s jaw hung open as Jamari slumped against him, recoiling as the axe brushed against his robes. After a moment he gathered himself enough to order the larger man, “E-Esau…please kill him!” Esau nodded his silent assent and attacked. Though clearly competent with his choice of weapon, it was not made for the close quarters of the galley confines, and the injury to his foot hindered his movement. “Surrender and you can live. I know what you are. You will be valuable alive.” Kellan offered, knowing it to be in vain. Regardless, it bought time for him to think. He didn’t know how many more of them were on this ship, or what might be on the others. As quickly as he had taken these three down, surprise had been much of it, and only he, Eldan and Mira had experience fighting the Imperial Guard. There came no answer from Esau or his Master, and so Kellan struck. Stepping forward he baited the large man to swing at him, leaning back to allow the strike to sail past and embed itself in one of the ship’s beams, though the force of the blow almost splintered through it. Before Esau could withdraw his weapon, Kellan rushed forward, stamping on the already injured foot and swinging a knee into his crotch, dropping Esau to a knee. His head within easy reach, Kellan slammed a fist into his temple, followed by an elbow to the neck. Esau scrambled at his waist, though Kellan was there before him, grabbing the knife and jamming it into his jugular. As Esau flailed, Kellan stepped past, withdrawing the blade as he went. Crimson spurted, soon followed by a thud. The Master remained frozen in his doorway, though at Kellan’s approach, he retreated, allowing entry to the chamber beyond. Kellan followed and found himself impressed with the conditions within. Clearly, the captain had given up his quarters for this guest, and they were now laden with gold and silk. A decorative suit of armour stood in one corner, finely polished and untouched by conflict, the helm alone encrusted with enough gems to pay the wages of his regiment for half a year. Kellan took it all in, realising the true scale of this finding. “With all this, I could purchase a duchy!” He laughed. “What madness possessed the Emperor to send you here with all this?” It was intended as rhetorical, but the Master - now cowering in a corner of the cabin - answered anyway. “His Majesty desired for me to take charge of the war effort…to win honours to my name, and enhance my standing at court.” His accent was odd, but Kellan appreciated that the man was speaking his own language. There was a hint of strength in those words, as though mention of the Emperor alone inspired confidence. Kellan shook his head in wonder. Was the Imperial Court trying to lose the war they started? He held out a hand to the cowering man, gesturing for him to stand. “You will order the rest of the fleet to stand down and surrender themselves to our custody. Which one are you? Vallis? Achim? I suppose it doesn’t matter right now. Welcome to Camlorn, Your Highness.”

A New Purifier Blood of the Slayer Beneath the Ashwood tree of Vjardengrad, deep within the halls of the Temple of the Divine Manifestation, there is a burning Altar. The Sacred Flame that blazes at the heart of all Norland. It stands surrounded by Paragons old and new, their stony features an inspiration, a reminder, and a warning for the Faithful. Before the Flame stood two warriors of Norland. One was born of winter, dark haired and steel eyed, the blood of Ruric in his veins. The other was autumn, reddish hair and ruddy skin, adorned with ancient arms and armour. “I bid thee kneel before the Red Lord’s presence.” Aegir Edvardsson, Lord Purifier of Norland, said to his companion. “For you shall speak the words that shall bind you, in sacred oath, to this righteous cause!” Norlanders do not bow, they do not kneel to any, bar the All Father himself. In that holy place, the All Father’s presence was absolute. And so Uhtric Vildr knelt before the Sacred Flame. “I shall take up my blade in the name of the All Father, whose flame shall guide the way. By His light, I am found. By His Flame, I am proved. By His will, I endure.” Said the Lord Purifier. And so did Uhtric repeat the words: “I swear to Suffer not the Unworthy; to cut down weakness where it festers, and guard the faithful against corruption.” The First Tenet “I swear to Spread the Flame, not in word alone, but in deed; through flame and steel. I shall bring His Wisdom to the faithless, and where mercy is folly, I shall bring His Wrath.” The Second Tenet “I swear to Stand Against the Long Dark; never shall I abide weavers of Shadow, nor servants of Oblivion, for it is they who beacon the End of All.” The Third Tenet Then Aegir clasped Uhtric by the shoulders as a comrade. “Arise, Brother Uhtric. Arise as a Purifier of the Order of the First Flame.” When he did, the Lord Purifier placed before Uhtric the robes and armour of a Purifier. “Now armour yourself against the Long Dark.” Then Uhtric stepped aside, allowing the next Initiate to take his place before the Sacred Flame.

