Altiak

Adrian de Bar

Guy de Bar looks to the men bemusedly.

Despite having been on the opposite side of the political spectrum ICly, Fireheart has been friendly and courteous whenever I've encountered him OOCly. I've yet to see him engender any negativity firsthand and so he has my support. +1

Great builder, even greater man. +1

Will you join the Saltpans Co. tho?

Would you drool over yourself too?

Well, frankly there's not much to say.

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

 

Big +1 from me!

 

 

My heart will not go on.

"Watch closely, boy. This is how history is made," A brazen soldier remarks superciliously to the youngster beside him.

Diligent, approachable, and experienced; Jonas would make an excellent fit for the FM team.

A nameless bard recounts the tragic tale of the House de Bar's eldest son of the eldest son.

Just one cut, 
During the night, 
Crimson red that feels so right.

Drops that last all through the night,
Your only friend,
A shiny knife. 

The ones you love, 
Only judge, 
so no one knows, 
The horrible curse. 

You start out young, 
Then move on,  
The marks are deep, 
The scars are long. 

The ones that stop you,
Care the most, 
The ones that don't,
Just let you go...

You try to stop,
But thoughts come back, 
You mark again, 
It's not your last. 

You are the smart, 
You hide the marks, 
Beneath layers of cloth,
In hidden spots. 

The very next day,
the thoughts come back,
It starts all again,
the marks are back,
that forever last

Only some, 
Who truly know, 
The life of having a horrible curse....

THE BLACK SHEEP’S CURSE

 The King awoke with a start in a room he once remembered well.

    Dust and soot coated the timber floor of the dark chamber, heavy flakes of ash drifting through the air around him. The thick grime whispered past the desolate contents of the room; trailing over discarded tomes, olden castoffs, the weathered belongings of a boy long grown. A rectangle of pale light shone in from a cracked window set against one of the walls, gracing the seated man’s long-forgotten quarters with a faint glow of sunlight.

    Guy de Bar sat rooted into a heavy oaken chair at the head of a grime-covered table, glancing around with bewilderment at his familiar surroundings. Incredulity played over the grizzled man’s features as he came to his senses, looking around in soundless protest. The room was smaller than when he had last seen it - a time when he was vulnerable, uncertain, fearful. And now, for the first time in years, he was awash with the very same sentiments.

Once more he was the unimportant boy from Aldersberg, and as he gazed out through the window wistfully, he could not help but feel a pang of dismay at the thought.

    “You’ve your father's eyes, Guy.”

    Flinching at the sudden remark, the monarch’s head whirled about, becoming overtly aware of  a long-commonplace presence in the room with him. His elder brother sat across from him, his inky hair streaked with the grey tones of a turbulent life. Palms laid flat upon the table’s surface, the man regarded his kindred with a downcast countenance. Guy swallowed tersely under Adrian’s stare, a hand reaching up to the unsightly scar besmirching the skin over his left eye.

    “My father… he passed on to me his ambition, Adrian,” he retorted, an odd uncertainty audible in his voice as he uttered the words. Guy’s response elicited a short and dry bark of laughter from his brother, who shook his head and smiled grimly.

    “You’ve always had his ambition. Perhaps he passed on to you his hubris as well.”

    Adrian’s hand moved slowly to his cloak, rooting around momentarily before he produced a lustrous and shimmering band of gold. His eyes weighed the monarch as he set the circlet down on the table, pushing it forth. Guy hesitated for a moment as he beset his eyes on the crown - his father’s crown, his crown - and he looked to his brother expectantly.

    “Adrian… what is this place?”

    “I know not, little brother. You were here first.”

    Guy at last reached across the table, the chair he had settled into giving a loud and invasive creak as he grasped his father’s crown. The simple band of metal was cold heavy in the man’s hands, but he dispatched his doubts and looked back up to his ever-watching kinsman while drawing in a breath. Richard’s crown was grasped firmly in his hand, a talisman against the skepticism that plagued him.

    “I cannot see the path ahead, Adrian. The sun is gone… all is dark.”

    Adrian glimpsed his younger brother with a knowing frown, bringing up a hand to his graying beard and sighing resignedly.

    “Everything is dark when your eyes are closed, Guy.”

    The king’s eyes met his brother’s with indecision, but after a long moment’s deliberation he glanced downwards to sight the ruin that had become of him. Blood soaked his dusky tabard, his chest bestrewn with deep bleeding gashes. Bewitched by the surreal sight, Guy’s eyes trailed towards the circlet in his hand. The once-shimmering band of gold that had brought his family great renown was a ring of crimson-smeared iron now, stained with what the defeated man knew was his very own lifeblood.

