Hedonism

A peasant of Beleth yees and haws at the news of the grant.

A Vallberg son sat atop his steed in a steady downpour. He lowered his head in a solemn silence upon receiving the news. It had seemed so recent that the two entreated. “Rest easy, good man.” With a spur of his heels the horse reared, the rider maneuvering through the elven ruins.

AN ANCIENT CONTRACT RENEWED The pair of hardy warriors had presented themselves at the gates of Helena, the signs of a long and arduous trek ingrained deep within their worn features. Leading a pair of horses in between them they were escorted through the city - wild, ragged features a foreign sight to the city-folk. One shouldered an enormous axe which looked more apt for hewing logs than men whilst the other eyed the surroundings warily. Finally reaching the palace and ushered in by handmaidens and butlers, they tied up the beasts by the nearby pond to allow them a drink. An hour had passed, along with the heat of the sun, and the voyeurs had long since moved on to other tasks, replaced with new passer-bys. The pair emerged, shielding their eyes, accompanied by a handful more of soldiers, with one clasping a coin purse and a small decree within his right hand. Bidding farewell to the Prince who had dealt with them, they took to the road. Notes are disseminated across the divided lands of Men. “Following the return of the House Vallberg and the resumption of their ancient oaths, we call upon all have-been members of the Black Reiter Company to make themselves known. The Company has reformed for a final contract, undertaken in Renatian employ, to aid them in this war as we once aided Aurelius in his campaign. Likewise, as we were once a home for Savoyards amongst the port-town of Calais we open our doors again to this aligned folk. We swear to aid them in their fight against the bastards of Baldwin. We shall, as always, provide succour for all mercenaries and sell-swords who desire an honest living. This Hydra shall earn its coin once more, and the hooves of the Reiters shall thunder across the Leuven plains.”

The Royal Clan - Atraedes A royal family for a stable Kingdom. A fresh start for a new era of unity. The Royal Clan of the Kingdom of Gladewynn was created on the succession to the throne of Cassius Ithelanen - heir of Kairn Ithelanen, the first Mortal King of the Elves. In the wake of the collapsing Dominion of Malin, Elvenkind once again fractured into many different states with different ethoses and ambitions. Those children of The Father who valued stability, order and unity chose a different path to the relatively democratic and fractured princely system which dominated the Dominion. The old seeds - Caerme’onn, Csarathaire, Ithelanen, Aureon, Terin, Calithil, Torena and others would be maintained in their capacity to advise, to exercise power and to participate in government and culture, however rule would be concentrated in the hands of one new clan of the Alderfolk - Atraedes. With the sole hereditary authority to sovereignty over the Kingdom of Gladewynn, the power struggles, plots and scheming which accompanied successions of past days would be ended, anchored by the new Royal Clan - which all could stand behind. In a starkly contrasting manner to the majority of other Elven families, it was decided that adoption into the Royal Clan will not be permitted in the interests of stability. The only method of gaining the Atraedes name is to marry an existing clan member, or to be born as the heir of one of the clan’s scions. This system of strict hereditary blood relation assists in creating a balanced Elven government with the royal clan as its anchor, with the other seeds and clans flourishing around it. The Heir-apparent to the throne of Gladewynn is also not necessarily the firstborn. Should a younger Atraedes sibling be seen as more suited to the task of ruling the Kingdom - braver, more intelligent and adept at administration, it is in the common good that they instead should inherit the crown. This system of inheritance allows a balanced middle-ground between the pure way of absolute male primogeniture which exists in the Empires of Horen and the electoral systems present in Elven nations of the past. Stability is maintained in a single royal line, but the creme of Atraedes can be chosen at the will of the present monarch. In order for royal children to be educated in the proper manner, they are chosen tutors at an early age. For each topic, a different seed patriarch or chieftain is chosen in order to cement friendships and relationships between the royal clan and their loyal high seeds. The way of life and culture of the Atraedes clan are widely derived from that of the Alderfolk tradition - unity among all the Elven people, as Sons of Malin. A tradition adopted from the Mali’Ame is that similar to the Aspectist Ilmyumier seed tattoos. The Atraedes clan scions, upon coming of age, are to receive two simplistic golden bands imprinted on their sword arm symbolising the ideal of the Alderfolk, being unity among all Elves. Physically, the members of the Royal clan are of average height, slightly taller than most Mali’ame, but shorter than the Mali’Aheral. They are dark of hair, but this can be tinted with a deep red, in homage to the matrilineal ancestry from which they hail. In addition, their skin is generally relatively light, though not so much as to be mistaken for a Mali’Aheral or a Mali’Fenn. Finally, almost silver-like pale blue eyes are a unique indicator of a royal Atraedes family member. ((Special thanks and credit to iMattyz for the assistance in writing this post and Numirya for the sigil art.))

