Vanir

23rd of the Amber Cold, 1560 Pain. That’s all that the ocean man’s life seemed to be filled with, these days. As the wagon to Riga jolted over yet another pothole, the old man’s joints and muscles shrieked out in protest. Gritting his teeth he rubbed at his knees bitterly, cursing the pathetic sack of bones and muscle he called his body. It had been so long since he had been able to stand without the use of his cane, let alone walk. Despite this, he couldn’t stop himself from acting younger than he actually was; he still found himself chasing both women and glory, as he had under King Vydra and Savoie’s rule, yet for some reason he found himself with neither. “Almost there, sire.” The driver called out from up front. The ocean man felt the cart begin to slow, the horses up front decreasing their speed from a steady trot to a slow walk. The ocean man’s sword banged against his him with every movement, worsening the already severe pain in his legs. He often found himself wanting to toss the sword to the ground and never deal with it again, but he could never bring himself to do it. ‘What if I have need of it?’ he would ask himself. ‘Oh, please,’ he’d argue, ‘If the situation ever arises where you /do/ need it, you’ll be long dead before you can remove it from it’s sheathe.’ He shook his head and shuffled towards the wagon’s steps as it slowed to a halt. Gripping onto the wagon with one hand, and his cane with the other, the old man lowered himself out of the cart. It was only until he took his first few steps away from the cart that he noticed what was going on in front of him. Five men stood before him; four of them fully armoured, and one man on his knees in between them. The kneeling man bore a ragged golden tabard that the ocean man recognized to belong to the Golden Corps. He saw that same tabard amongst the “rescue team” that had come to his aid, immediately following his brother Arik’s murder. One of the armoured men stepped up behind the Golden soldier, leveling his longsword with the boy’s neck. “What’s goin’ on, here?” the ocean man asked, placing a hand on the hilt of his sword with his free hand. His other hand gripped the cane, keeping him upright. The soldiers turned to face him, but no response came. In the dim light, the ocean man could make out the colours of House Staunton upon their chest plates; no doubt the same soldiers who butchered his brother a mere month prior. Grinding his teeth, the ocean man slowly unsheathed his blade and leveled it at the men. “Stop this, I say. You are breaching the Emperor’s peace. Are you tryin’ to start a war?” One of the soldiers sneered, rearing back his blade to lop of the kneeling boy’s head. ‘****. What’ve you gotten yourself into now, old man?’ The ocean man reared back his own sword, as two of the soldiers moved their way around to his rear. ‘No goin’ back now, it seems…’ “If this is how I am to die, defending an innocent boy from the likes of you..” Gritting his teeth, he turned and swung his sword wildly. “Then so be it!” The battle ended before it had hardly begun. The ocean man’s blade cut naught but air, and before he knew it the steel clattered away from his hand. He stumbled backwards, cursing his own foolishness. One of the men, in a particularly regal set of armour, approached him. In one swift movement he plunged his steel through the ocean man’s gut. All of his strength left him at this moment, and he seemed to float; the only thing that kept him upright was the three-foot long piece of metal protruding from his chest. In what felt like a single breath and a thousand years, he found himself slumped backwards against the wagon, his body seemingly searing with shock and pain. Despite his efforts, Vasili found himself unable to move. The world before him seemed to blur, and he found himself surrounded by blobs of all sorts of colours; blobs of gold and blue, of brown and of red. The orchestra of voices that washed over him all melted together to form one, incoherent wave of sound. “Vasili! What th’ **** happened?” One blob asked. ‘Sounds like Wem. Good ol’ Wem.’ “Alexander...Staunton.” He found himself saying, in between his bouts of bloody coughing. “W-where is my family? Take me home..” Vasili found himself sprawled out on something hard. Blurred lights hung far above him and the smell of cooking fish filled the air. ‘Home..’ he thought. A smile crept up onto his lips. Another bout of coughing overtook his body, spraying a fine mist of blood over his chin and neck. He heard a whimper off to the side. Turning his head, he saw the blurry form of his grand niece, Emma. Smiling once more, he held a shaking hand out to her. “M-my dear…” He winced, feeling his hand being gripped tightly. A bit too tightly, but he didn’t complain. Something in his head told him that it would be one of the last things he’d ever feel. “I’m so proud of y-you..” He murmured. “I am sorry that I--that I will not be able tell you more stories about our f-family..” “It’s o-okay, Uncle,” He heard her say. “Y-you can tell me some more w-when you are all better.” Vasili smiled a small, sad smile up at her and turned his head away, blinking back tears. He felt a strong pressure on both his hand and forearm, and looked up to see two shadowy figures; his nephew Fiske and his son Dagr, no doubt. “You can’t die, Vasili.” The first said, anguish in his voice.”We need you.” “I-I’ll kill them all,” the second said through gritted teeth. “Every last one of ‘em; I’ll burn their fuckin’ city to th’ ground.” The old sailor closed his eyes. He felt his muscles starting to relax, despite the dreadful situation he found himself in. All he felt was an an intense, nagging exhaustion; was this what death felt like? ‘Maybe it won’t be so bad, after all”. “Fiske,” He began, his voice no louder than a whisper. “After Brit, you are next in line to lead our House.” He squeezed Fiske’s hand. “Do not give up. Take the fight to th’ enemy. And you, Dagr, you must stand by your cousin in this… I’m so proud of you, son.” Tears seeped out of the corners of his eyes. “Always remember, we are the sons of the sea.” He rasped. “And the sea bows to none.” “The sea bows to none.” The three Vanirs repeated their patriarch’s body sagged, letting loose one last breath. The small, limp form of what once was Vasili Vanir was carried slowly out of Kraken’s Watch to the large crowd gathered outside; soldiers from all across the realm could be seen, huddled together in various groups. Hetmanate riders, Golden Corps infantrymen, Horen bannermen; even mercenary groups, whose leaders Vasili had known at one point. Silence fell over their ranks, as they looked upon the old man’s corpse. Dagr Vanir, son of Vasili, proclaimed with a heavy heart, an even heavier voice. “The Sea Snake has been slain.”