    “Open your eyes.”

---

    Blood wept from Guy de Bar’s numerous wounds as he sat slumped in a heavy oaken chair, the king attempting to haul himself to his feet in fruitless resilience even when faced with his own demise. To his side the monarch’s assassin loomed over him, a cruel and reptilian smirk on his gaunt features as he pulled the knife from the king’s torso. Guy’s mouth opened to utter some final defiance, to spit in the face of his murderer - but only a thin rivulet of blood escaped his dying lips. In his final moments, for all he was worth, the brazen King answered to his end soundlessly, rid of the sardonic wit that had for so long characterized him.

    From all around him the dying man heard the clamor of a great confrontation: the clash of one hundred blades locked in combat, the sweet steel song of his partisans. The men he had stood alongside, the bearers of his father’s legacy - they had come to his stead in his final moments, but they were too late. At the corner of his vision, Guy was aware of an indomitable flurry of steel. His brother stood at his side, even as Guy perished, defending him from a host of dissenters with an audacious bellow of contempt.

    The fading vision of the expiring monarch was not beset on the chaos around him, but instead on the calm and placid heavens that drifted invitingly overhead. The edge drew nearer with each of his ragged breaths - the edge of everything, the horizon that would soon reach him - but the man was not afraid. Guy de Bar met the horizon with a final, insubmissive rasp, sinking into the seat with pale orbs condemned to search the stars for all of eternity.

    The King closed his eyes at last, finding solace in his last moments as the world he knew blinked from existence.

Lemon is a calm, collected, and mature individual. His roleplay has always been up to par with the best on the server and I think he'd do incredibly well on the team. +1

Excellent roleplayer and calm, level-headed individual OOCly.  +1

A Score to Settle

 Jovir Kovachev stared out at the boundless vista ahead from the battlements of the Felsen palace, clutching the parapets as he watched the goings-on of the capital’s thriving harbor. Nervously, he turned his head to address the figure who stood behind him: a raven-haired, daunting individual, the man’s pale eyes beset on Kovachev’s form as he shifted to face him. Jovir at last wrenched his grip from the castle wall, clasping the man’s hand with a firm shake. They had come to an agreement - and now it was his duty to see the score settled.

    Wrested from his daydream by a harsh shove from behind, the soldier grunted, before he resumed his tired step in the arduous trek ahead. Marching alongside what remained of his comrades, each of them clad in the dilapidated, moth-eaten garb of the Golden Crows, Kovachev trudged over the thick snow, willing himself onwards with each laborious step. The ragtag band of once-proud Northmen walked with a faltering pace, with nary a banner fluttering at their head as they marched. Carrion birds loomed overhead, though their presence did not bolster the morale of the men bearing their likeness below. Instead, the birds cawed malignantly as they circled the procession of soldiers, their hateful cries plummeting earthwards and further dampening the doomed party’s wavering resolve.

    The band had been marching for three days now towards the distant Mallister Keep, the journey having already claimed a handful of starved and frostbitten men who were unceremoniously left behind in the snow by their compatriots. For the prestigious Golden Crow that had brought the Duchy of Siegrad great renown in what seemed like ages ago, the trek would have taken a scant night’s journey; but the war had transformed the once-great force into a threadbare militia of gaunt, malnourished Northmen.

    The contingency, a final vestige of the Adrian rebel sympathizers, had maintained their steadfastness for the first few months of their isolation. Soon enough, however, supplies began to dwindle and the ceaseless winter that hung over the Northlands began to jag at the crows’ spirits, morale decaying as defeatism and desertion ran rampant through the fortress like a virulent plague.

    As though to punctuate their dire circumstances, word that a new King had arisen quickly reached the last bastion of the Crows, and with it an entirely new streak of dismal circumstances. Knowing that the Crownland’s army was certain to besiege their crumbling castle in prompt, the company’s commanding officer gathered his men in the desolate square, making it known that they were to march to a nearby hideout in an effort to circumvent the wrath of the coming adversary. A haggard gathering of Northmen paraded out from the walls that had imprisoned them for so long on the next morn, slipping away through a treacherous mountain pass as the King’s army encroached barely a day’s march away.

    Amongst them was Jovir Kovachev.

