Ser Paul Ryan

important notice: I've had a Saturday trip cancelled at the last minute and will be unexpectedly travelling on this upcoming Sunday. Due to this, and the relatively few numbers of participants, this clash of ***** has been delayed until further notice. I'd nonetheless like to extend my thanks to all contestants who have thus far shown us their impressive *****!

Ser Paul briefly breaks the fourth wall, reminding his pal to check Discord, where these events are announced days or at the very least hours ahead of time!

As the frigid winds of the far north tugged ceaselessly at the heavy cloak draped about his shoulders, Ser Paul Ryan wondered how he got himself into this peculiar situation. Here he was, stranded in the midst of mountainous wintry hellscape, separated from his battle-buddy and hopelessly lost. Worst of all, the glacial cold bit through the many layers of wool and steel that he had donned, his erect nipples chaffing against the steel of his breastplate. As Paul trudged through the biting winter storm, he preoccupied himself with daydreams of the warmth of his inn back home in Markev...was it even day anymore? He couldn’t tell; the sun above was blotted out by the downy flake that swirled around him with the ceaseless fury of a hurricane. Ser Paul was beginning to get seriously worried; if he didn’t find Lyov and the others before the golems found him, he might never savor the taste of Carrion Black ever again. Suddenly, through the thick white hail, the dark outline of a looming figure appeared. Paul’s mittened hands reached for the handle of his longsword, long-since frozen into its scabbard, before the familiar booming voice of Lyov reached his ears. “Privej, Paul, is that you?” the figure shouted. Ser Paul breathed a haggard sigh of relief as his fingers quickly retreated into the warmth of his cloak, his frozen lips parting to greet his battle-buddy. Before his response could be lost to the wind, however, his heart rose in his throat; as Lyov’s shape grew closer and clearer, another looming shadow had appeared behind him, this one far too large to belong to any mortal man. “BEHIND YOU, FRIENDO!” he roared, ripping his sword clear of its scabbard as he charged through the deep snow towards his pal. More likely than not, Lyov’s reaction was spurred more by Paul’s sudden movement than his words of warning; the clever Raevir, seeing Paul unsheathe his blade, instinctively dove into the deep drifts that surrounded them in every direction. A mere moment later, the lumbering fist of a snow golem tore through the space Lyov’s head had occupied seconds before. As Lyov attempted to scramble to his feet amidst the insecure footing of the snowy tundra, Ser Paul let loose a carefully rehearsed battle cry as he charged towards the foe. He hoped Lyov was impressed; he had hired an expensive speech coach to hone his compelling combat cry, and figured the least he could do before dying in this frozen wasteland was put on a good show. “HOOPLAH!” the anointed knight shrieked as he plunged into bitter contest with the frosty behemoth, intent on buying his battle-buddy the precious few seconds he would need to regain his senses. “High ho, to and fro, back to a frosty hell you go!” the Orenian celebrity cheered, before being swept aside by the Golem’s powerful arms. To call the frigid bastard huge was the understatement of the year; his lumbering limbs were nearly as big as Ser Paul himself, and the creature exerted little effort as he batted the trained knight aside like a mere plaything. He had bought his battle-buddy time, however, and that was all that mattered; Lyov had found his dropped spear amidst the howling winds of the shivery blizzard, and leaped back into the fray with gusto to return noble Paul’s favor. It was in vain, however; Lyov’s steel-tipped spear barely delayed the lumbering leviathan as it lurched towards Paul’s prone figure in the snow, and another swipe of