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!))

The Adrian Declaration Issued by the office of the Head Ambassador, Confirmed by His Majesty Karl II 8th of Snows Maiden, 1664 By the decree of HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, KARL BARBANOV: Let word go forth from Markev to all realms that the KINGDOM OF HAENSE, under the auspicious leadership of HIS ROYAL MAJESTY, KARL BARBANOV, has issued the ADRIAN DECLARATION of 1664 after consulting with the wise diplomatic envoys of DUKE JOHN SARKOZIC. The declaration reads as follows: I. Let it be known that, after countless days of hectic negotiating in neutral Papal territory, the KINGDOM OF HAENSE has relinquished its claim to the DUCHY OF ADRIA, returning the title to its rightful lord, DUKE JOHN SARKOZIC. II. The KINGDOM OF HAENSE shall make no attempts, by force of arms nor honeyed words, to extort tax revenue, peasant subservience, nor military loyalty from the denizens of the new DUCHY OF ADRIA and her liege lord, DUKE JOHN SARKOZIC. III. The KINGDOM OF HAENSE views the ADRIAN DECLARATION as a necessary precursor to peace and prosperity for all of mankind, and grants its noble blessing to the folk of the DUCHY OF ADRIA, that they may enjoy long, prosperous seasons of summer until the end of days. Signed, His Majesty the King Karl II of Hanseti and Ruska, Grand Hetman of the Army, Prince of Dules, Lahy, Sorbesborg and Slesvik, Regent of Pruvia, Grand Duke of Vanderfell, Duke of Akovia, Krajia and Aldersburg, Margrave of Rothswald, Count of Karikhov, Baranya, Kavat, Karovia, Torun, and Kaunas, Viscount of Alamar, Baron of Vsenk, Valwyk, Rostig, Esenstadt, Krepost and Kralta, Lord of the Westfolk, Lord of Markev, Protector of the Highlanders, etcetera

Funeral Music Ser Paul Ryan’s old bones groaned in distress as he climbed the steep hill leading up to Markev, his now-shrunken frame being battered about by even the smallest gust of wind. Once a powerful knight, indeed, one of the most renown combatants in the land, he had now been reduced to a feeble, albeit handsome old man by the ceaseless sands of time. He knew not how many years he had spent wandering the lands, nor how long it had been since he had last tread amongst his fellow man, confident only that he would find warmth, safety, and the reassuring grins of his friendos at the Raevir town of Markev, which he had been led to believe was the last true bastion of Orenian chivalry in these dark and dreary times. He was wrong, of course. So wrong, as he had often been in his long life. Slowly but steadily arriving at the gates of the impressive city, he was ignored by most of the peasants, soldiers, and merchants idling around Markev’s gates in the midst of the bright day. Old Paul petitioned the first passerby he noticed, a dainty young stable girl, to permit him entrance to the city, that he might rest his wizened old head and hear once more the uproarious laughter of his heavily-accented pals. Ser Paul obviously had no idea that the young stable girl before him was actually a young boy by the name of Damien Barrow, given that the boy’s frame more closely resembled that of a young plump maiden in his mind’s eye than that of a strapping young warrior. Scarcely had Paul’s request for entrance escaped his lips when the boy muttered something in response. Ser Paul, being so old as to have lost most of his eyesight and hearing, cupped a hand behind his ear, leaning forward and shouting at the young man to speak up. “EH?! WHAT’S THAT, LASSIE!?” Another muted reply echoed from the youth’s lips, and this, too, was unintelligible to Old Paul. His wrinkled hands began to drift towards his coin purse, intent on drawing out a charitable sum of minas to pay the entrance fee to the peculiar young maiden who seemed to be wearing a boy’s garb, when the youth’s fist suddenly struck Paul’s jaw, sending him spinning. For a brief moment, Ser Paul saw nothing but bright, spinning stars that seemed eerily similar to the 50 white ones that had, long ago, adorned the banner he rode into combat with. The stable boy’s sucker punch, being sudden and poorly formed by the inexperienced youth, packed a feeble punch, but an old, defenseless man like Paul was vulnerable to even the mildest of onslaughts. As the brave youth accosted the unarmed, defenseless old man in front of a crowd of onlookers, Ser Paul could do naught but groan in agony, the occasional, desperate cry for help escaping from his lips. “Help! I’ve FALLEN, and I CAN’T GET UP!” He moaned to the observant clouds above, his hand instinctively reaching for the medallion around his neck. No magical aid would be coming to his rescue today, however; in order to better facilitate the grisly murder soon to take place, the heroic youth bound Paul’s hands and feet with rope, so as to permit no resistance to his foul crime. The boy was obviously as short on brains as he was on charm and good looks; the feeble old man couldn’t have lifted a finger to resist him, even if he wanted to. Ser Paul desperately attempted to raise his trembling, bound hands to countless passersby, all of whom ignored the outrageous assault that was occurring in front of the city’s gates, before the deep timber of a Raevir accent reached his ears. “Ey, what is noise?” inquired the passing Lyov II. Ser Paul, still dizzy from the brave youth’s noble blow, smiled faintly as he heard the familiar accent. He had long been a friend of the Raevir people, riding into countless battles with his peculiar-sounding friendos, asking for little in return save the occasional mug of Carrion black and a chance to regal them with a tale of his countless exploits. Surely, this observer, whose booming voice reminded him of countless old friendos long-since passed, would recognize the famed knight and come to his rescue. No such divine providence would arrive, however; that people’s debt to Old Paul would go unpaid, the passerby voicing his disapproval but doing nothing to stop the gallant young lad from accosting the helpless senior citizen. For a brief moment, the last he would ever recall, noble Ser Paul Ryan felt hopelessly lost and alone; was this not the land of the noble Raevir? He briefly pondered whether he had accidently wandered into Renatus, to have been treated with such contempt and malice for no justifiable cause. A few moments later, the bright smile of the sun faded to a dim glow, before eclipsing entirely; Old Paul Ryan had passed on, his battered and beaten body, worn down by countless decades, incapable of withstanding the abuse of the valiant young girl who had accosted him. The grisly scene that occurred next was so foul, so heinous, so depraved as to still be whispered about to this day. The youth slowly dragged Paul’s silent, limp body across the dirt towards a nearby fire, mud staining the noble knight’s once-proud cloak, which had been fashioned from the banners of the kingdom he had once served with zeal. How fitting that the banner of Oren’s once-proud purpose was tarnished by the filth of the dirt, given that mankind had evidently fallen so low. Tipping over a scalding cauldron above the crackling flames in a peculiar fashion that kept him free from burns, the youth smiled with glee before tossing Ser Paul Ryan’s head into the flames. The barbaric act wouldn’t have seemed out of place in the foul land of Aesterwald of age’s yore, and there was little doubt that somewhere high in the clouds above, the ghost of Boris Carrion wept. Far away, as the voice of angels rose to serenade his ascending soul, Ser Paul Ryan’s shade smiled the sun’s smile as he rose to join the ranks of his countless pals in the great beyond. “It’s so good to see you all again, friendos.” Goodnight, sweet prince ((Good to be back fam, hope to see you all in-game soon. Head on down to Markev's Dancing Crow Inn if you're looking to interact with noble Paul's descendants, who are as handsome as ever.))