Vasili would stand at the edge of the Kraken's Watch pier, looking out over the vast seas. In the distance, a small dingy can be seen, aflame. The old man watches his brother's funeral pyre silently.

Vasili shakes his head and discards the paper, seeing that his family was not invited. Oh well.

The soft whisper of crashing waves still rung in the ears of the sea’s sons as they made their way through the Eternal City of Felsen. Their plate and chain still dripped with the moist of their voyage, their hair still coated in salt. The two ascended the steps of Ancelcourt, soon accompanied by the a fit and warrior-like man garbed in priestly robes. The minutes turned to hours, the trio found their eyes drifting shut as the long queue dwindled. Finally the trio was greeted to an audience with the Emperor of Man. “Your Imperial Majesty.” The eldest greeted, the two others following suit. The noise of their distinct voices began to melt into a single drone, as if only to be understood by the walls of the palace. “You understand that your titles in the Outremer will be forfeit?” One voice would inquire, “Aye, we shall return to our homeland and sit a seat that is ours by right.” An eager, young voice replied. “The lands shall return to my brother’s hands, these shall be given unto your own.” The eldest voice, signaturely sure of itself, “And what if the Stauntons -” A new voice, having not spoken yet but rugged as if honed by the winds of a steppe, “Silence fool, time will tell how our blades turn.” As the conversation closed, the three hunched over a map laid before the Divinely-Appointed Ruler of Man. “You shall attain this keep and in the future, possibly its surrounding lands.” The three nodded, bowing and uttering their “Imperial Majesty”s before departing. The two sons of the sea embarked upon their longship, the salt settling back into their dampened hair. The robed man mounted upon a white steed, the gates lifted and allowed his exit unto the fields of Man. The sons of the steppe trotted with light hoof down the coast, the harsh wind whipping at their lamellar and leather. Their banners whipped as if in battle with the sea’s storms, a black crow adorned in a crown danced among the blowing air, the red and black stripes of Godansk flowed as if a storm cloud, the gilded mace of the host was thrown about to-and-fro by Godan’s breath, and the various sigils of the freeriders and crow-blooded horselords trailed behind these dancing sigils, each in their own skirmish with the wind. Their dark horses moved towards a faster pace now, moving across the salted earth like a black cloud claiming the dormant sky. The sons of the sea poured from the river, gathering upon the shore as a scuttle of crabs gathering for stray meat. Their banners were unified, opposed to the southern-bound host of horses. A single blue field, upon it adorned a silver sea-beast. The chain of the small company rattled, their blades covered by thick leather scabbards. No horses numbered amongst them, only men. These sea’s sons, these men-come-home began their march towards a black figure in the distance, a keep against the setting sun. What had begun as a light clop had become a thundering fury sent by God himself. Men adorned in green and grey covered their ears, tightened their helms. About the spire ran a horde of horsemen, a dark crow flowing above their host, wild whoops and hollers in a strange rustic tongue calling out to them. Up the steps came six horsemen, at their helm a man in lamellar and adorned with a cap. “Privej, where is *****’s son called Aleksandr, pretender to my nephew’s duchy?” A simple man-at-arms stood to greet this towering warrior, “I know not, only that he has retreated for safety from your lot, cossack.” This statement of fact only brought a laughter from the hetman’s company, “Good, for if he was here I would present his worthless