its massive iron paw shattered the spear’s shaft into a thousand frozen splinters. Paul’s snow-blind eyes gazed at the oncoming colossus in sheer terror, and he realized there was nothing he could do save close his eyes before the finishing blow sent him packing from this corporeal realm forever. “It’s been real, friendos…. pour one out for me,” he said to no one in particular, a strange smile dawning on his face as he prepared to greet his creator. The fatal blow never came, however; as the lumbering frost Golem raised its tree-trunk arms high above its head to crush Ser Paul into smithereens, an otherworldly cry split the bone-chilling air. “I’m coming Paaaaaaul!” sounded the heroic voice of Larry Cravencock, one of Paul’s oldest partners in crime, as he leapt from an unseen mountain ledge above them onto the Golem’s back. The courageous Cravencrock’s noble gesture hadn’t just been executed with perfect dramatic flair, it also caught the arctic giant off guard, and the icebound behemoth let loose a mighty roar as he stomped back and forth in repeated attempts to shake Larry off his rotund mass. Larry’s legs went flying like a ragdoll’s; left and right, left and right, left and right his lower appendages whirled, swaying in the chilly breeze like the flag of his Kingdom’s noble disposition, but brave Cravencock’s grip held true, his arms wrung like wrought iron about the goliath's metal neck. As Lyov rushed over to Paul, helping the handsome knight to his feet, the hulking beast grew tired of the outrageous affair, finally reaching up with a ham-sized fist to pluck Larry off and send him cascading into the frozen battle-buddies. The trio went down in a tangled mass of frozen limbs, their collapse cushioned by the deep snow. The golem began to let loose a mighty roar, intent on hammering the three weaklings into dust like a drunken mother-in-law smashes ice-chips for her next margarita, when a load crack split the air. Without warning, the ice beneath the golem’s mammoth feet gave way, weakened by the monumental stomping the beast had relied upon in its attempts to shake Larry free. As quickly as it had appeared, the golem vanished in a tumbling cascade of ice and snow, its parting bellows lost to the whirling winds that nipped at the shivering survivors. All that remained was a measly iron mitt, one of the creature’s staggeringly-huge hands, severed from the rest of its body as it attempted to claw onto anything that might have saved it from its fall. The beast’s weight was far too much, however, and all that remained was the chunk of golem scrap metal that nearly tore off Lyov’s head. “You DID IT, Larry!” Ser Paul cried out, his head popping up from the snowbank it had been lodged into. “And your victory even comes with a sweet prize! Righteous!” A few hours later, when the storm had abated and the three noble warriors had found the rest of the Haensetic party, Paul poured Larry another cup of warm cocoa as he regaled his fellow adventurers with their tale. “You should have seen Larry go! He all but sent that golem running back to its mountain-mama singlehandedly! Lyov’s spear had set the creature off-balance, of course, and my own noble war-cry had clearly reduced it to a quivering mess, unable to fight, but it was Cravencock’s iron headlock that finished the beast!” The valiant men of Haense spent the rest of the wintry day in their huddled camp, girding themselves for the journey home that would begin on the morrow. Before our hero Ser Paul Ryan saw the Dancing Crow Inn with his own eyes again, however, a peculiar party of ancient northern beings would make their presence known. That’s a long tale for another time, however, and for now, our foolhardy heroes reveled in their triumph over the North’s greatest villain. (Expect a post from Cruzazul8 coming soon to explain our riveting encounter with the event team, which will doubtlessly set the stage for the server's upcoming story...)