The Winds of War: Soldier’s Journal These lands are lived. The grounds are soft, familiar, and running rich with the rain of the marsh. As I write, I see the soft glow of cities and villages yonder; it is warm and alive, though I know this land loves me not. Atop the mount of Gladewynn, nature is all the eye’s treasure. Made almost to seem that there is no civilization. No empires, or kingdoms. Only the old woods and wildlands beyond. How wrong that was. The air is full with the cries of a million men. We’ve ventured into lands thick of legacy, woe, revenge, and dominion. This, a country that breathes the story of Man - and the earth aneath long forgotten. When the standards were risen, my heart stirred with an oddity. I had last answered the call at the summons of my King - to defend a land I now resent. When we had last seen the purple and black banners in battle, they were risen against our kind. Hundreds of years past and times bygone - the tales of that burning city are still told. How times change, and yet the mind remains the same. The battle was vicious for who few died in the enemy’s cause. We set to attack the corpse of a seaside keep on high noon. Imperial soldiers swarmed the countryside, surrounding the rubbled fortress on all fronts save the water. Perimeter guards were set, trebuchets loosed, and the rigidity of siege doctrine set in motion. Then, we were sent in. Military ideology will see fit to send in the mercenaries first, lest they hang on the rear and route at signs of danger. Loss prevention? A test of mettle? The fray rid me of any of these thoughts. I entered the inner depth of that sunken keep, along with various Imperial regiments and what elite the Ichorians had to procure. Smoke, embers, and molten flame slid across the fortress. The Reivers saw fit to claim as many Imperial souls on their journey to hell. In the black of the tunnels beneath, you were only granted vision of your axe’s path; cleaving, surging, and writhing against attacker and defender alike. For what little the battle was, my wounds are grievous - by both body and mind. The Illatian maids are sweet, this much is true. In vain, as no amount of fresh linen or fragrance will shake the copper blood I smell; the death and miasma of the tunnels hangs onto my flesh as a curse. I hear that we will ride for Gladewynn soon. I hope as much. These men are admirable, and their lands are beautiful. But I am not a Man, and this land is not for me. There waits a mountaintop: cold and frigid. A forest, vicious and deep. And in these lands forgotten, aye, a home for me. Signed, Cassius Ithelanen, Warden of the Avchirran ito Gladewynn

Mercer Vallberg af Calais scribes a signature on behalf of the Barony of Vrakai.

A letter would return to the sender, wax sealed in the stamp of a Hydra. "A contract can be arranged, so long as the requesting party arrives for negotiation at Fort Little Knox on the Whispering Crossroad. To add, such 'harvesting' will not be tolerated on or near the Whispering Crossroad nor upon its inhabitants."

Hoping to play a rat chef someday. +1

A stormy-gazed Reiter receives word of the Snow Elve's boasts, lofting a brow at the mention of the company, not having recall a single man contracting for this skirmish. "Hrm." A simple grunt escapes him.

Gereon Christ and 'The Titan of Humanity' bond in the Seven Skies above over a pitcher of ale! (In all seriousness, Today LotC loses one of its proudest players. A man who speaks it as it is and isn't afraid to stick up for what he believes in, even if the odds are stacked against him. He may've had many enemies, but has always been a friend to me, one of the few I'd be willing to say I'm closest with on this server. Best of luck out there, brother. I'll still nag at you daily.)

An adolescent is nudged along, dressed in ragged clothing , dirt caked upon his features. He looks upon the construction of Peremont, grimacing as his shoulder is shoved once more in some form of impatient guidance. His next stop: the court of the Serene Prince.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new riders.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new riders. Having accepted one Subudai of yore into their ranks, the Azghari await other famed rides to emerge to accompany them on the steppes.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new rider.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new rider.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new riders.

The gates of the Azghari encampment slowly rise, welcoming in the new riders.