---

    The russet-haired soldier ambled onwards, tugging his ermine mantle tighter around his robust frame as a biting gust of wind whirled around him. The men at his front and heels groveled in kind, their unshaven faces grim as they cursed through the thick snow. Laden with the tangible burden of despair upon their shoulders, an expression of resigned failure etched itself into the faces of the soldiers. All but Jovir Kovachev, who willed himself onwards with dogged resolve.

    They had come to an agreement - and now it was his duty to see the score settled.

    Presently, the meager company’s strenuous journey was almost concluded, and as Jovir marched onwards he could see what brought fleeting delight over his comrades’ countenance. The spires of Mallister Keep sprouted upwards from the harsh tundra ahead, beckoning the exhausted party forth and eliciting a handful of fatigued cheers. A few soldiers broke into an enlivened jaunt at the sight, scrambling through the snow towards the holdfast with raucous cries of elation.

 As night fell on the fortress, silence hung over Mallister Keep like a veil, the only evidence of the Northmen within being the glow of a watchman’s flickering torch as he patrolled the battlements. Though the castle they had took garrison in was not as defensible as their former keep, their commander assured them that no Orenian could have pursued them through the perilous terrain they had traveled. With these reassurances, coupled with the strain of their laborious trek, soon thereafter each of them found slumber as they rested their weary forms.

    An unassuming bird, black feathers having long lost their luster, flew from the parapets, flapping through the blustering clouds of snow as it left behind the castle. Gliding over the barren, icy lands below, the crow carried with it a message; bound to its foreleg by a length of bowstring, a crumpled parchment bearing a few words was suspended. The avian informant swooped low through a ridge, before it landed upon a cresting rock whereupon a pair of armor-clad men stood.

    The first man, his scarred visage donning a look of intense concentration, retrieved the letter, pale eyes scanning the contents for a fleeting moment before he discarded it with abject pragmatism. Exchanging an ambivalent nod with his comrade, a man bearing the similar striking features of an Ashford, the grizzled warrior panned his gaze towards the distant castle as his brother brandished a flaming torch, lofting it skywards and waving it with a flourish.

    From within the gatehouse of Mallister Keep, a lone Crow who was crouched expectantly spotted the burning beacon in the stark black night. Exhaling deeply in anticipation, his calloused hands moved slowly to his collar, where he clutched a chain hidden by his fur cloak. The unmistakeable Lorraine cross dangled across his chest as he produced the adornment- a mark of clemency from what was to come.

    A favor, one that a powerful man had bequeathed him.

    Jovir Kovachev steeled his nerves with a few shaky breaths, before he strode over to the crank that operated the keep’s wrought-iron gate. Hand over hand, in a steady motion, he opened the formerly-barred entrance to the castle, strain visible in his bearded visage as, at last, the entryway sat open to access from outside.

    As though to punctuate the act he had just performed, the distant rumbling of hooves made itself known over the howling winds of the Northlands. Squinting through an archer slit to sight the approaching band, Kovachev’s eyes widened as he spotted countless droves of cavalrymen pounding over the glacial plain, beset on the rebel stronghold ahead.

    From the head of the indomitable column of riders, King Guy de Bar gritted his teeth as he led his army towards Mallister Keep. The banners of the Ashford sun fluttered high on either of his flanks, and with a fluid motion the veteran warrior unsheathed his blade, raising it to the heavens with a ferocious cry as his host of horsemen swarmed through the castle’s open gates.

    Justice had come for the Golden Crows, and the King would make certain that the score was settled.

---

    Bodies, piled upon each other unscrupulously, lined the inside of Mallister Keep, their lifeless forms bearing the sigil of the Golden Crow. A company of Vindicators took to the duty of heaping their mangled corpses atop one another, chortling boisterously as they collected the discarded armaments of their foes. At the centre of the carnage’s aftermath, the king stood idly, his slate armor stained with the fleshtone of his slain foes. In the meantime, Guy’s brother Adrian yanked his polearm from a cadaverous man’s torso, before he strode over to stand at his kinsman’s flank.

    The pair watched as their soldiers went about amassing the crows’ bodies and equipment, the king himself adopting a muted expression as he panned his gaze over the pogrom. The prince’s visage shifted in kind to a ponderous frown, and at last he spoke with open disdain.

    “This was a massacre, brother.”
 

    Guy’s head pivoted slowly to glimpse his repentant brother, and a dry snort of derision escaped his lips as he shook his head tersely in stark contrast to his kinsman’s morose glower.

    “Nay, not a massacre. This was a debt repaid.”