An ancient force is coming to dismantle the wall, and an ancient order of knights will have to work with the races of Atlas in order to repel it? I assume we'll have to bolster the wall's defenses, ideally with some ancient artifacts. It will probably culminate in a great battle, our last hope to survive, wherein we barely scrape by with our lives. I sure can't wait, friendos!

Ser Paul sadly shakes his head at the hippy. "Men are a part of nature, too, pal, and what they do isn't separate from it. Ćocks also have natural predators in the wild, meaning it's necessarily natural for them to be slain and eaten. Maybe you should stop puffing on those fancy herbs of yours, and use them to season a nice roast Ćock instead! I still welcome you to come to the competition." "That's a very impressive Ćock you have there, friendo! I hope to see it at the competition."

(IMPORTANT NOTE; Tourney has been delayed due to unforeseen travel arrangements - will post here when/if new date is established) From the cozy city of Markev, missives are sent throughout the known realms, calling for ćocks of all shapes and sizes to compete in the first annual Markevian Cockfighting Tournament. ((PvP tourney where you turn into a chicken)) “COME ONE, COME ALL! Ser Paul Ryan invites all would-be ćock contenders to test the mettle in his first annual Markevian Cockfighting Tournament! Rooster ruffians of all shapes and sizes are encouraged to register and pay the 10 minas fee for their chance to win the GRAND PRIZE – 1,000 minas! Ser Paul Ryan doesn’t discriminate amongst ćocks – he believes that every beautiful bird is lovely in its own right, and that all deserve a chance to be crowned ‘King Cock’. In that spirit, participants are asked to register below, describing their ćocks in vivid detail so as to give us a mental picture of what your ćock might look like, and how it might fare when juxtaposed against other ćocks. There is only one disqualifier; in the name of public health, Ser Paul has deemed that diseased ćocks are forbidden from the contest. If your bird is encrusted with filthy diseases, we want no part of it! All ćocks will be thoroughly inspected by Ser Paul Ryan beforehand to ensure he’s satisfied that they meet his requirements. Ćocks will be fitted with razor blades when they arrive – do NOT try to augment your ćock at home, as doing so can result in serious injuries to your ćock. Leave it to the professionals. Do you think your ćock is impressive? Are you hoping to wow large crowds of onlookers with your ćock’s physical might? Have you always wanted to see how your ćock measures up against others? If you answered yes to any of the above questions, your ćock just might qualify for this tournament. Alcohol will be flowing, snacks will be munched, and not only is gambling permitted, it's downright encouraged! If a certain ćock catches your eye, you're free to nurture it and encourage it with your bets! Please fill out the information sheet below, and send it to the Dancing Crow Inn in Markev, addressed to one Ser Paul Ryan. If at all possible, please include a sketch of your ćock for vetting purposes; no fake ćocks allowed! Ser Paul Ryan would like to remind everybody that all contestants are welcome, as are non-participating observers – children and families in particular are encouraged to come and see these mighty ćocks on display." CONTESTANT COCKSHEET: Your name: (Username)/Roleplay Name The name of your ćock: (Please be as creative as possible) Ćock’s origin: Ćock’s origin story: (optional) What makes your ćock stand out from other ćocks? (Please be as detailed as possible; there's no such thing as too much information when it comes to your ćock's attributes and good looks) I agree that Ser Paul Ryan and the Markevian Cockfighting Tournament Organization™ are not responsible for any injuries me or my ćock may sustain during this event: [ ] TOURNEY INFO: Time/date: Sunday, May 27th, high noon (12:00pm) EDT/UTC-4 Entry fee: 10 minas GRAND PRIZE: 1,000 minas - Your ćock will be inducted into Ser Paul Ryan’s Grand Ćock Hall Of Fame – Bragging rights about having the biggest, baddest ćock in town 2nd Place: You think anyone cares about having the second most impressive ćock around? Think again, pal – no prize here for losers LOSERS WILL BE BUTCHERED, FRIED, AND SERVED AS DELICIOUS SNACKS TO THE CROWD OF ONLOOKERS. ((The tourney will be facilitated by the event team. Players will be temporarily transformed into chickens, and then PvP one another in a small ćock ring. I will act as the judge and chief commentator, but am open to others joining me. If you want to help facilitate this event, please include that on your cocksheet, but I only want those who possess experience judging ćocks in the past. Rooster rookies are nonetheless encouraged to show up and learn a thing or two about how to handle and raise a strong ćock.)) Why am I doing this? I just love ćocks! Finally, a small note appears to have been added to each flier, carefully scrawled in green crayon: “It is suggested that Renatian Roosters stay at home – they’re infamously small, and possessing years of cockfighting experience myself, I can tell you they simply don’t match up against most other ćocks. Nonetheless, you’re permitted to bring any kind of healthy ćock you wish, as long as it’s disease free and doesn’t possess any unnatural augmentations.” ((OOC: I ask for serious responses only, please. Jokesters will be reported and disqualified. The 10 minas fee can be paid on the date of the cockfight tourney, or sent to me at any other time when I’m online. YES, this event is real – quit that snickering in the back!))