Clan Vildr is an old and storied family in the Kingdom of Norland. It began with my character Edric Witchslayer, and in my absence was continued by his wife, his children, and a variety of relatives. Daria Vildr was mother to Kings, while other members of the clan served in a variety of positions such as the King’s Council or in the army of Norland. With my return to the server, fresh Vildr opportunities now come available. Many descendents of Edric have spent years in the wild hunting Darkspawn and are now returning to Norland. The new Clan Chief is my character Uhtric Vildr, 3 generations down from Edric. We are a Red Faith adhering clan, but the degree of belief is up to you. Characters are welcome as adults or as children. There is no expectation of being a warrior/monster hunter character but that is what the Vildrs are famous for. We have a Clan house in Vjardengrad where any members are welcome to make their home with no requirement to contribute to tax, as long as there is space. Connections would fall under one of the categories below: Siblings of Uhtric (main line) Cousins of Uhtric (main line from Edric or branch line from a sibling) Non-Uhtric affiliated Vildrs (if you want to play outside of Norland) New Norlandic Clan Vildr characters are given aurum rings as young children inscribed with their names, these serve as proof of being part of the clan and as security against being an undead monstrosity. Please reach out to me on discord or forums if you are interested.

Not everyone is so liberal!

Based take give us stats

And people refuse to teach magics etc because of ooc reasons too, which means you're either 'in' the magic or you're 'out' of the magic. Makes it a clique

BLOOD OF THE SLAYER þeir koma Deep in the wild North there is a gathering. Pale tents disguised among snowdrifts, marked in the fading light by bright bonfires that warded from shadow. They were protected by borders of wood, aurum, salt, and iron. Beyond the palisade was darkness, but it could not pierce their protection. The Long Dark had no sway at this camp, and any servant of darkness that attempted entry would be a fool. The largest tent sat central, plain as any other, marked only by the two souls guarding its entrance. Their left hands glimmered in the firelight, each wearing a ring of aurum which Darkspawn would find intolerable. Upon their armour was emblazoned a hammer. The Witchslayer’s Hammer. The tent was lit by a central flame, around which were sat a number of armed and armoured figures. They all bore some form of resemblance, with matching noses or hair or eyes, and sat upon stools in a circle of equals. Bar one, who sat upon a true chair, high backed and sturdy as any throne might be. But the man who sat upon it was a Chief, not a King. This camp had no interest in Kings, though that was soon to change. It had taken years to gather this number together, scattered as so many of their blood had been for the last century and a half. Still more remained in the wilds, fulfilling the legacy of their ancestors. But they had all tasted change upon the wind, and soon would flock back to civilization. The man of note was young, perhaps too young for his position. He sat in ancient armor, with faded reds and golds and the telltale dents and marks of years of use. It was the armor of the Northguard, that long defunct military arm of Norland which had been the successor of and succeeded by so many other armies. It represented a legacy and heritage that they could all lay claim to - that of a warrior. But on his lap rested an item that only he possessed, only he could claim. It was the selfsame Hammer that they bore images of upon their chests. The head of the ancient weapon was black steel, made darker by the gore of darkspawn it had destroyed, while the base of the haft ended not in decorative pommel, but rather a purifying aurum spike. Their ancestor had needed nothing more than this one hammer to forge a future for his clan, and take the future from the Unworthy. Flagons of half finished ale and mead rested in hands or upon knees, and platters of dried meat lay at the side now forgotten. For some hours they had chattered and bragged, reminisced and caught up, allowing the day to run long and late in the fading sunlight. Now, their leader had raised a hand to bring silence. “My kinsmen, I once again welcome you to my flame.” Began the Chieftain. He was met by murmurs of response and nods of respect. “It is poor that we should unite in these circumstances, but change is upon us.” “Word reached us some years ago of a dispute in our homeland. That the mighty Vykk Volaren had abandoned the realm, along with some of our own Clanfolk. The Kingdom itself is almost rudderless, guided by a figurehead that belongs to the Faith, not to the Rurics. They splinter, they argue. To hear of the ills that have befallen Norland in our absence, it pains me, and those that lurk in the Dark would take advantage of this dispute.” There are further murmurs from the group, discontent clear in frowns and the shaking of heads. The man raised his hand again, summoning silence. “Make no mistake, cousins. It is not our place to lay blame, or take a side in this divide. This is a wound upon our people, and we must aid in healing it. A king must sit on the Ashwood Throne once again. The people of Norland must stand strong against the Long Dark.” The man curled his hand about the haft of the hammer that lay in his lap, lifting it slightly and drawing reverent gazes from his brethren to the weapon. “With my father’s death last winter, the Hammer has passed to me. With it comes stewardship of our people. The Clan Vildr was once a newborn child surrounded by giants. It grew to match them. Two hundred years on, the name remains. The reputation remains. Our great aunt was the mother to Kings, our progenitor was a battle brother to Royals and High Keepers alike. For decades our blood served as the shadow of the old Kings of Norland. Once, the Clan Vildr were as close to royalty as any Clan beyond the Rurics could hope to be.” There is a quiet thundering of thumping fists upon chests at those words. The legacy of their name, the deeds of those that came before. “I, Uhtric Vildr, Son of Brand, Son of Aelf, Son of Rune, Son of Edric, the Slayer of the Witch, will take us home. That is where we belong, where we are needed.” The thundering rises. “And there, we will remind the Darkspawn why they fear this Hammer.”