The Azghari Warband “When the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, “Come.” I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hell followed with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.” A band of brothers and sisters equal beneath the Eternal blue sky, this band of nomadic peoples are renowned for their passion and fervour - the most proficient horse riders to ever grace Vailor’s many meadows and pastures. Formed by Darius and Cyrus, sons of the great Sasan, the pair of warriors were without parallel; renowned for their hundred-strong harems. Although there exists no ranking for the warband, the strongest leaders are chosen by the entire warband to guide them - holding no position except that as a trusted figure. In this way any man can make his fortune and become great, provided he be worthy. They made their foes flee in horror because their swarthy aspect was fearful, with an intriguing distinguishment in their eyes is seen through the colours of brown, green and blue. Their hardihood is evident in their wild appearance, and they are beings who are cruel to their children on the very day they are born. For they cut the cheeks of the males with a sword, so that before they receive the nourishment of milk they must learn to endure wounds. Hence they grow old beardless and their young men are without comeliness, because a face furrowed by the sword spoils by its scars the natural beauty of a beard. They are short in stature, quick in bodily movement, alert horsemen, broad shouldered, ready in the use of bow and arrow, and have firm-set necks which are ever erect in pride. Though they live in the form of men, they have the cruelty of wild beasts. A travelling band, these nomads are oft on the move and rarely stay in the same place- their swords are sold to the highest bidder. Many kingdoms have competed to hire them, brutal warriors who are known for both their skill in the field and their fortitude when faced with great sieges. Their ranks know no difference between man or woman, any creature except the accursed Kha can serve amidst their ranks provided they can ride. The Azghari do not settle and farm, they are hunters and gatherers - fast moving horsemen that stay for only short times in a single place. Every member is expected to sustain themselves by their own tools, hunting game and slaying prey to feed them. Slavery is accepted by the Azghari, and a man is judged on how many slaves he has taken. For those who are taken in bondage, freedom can only be earned by hard coin or valour shown in the Warband’s service - freeing them to fight as any other rider. For the wealth that is gathered in battle, every man receives an equal portion - the Warband knows no boundaries to brotherhood. The faith of the Azghari is revolved around the deity of ‘Od Tengri’, the unknowable one who knows everything. He is the judge of good and bad, Tengri can bless a person richly, but can also utterly destroy those whom he deems unfit. His actions cannot be predicted. His ways, difficult to know. There exist many other spirits or 'aenguls' besides Tengri. These spirits are diverse. They can be good or bad or of mixed temperament. They can be gods residing in the upper heavenly world, wandering evil spirits from the underworld, spirits of the land, water, stars and planets or spirits of the ancestors. They can be in charge of certain tribes or of certain nations. Under Tengri these spirits all have some limited influence, but it is nearly impossible for normal people to contact them. Only the High Priest of Od Tengri can contact them. Unless Od Tengri contacts them himself. There is no 'one true religion'. Humanity has not reached full enlightenment. Nonetheless Tengri will not leave the guilty unpunished and the virtuous unrewarded. Those upright in spirit and righteous in thought are acceptable to Tengri, even if they followed different religions. Tengri has given different paths for man. Anyone interested in service would do well to inquire with Cyrus (LemonDropzz) or respond here: OOC: Username: Skype: IC: Name: Race: Age:

Although I think defender default is definitely viable, it will certainly get muddled when numbers come into play. For the sake of raid rules and compromise, I suggest adding a clause on the number of players involved for the default. Say, "After an X number of players become involved, it defaults to PvP." I suggest 4-6 players, anything after becomes a mess of emotes and chat spam.

ON RECENT EVENTS 12th of Sun's Smile, 1547 There has been much confusion and fear in this last Saint’s Day, and it falls to the Grand Prince to dispel whatever rumours may circulate in regards to these occurrences, and once again reaffirm his just nature. He does, along with all true Savoyards, condemn the band of vagabonds under Edgar de Saltpans calling themselves the Jackals, a group that has taken up arms against the Empire. These ruffians and brutes are naught more, and shall be put to the sword wherever they may be. They shall not be afforded home nor food in the lands of Savoy anymore, expunged from Peremont and all fiefs. The battle which took place but recently was brought about not by insurrection, but by raging soldiers angry over the death of the Archduke. A party of orcs assaulted the walls of Peremont and, once chase had been given, they joined forces with forces from Felsen moments before battle. The following clash could be attributed to nothing more than high passion on both sides of the conflict. There should be no war between men, especially in times as precarious as this. Let the ‘jackals’ of the Saltpans know that justice awaits them.

The Savoyard Prince sat once more, alone in darkness. News had reached him of the Archduke's death just moments prior. His adoptive father, his sire during wardship, butchered in the streets of Felsen by a mob of vultures. He uttered few words, "Blood for Ashford. Blood for Amaury."

Battered and beaten, the young prince had made it back to Savoy in the late hours of the night. He sat alone in a dim candlelight, his wife having retreated to rest after cleaning and bandaging his wounds. Pain and anger engulfed him as the situation had replayed itself in chaotic thoughts. A young knight, younger than even he, had given his life to protect and serve his own impulsive actions. Every ragtag member of their band, for that fact, showed the sheer loyalty of Savoyards even in the face of death itself. The young prince had known the Knight not only as Ser, but Page Emery, Squire Emery. The two shared age, only differing in a mere four years. Their first encounter, in the rains, in the courtyard of Geldern. Only one now lives to recollect such a bittersweet memory. Surging with zeal in honor of the Knight Emery's memory, Elias rose from his seat, the dimly lit candle put out as he uttered few words, "Blood for Ashford."

His Serene Highness, Grand Prince of the Grand Principality of Savoy, Gereon of the House Ashford de Savoie swears fealty to the Imperial Crown. (I accept.)

The news of Simon's passing had reached Gereon in the midst of Felsen's construction. The Prince, among the men lifting and setting stone, stopped in his tracks. The information didn't settle correctly in the beginning. His once comrade and brother-in-arms had now succumbed. Memories of past events rung through his mind. Fighting the Schismatic War and the Dwarven kind alongside Simon. Even the pair of men escaping from the clutches of the hordes of necromancers and cultists of Embermoore. With a few quiet words and a prayer uttered beneath his breath, the stoic savoyard went about his business in the construction once more.