head to my sister, as a token to secure her son’s lands.” The man-at-arms opened his mouth as if to protest this proposition, only to be silenced. “Your men will be gone from this keep in a day’s time or be sent to Godan by fire and horse.” A priestly figure, mounted upon a white steed, spoke up, “What my nephew is saying, the Emperor has proclaimed this land belonging to the son’s of the sea, not to the new duke Staunton.” As if these harsh words were not enough, as if this host of enraged raev was not enough, on the horizon came a company of masked raiders, of returned noblemen, come to return home. The sea and his sons overlooked their fief from its iconic bridge. A stream of grey and green had formed from at its river, the banners of the Duke slowly trickling downstream as if it was the blood of a fish. Vasili Vanir spoke to his sons simply, “I would have our banners upon the walls in the nightfall, so that the serfs of this land might know their true lords have reclaimed their castle.” The mighty Stauntonian host disembarked, the green and grey replaced with only blue. The black crow had flew back north, but the sea serpent lay coiled upon its shores.

Vasili can't help but chuckle at the irony of the situation. Those who were unjustly awarded his family's land, squabbling over who rightfully owns it.

hope he stays banned

"I am flattered, but I am no King." Vasili would say after reading the poem.

5th of Sun's Smile, 1518 Trudging along the snowy plains of Vanaheim, Asmund was suddenly brought to attention by the aged but familiar sensation that suddenly filled the air. In the distance, a dull, methodic thumping could be heard, and as he turned his head towards the last village he had passed, he noticed great flocks of birds shooting up into the sky. His eyes grew wide, and he quickly scurried across the road, up into the steep drifts of the hills that ringed the tranquil valley. He had long since become familiar with the men of Vanaheim as a roving craftsmen, but one never knew one passing bands of brigands might come by. Suitably resting on a mound of crushed ice and rocks, resting prone and peering down at the road below from his hiding spot, his eye’s grew narrow as they were suddenly accosted by a fierce glint, the shining reflection of the sun on steel. His breath caught in his throat - he hadn’t seen such forces of man in march since the Schism War, in his youth. Back then, the men under the banner of the Vanir’s had marched south, not east. With a sudden realization, his heart rose into his chest, and he leaped up. Confident in his discovery that the passing troop was friendly, and knowing that their cause was well and truly just, he split the air with a loud cry. “God be with ye’!” WARCLAIM Type of battle: Siege/Conquest Time: Friday, August 7th, - Skirmish Saturday, August 8th - Warclaim Times to be decided Attacking force: The Ducal Coalition Defending force: The Reformed Kingdom of Oren Location and boundaries: The City of Felsen, surrounding area. Terms of Victory Victory for attacker: Major Majority of Defenders pushed away/retreated/killed. Victory for defender: Major Majority of Attackers pushed away/retreated/killed. If the attackers win the initial skirmish, the Adrian armies may ford the river and siege RP may be performed until the date of the warclaim, in order to facilitate roleplay and create a more dynamic war effort. (This entails surrounding the city’s side and front with siege weapons/camps, with a fast travel directly to Adria) Rewards If the attackers win both battles: Full control of the City of Felsen and its surrounding crownlands. If defenders win the skirmish or siege: The area will not be war-claimable for a time chosen by an unaffiliated GM. Rules -Server Rules -No fake statuses -No returning to battle -No erecting of forts/walls/castles/obscene traps between now and the skirmish