What is your preferred ideal for a soulstone location? A simple poll to settle an issue

"Rule number one, make sure you kill as many women and children as you can." Edric begins, scanning down the list. He pauses. "Huh. Its not there...has Oren changed it's stripes, or something?"

"By the All Father...the southerners are so desparate for worshippers they make newlyweds promise to force their children into their faith!" Muses Edric, shaking his head at the sad state of religious freedom in Oren. "Even worse...they want people to work overtime in place of celebrating their marriage. I thought the orcs were the ones that enslaved people?"

Deep in the crypts of Norland, at the bottom of a nigh endless pit, lay the discarded ashes - justice served - of one Rosalind. Once of Clan Vildr, of late an Outlaw, disowned and disgraced for her part in the wicked murder of her own mother, and the unholy desecration of the remains. The swift burning of Rosalind's corpse in accordance with Norlandic tradition was far better than what she afforded her own mother, who was left to rot in her own bed, head almost - but not quite - severed. While the mortal remnants of Tullia Vildr, whose soul has joined the All Father in his Golden Halls, sit sanctified within the ancient crypts, no such honour is given to the kinslayer. At the lip of the pit stands Edric, staring into the abyss. The shadows flickered in the cracks and crevices of the crypt, given form by the light of the torch he carried to guide his way into the unknown. Anger bubbled within Edric, that he did not witness the death of Rosalind, or preferably deal it to her himself, though it simmered in the knowledge that justice had been served for his sister in law. The silence of the crypt echoed about him for a time before he turned to leave, disrupted only by the guttering and roaring of the flame he held. Finally, hobnail boots clicked upon the stone floor as he walked out, heading toward the light of day. Later in the square of Varhelm, Edric finishes scribbling the missive regarding his erstwhile niece, lifting his hammer to nail it into the notice board of Varhelm. Rosalind Kinslayer has been caught, trialled, and punished. The bounty for her arrest no longer stands, and will not be fulfilled. Let it be known that the Kinslayer was executed through partial decapitation - a fair treatment in mirror with how she killed her own mother - followed by a peacemaking crossbow bolt through the brain. Her body has been burned, and her soul will be judged by the All Father as to whether she will have the opportunity to redeem her crimes in the Eternal Conflict, or be cast out into the Void. Edric Chief of Clan Vildr Pleased with his work, Edric gives a short prayer in memory of Tullia, and turns away from the sign. His mind is occupied momentarily by thoughts of his other niece, who still evades justice. Next is Daria, he muses. But now was a time for celebration and festivity, not mourning or hunting. He casts away the thoughts of Tullia and her children, and trots toward the crowd gathering in the square. "Just in time for the Festival of Bjorn!" Observes Edric joyfully, handing a purse to King Vane, the bounty money promised for dealing with the stain upon his clan's honour and name.