    From the leftwards of the pair, a burly soldier approached, though the man himself did not don the iconic sun that the other warriors bore on their chests. Instead, the man was garbed in the attire that adorned the throngs of corpses, the very same crow embroidered into his raggedy doublet. The man attracted the pairs’ attention as he drew near, stepping over the mangled bodies of his former comrades, and when the King’s eyes were beset upon him he dropped to an unpracticed kneel. Guy de Bar regarded Kovachev with solemnity, beckoning the youthful soldier forth before he uttered a stern inquiry.

“Do you know why I did this, boy?”

    “They were traitors to the realm; it was justice, Your Majesty,” Jovir replied in a murmur, meeting the monarch’s gaze with visible hesitance.

    The seasoned ruler accosted the brazen stripling with a tight-lipped frown and a singular nod of the head, speaking with certainty as he continued.

“Karl Barbanov - do you recall the name? He stood a luminary to these men, these fearsome wolves of the North; without him, they were but stray, mangy pups. And like with any rabid mongrel, I sought to end their miserable suffering.”

---

The King’s prophetic words disseminated like wildfire, echoed by serfs, courtiers, and soldiers alike. The final vestige of the rebel contingent had been extinguished in the pogrom at Mallister Keep; Guy de Bar’s army marched home victorious, reveling in the populace’s gleeful appreciation. The northern continent was nearly unified under one banner and the prospects of a glorious new dawn for humanity were on the lips of every Orenian.

    The score was settled.

N-nice

NATIONIS CENSERE

By order of the His Majesty, Guy de Bar of Oren, Duke of Savoy and Count of Felsen, all military orders within Orenic lands, be they: levymen, bannerforce, holy order, private army, `guardsmen, garrison or an otherwise described force are now required under Orenic Law to submit the Nationis Censere and within such a document the following items are to be accounted:

- Armor made of chainmail rings, that being: coifs, hauberks and cuirasses, leggings and boots. The current number present within storages at the time of the Census is to be reported, along with the average production output of these products every saint’s week.

- Armor made of a finer and higher quality ferrum, that being: helmets, breastplates, leggings and greaves and boots or shoes. The current number present within storages at the time of the Census is to be reported, along with the average production output of these products every saint’s week.

- Weaponry of a fine calibre and able to be used in field warfare, that being: ferrum swords, ferrum warhammers and longbows or arbalests. The current number present within storages at the time of the Census is to be reported, along with the average production output of these products every saint’s week.

- Horses, be they mares, destriers or charges, and the lances used to fight on such. The current number present within storages at the time of the Census is to be reported, along with the average production output of these product’s every saint’s week.

- All items bearing a runic or magical property, be they: inscribed in rune tomes or present within some other form. The current number present within storages at the time of the Census is to be reported, along with the average production output of these product’s every saint’s week.

This Census is only applicable to direct crown vassals that hold Royal Immediacy and are thus beholden first and only to the King himself. Those who find themselves vassals of another lord are required to report their findings to that lord - who will pass them on to the Crown. Those who do not complete the National Census or report misleading information will be promptly punished by the crown.

Signed,

King Guy de Bar of Oren, Duke of Savoy,

Prince Adrian de Bar, Lord Chancellor of Oren.

Pie is candid and hardworking; his maturity sets him apart from most people on LoTC. I sincerely believe he'd do a great job on the AT. +1

EDICTUM MARTIAL LEGEM

Following the Ducal War and the continuing state of insurrection and rebellion present in the lands of Vanaheim governed by the treacherous Vanirs and in accordance with the utmost desire to keep the peace within all Orenian territories, it is the command of His Grace Guy de Bar, Lord Chancellor and regent of Oren, that martial law be declared in the territories of Vanaheim. The region and its inhabitants are hereby placed under the jurisdiction of the crown directly, until a suitable governor is chosen.

In times of martial law it is the prerogative of the authorities to post edicts pertaining to the occupation and governance of the territories that have been placed under such a state. It is declared that all subjects of Vanaheim are to comply wholeheartedly and completely with the garrisoning force sent there by the Regent of Oren, Guy de Bar. This act has been put in place for the common safety of the citizens and to repress and halt any radicalist behaviour.

To those that have instigated such repercussions, the Crown says only this: lay down your arms and the clauses of clemency present within the Edictum Retributionem will be abided by; only the execution of your leaders shall take place. If the rogue and unlawful Duchy of Vanaheim chooses to instead resist this declaration made by the Orenic Crown then the lands of Vanaheim shall be laid to waste, the streets stained crimson with blood.