((Spectacular work man. Love the history and the sigils for each knight. Much like many people before me, I've a suggestion for a Knight to add: Ser Abner Rahl, the Red Crow [A red crow on a black field] Knighted by King Heinrik I Carrion at the age of twenty five, Abner Rahl served the Carrion Vochna loyally for half a century before his eventual disappearance. Renowned for his knowledge of medicine, Ser Rahl was appointed the Royal Physician of Oren and ran vastly popular practice in New Abresi. He tended to nobles and peasants alike--most notably former King William Horen-- and was instrumental in helping cure the New Abresi plague. Alongside his medicinal achievements, Ser Rahl helped to lead the Decterum Order since it's founding. He proved his mettle and combat skill, fighting alongside King Heinrik Carrion in the Tarus and Dwarven war against Oren. He participated heavily in the War against the Scourge, and nearly met his end in the final battle to vanquish the 'spookmen' from the Fringe. Following the Decterum betrayl of Franz Carrion, Ser Rahl slayed Ailred Ruthern and, with assitance from Ser Rowan McHaryn, took the helm of the order. Under his watchful eye, the Decterum once again served House Carrion and was stationed on the front lines of the Zionst War, in Vekaro. In Thales he led the Decterum into a Golden Age, bringing hundreds of soldiers into the Order and founding the 'capital' for House Carrion. When he and his trusted friend Ser Rowan McHaryn disbanded the order in Athera, he quietly took his leave and found refuge far away from Petrus. His current whereabouts are unknown, but he is estimated to be in his mid-to-late 80s

Issued and confirmed by His Excellency, Duke Vasili Vanir, on the 7th of Snow’s Maiden 1514 It has come to the attention of the Lord Marshal that the state of Oren’s military readiness has declined since the end of the Atheran wars, and the ushering in of Peace. It is in the interest of the Lord Marshal’s office and the Kingdom as a whole to now focus on the organization and examination of the conglomerate of military groups that make up the Kingdom’s army. With the bulk of Orenian forces now stretched thin across a new, untamed continent, this is more important than ever. Thus, it is hereby decreed that every two years, or in cases of drastic circumstance, the levies and orders of the Reformed Kingdom are subject to investigation by the Lord Marshal’s Office. These investigations will ensure the following: Soldiers are properly managed, organized, and trained. Soldiers are properly educated in the True Faith, and are fluent in the laws of the Kingdom of Oren. Soldiers are maintaining the King’s peace, and are not acting outside of their power Soldiers must not promote conflict with foreign powers Soldiers must not challenge the power of their superiors Soldiers must not roam streets or roads with the intent of slaying innocents 4. Soldiers are steadfastly loyal to their liege and hold no loyalties to any foreign power All militant groups within Oren or loyal to the Kingdom are required to fill out the following form, and forward it to His Excellency, the Lord Marshal, as soon as possible: All applications are to be PM'd to me directly Failure to meet these requirements will result in swift and just punishment - all forms must be submitted within one saints week time. All Orders that fail to submit their forms in a timely manner are rendered completely and utterly void, and declared outlaws. -Signed, His Grace, King Olivier de Savoie Lord Marshal Vasili Vanir

Vasili furrows his brow. The only Northern holdings he knew of were his own, and those of the Golden Crows.

Vasili would smile, looking over the invitation. Despite not being able to personally attend due to "Other-wordly work" reasons, he sets about finding some of his kin to take his place.

Who is the true king of West Eros? Where if house griffin? wine or cheese?

"Zionists versus Oren. Round four." Vasili says

Vasili smiles, very proud of his nephew.

Ser Abner Rahl would weep upon hearing of his good friend's demise. Hopefully one day he'll see him in the seven skies.

((Woo, love these. Keep them up!

"Where is Harald..." Vasili would mumble one night in his sleep. "Pednik..."