13th of the Sun's Smile, 1559 Arik Vanir shook lightly as he strode up towards the gates of Riga. Age had not blessed the old fisherman well, and it seemed the ache within his chest grew harsher with each waking. His glassy-eyed gaze saw little these days, though it had once seen kings ascend their thrones and surveyed records for vast tracts of lands. His ears often failed him, though in his youth they stood resilient against the shaking of spears and the roars of thousands. His joints groaned in protest with each step, though he once bounded through fields on horseback and tore voraciously through the sea surf. His mind hurt him most of all - so dark. So fuzzy. Nothing was ever in place anymore. He was always confused. He scarcely recalled where he was, most times - though he once sketched borders and devised plans for kingdoms. His reunion with his brother had been the last ray of light in his now dim world, however brief it was. As he tumbled down the splintered stairs, shackled arms rising before him to cushion his fall, it was his brother's voice he heard last before he broke upon the floor below. As he closed his eyes one last time to rest, he did so smiling.

Overall it would mostly be poor. Agriculture jobs in particular in the US suffer from a distinct lack of willing workers - the reason it's seen as a stereotypical job to "pick fruit", for instance, is because regardless of how much you pay them, natives are seldom if ever willing to do such labor. Much of the same can be said of other "stereotypical" jobs done by economic illegals. Most likely, prices for everyday objects produced in an economy would rise because production would be significantly lower. Already, there is a distinct lack of workers in many border and agrarian states that grow bulk products, because they simply can't find anyone, illegal or not, to do the work at almost any price. Luckily, it would probably only be temporary; deporting people only leads to them typically coming back as soon as possible - when people have no alternative save drug lords shooting their children or jihadi's beheading them, they're not going to be (and currently are not) deterred by something like a wall, which is extraordinarily easy to get around. As for the actual process of rounding them up and deporting them itself, there is massive doubt as to 1. Whether or not it's legal 2. If it is, whether it would survive a legal challenge and 3. if it's economically viable or even strategically possible.

Can you please explain how we live in a fair system? When Fraud is the business model of wallstreet, when millions of americans have no access to health care so they can maintain a healthy lifestyle and get a job, when discrimination in our police and law enforcement is still rampant in the 21st century? How is it fair that 1% of the people control 99% of the wealth? How is it fair that the big banks were bailed out by the taxpayers, NO one was prosecuted, and yet hundreds of thousands of everyday americans who failed to pay back their faulty predatory mortgages peddled to them by corporations had their homes repossessed?

Let me make something clear; this is not some fiction you can dispel. There is no wall for you to hide behind. We live in a RIGGED system where 99% of the wealth is held in the hands of the 1%. One in five Americans cannot afford to fill their prescriptions. 40% of African American youth live in poverty. We have the largest incarcerated population in the world, yet call ourselves the land of the free. The time to take power from the corporations and put it into the hands of the people is NOW. Find out more @ https://berniesanders.com/ #FeeltheBern

Glad to find out there's another supporter of #TheBern on LOTC forums! As I'm sure you already know you can learn more about Bernie and donate to his cause at https://berniesanders.com/ Ghanem, I just want to make sure you know how to do your part! Let's work together to put that bully Donald Trump behind for good!

I align in all issues with Bernie, as he is my preferred candidate. Do you want to know more about how you, too, can #Feelthebern? Find out where Bernie stands on the issues at https://berniesanders.com/!