Signed,

His Grace, Guy de Bar, Lord Chancellor.

His Excellency, Augustus d’Amaury, Lord Marshal.

The Cleansing of the Northlands

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0J2QdDbelmY&index

 

And I will purge out from among you the rebels, and them that transgress against me: I will bring them forth out of the country where they sojourn, and they shall not enter into the Heartland: and you shall know that I am the Lord.

7th of Sun’s Smile, 1522

The frothy waves came crashing over the bow of the oaken galleon as it skimmed over the azure waters skirting Felsen’s coastline, the fair winds pulling it quickly across the sea as it neared the port. Sailors scrambled across the deck of the boat haphazardly,  it gliding across the waves gracefully under the crew’s navigation. Atop the mast of the galley flew a single banner - the sea serpent of Vanir.

Emerging upon the crest of a sea surf behind the warship, a score of perhaps twenty similar ships -  all flying the same striking, fearsome banner - followed closely behind, each of their decks abuzz with midshipmen who steered the fleet closer to land and further from the fearsome sea that blew spittle and buffeting winds across their decks. Barely a dozen men were present upon the first ship - none visibly armed as it coasted gently to a stop alongside the harbor’s bulkhead.

Guy de Bar stood upon the docks expectantly, flanked by his similarly rigid kinsmen - Adrian, Denis, and Sergius. As the prized fleet of Vanaheim came into view, all present conceded an expression of mirth - all except for the Lord Chancellor and his brother, whose visages remained steely and sobersided as was characteristic for them both.

The wearied and fatigued figure leading the first ship stepped off the formidable craft’s deck and onto dry land, extending a rough and worn hand to the Regent.

“Jace Bracchus - always a pleasure.”

The warm and amicable tones were matched by a firm handshake between the two men, as Bracchus gestured to the band of newly-converted loyalists at his back. The assemblage of rough-hewn men aboard the warships watched Guy in unspeaking anticipation, a chance moment of quiet evoking the sound of the wooden boats creaking as the sea lapped at their hulls gently.

“Welcome home, soldiers. Your loyalty to the crown shall not go unforgotten,” came the Regent’s courteous response, and the band of former turncloaks relaxed visibly.

Guy de Bar slung an arm around his newfound ally, the rest of the sailors mingling with the Savoyard men that had previously surrounded their Grand Master and now paced behind him.

  “We make for Peremont, yes? To assemble the army and make for Vanaheim,” Bracchus inquired, his wary eyes scanning the face of the grizzled Lord Chancellor as the two men sidled onward, their brisk stride matched by the soldiers at their heels.

Only then did the elusive, raven-haired man let slip a wry, calculating smirk, and he turned to his brother to exchange a brief glimpse of ambivalence, “The legions of Oren have been dispatched already. They march for the Vanirs’ holdfast as we speak. Come; let us not keep them waiting.”

The haggard man’s expression slackens into one of abject surprise, and he shook his head briefly in incredulity, “You’ve set our pace already, it seems. To the Northlands, then - there is work to be done."

The men of Bar and Bracchus clambered onto their steeds while the soldiers filed in around them, spears and polearms resting on their ironclad shoulders as they fall to command. Soon after, the cohort set out to regroup with the main force up north.

The fiefdom of Vanir was a place wrought with sinners, condemned men seeking no absolution for their misdeeds - but they had no need to set out and find it. This day, the forces of Oren marched on Vanaheim, to absolve them of their sins.

The Cleansing of the Northlands had begun.

Guy de Bar strides toward the entrance of his battered holdfast, gauntleted hands clasped together behind him. He surveys the horizon with an expectant, wary countenance, as a corpse wagon trundles into view. Such carts returned daily, filled to the brim with the bodies of stragglers  - their tales left forever untold. The rider brings the horses to a halt, addressing his lord with an inclination of the head and a muffled synopsis of his trip eastward.

The Duke of Drusco glances over the corpses stacked upon one another - too numerous to count. But amidst the plethora of mortal remains, he recognizes a familiar visage, despite its detachment from the rest of his body. The war had stolen from him yet another loyal servant once in his employ.

The Lord Chancellor smiles morosely, quipping before he takes his leave, "The man never did use his head."

In all my time knowing Jonas, he's never lost his cool - instead remaining patient, level-headed, and tactful. Furthermore, he has a number of skills, a proactive mindset, and genuinely cares about the server's betterment. +1