Noer

I personally think that a compromise between treb damage and malfunction possibility is very appealing. Lower both.

Somewhere, in the distant sands of the south, a Crow remains, missing a hand yet not his pride, to sow seed reaped by those now who displace the madness, the storm who took his land.

A smiling sun shines. Heartlanders flock to their Kin. Time will tell their fate.

Once a boy rash in his haste stood in that city, his heart scorched. That city which cast him out, out of fury and fear. That city which stands no more. His heart cold, its roofs ablaze, he weeps--As do those fleeing. Salted soil, salted wounds. In another life, another time, He could have stopped this. He didn’t. He laments. The Last Crow turns away.

A Day On The Eastbight Complimentary Music: Upon the Baltas, Old Mr. Crider sat, pipe in hand, his jaw missing a few teeth and his eyes bearing crows feet. He was, suffice to say, weary. His hands were worn--arthritis took them many years ago. A local youth did most of his work, and his old apprentice inherited his shop. His money was well saved, and his riverside cottage was sufficient for his needs. As long as his hands could pack his pipe, put bait on his hook, and pull himself into bed every night, God permitted him existence. The man looked upon the river. The weather was fair, as it was always fair, spare a period of supernatural, endless winter here or there, and the sky was dotted with clouds. He could swear, as he lifted his eyes to them, that one in particular resembled a crow. Before he could formulate this omen’s meaning, a knock on the stone walls of his cottage requested his presence. He took his pipe from his mouth, resting it in his hand. “How can I help ye?” the heartlander said, a constrained smile on his face. “Mister Crider, could I sit with you?” “Sure!” Crider said, his gaze shifting back to the river. “Thanks,” the boy’s gaze shifted. “Mister Crider, I gots-ta ask you something.” “What do you want to know?” “You ever seen a man die?” “What happened?” Crider questioned, his voice grim. “Mr. Rutledge…” the boy would quiver. The man would sigh. “When I was a younger man, there stood about five men yonder there by the pier.” he’d gesture to the dock, near the old guard tower. “Three stood there as if they didn’t really belong, one had his sword drawn, and one had a rock tied to his foot. Really, they were all where they needed to be.” He looked to the boy. “Sometimes, things just happen because they have to.” He frowned. “What happened?” “The man with the sword told one of the three to kick the rock off into the river.” “Did he?” “Yep. Ol’Sabo died before their eyes, drownin’ and beggin’ and pleadin.” “What about the others?” “Wasn’t too long till those three pulled their own swords and killed the leader. Same for the leader after that, and the leader after that. Ain’t no more dangerous a job than leading the masses in this place.” “Why, Mister Crider? Why do they kill?” “Because, boy, the people in this land are like the weather. They never change. Men with ambition will come, they’ll rise, and they’ll fall to their own flock.” “I don’t want to die, Mr. Crider.” “You won’t, long as you keep bringing the groceries on time and helping out Crider Junior. No trouble ever came to a blacksmith who kept his nose in his business. Now, don’t tell a word of what you saw to anyone, you hear? Keep yourself out of it and go do your business.” The weather was calm that day, and the river ran smoothly. The funeral was the following day.

Hell waits for all men cursed with pride, an Emperor among them.

From the shadows, Vladan feels bittersweet triumph.

Idk about you but I see 3-4 wooden penises just to the side of Belvitz every day....

It is said by the fireside on cold winter nights that The Mad Duke and Konyves were bound to each other, and that wherever one went in death, the other surely followed. Only God knows where that place may be.

Full Name: Vladan Valic Year of Birth: 1640 City of Primary Residency: Belvitz ((MC Name: Kid_Mackin

Josip’s Lament. They’re all mad, the lot of them. Fiends! Usurpers to the crown, savoyard pigs and cossack curs! They’ll not have it, no, they will most certainly NOT! Josip flings himself to the rafters, wailing out his grievances to the world! No, no he doesn’t. They’d kill him where he stands, wailing and all. Josip flees the scene, unbeknownst to his council! Avoiding death! A tried and true HERO! Yes, but the crown! Yes, the Crown, he’ll take the crown too! They can try to take me, but I’ll always be with the coronet! It will be, forever, until he dies, MINE! Josip stands from his chair, his left hand’s fingernails bitten to their pink ivory core. He rose, clutched the coronet in his hands, went forth from his palace, and fled. No treason will be unpunished, none! I’ll kill the lot of them, one day, the lot of them! Pigs, fiends! Lunatics!

I would agree with Narthok and Xarkly here. As vassal in the Empire function mostly as mechanically independent states with in depth political allegiances, I feel like you're just going to be killing vassals here. Especially groups such as Adria (Belvitz) who profited off their proximity to the road.

Josip the Young stares at the broken bridge between the Balt and Vilacz.

Sitting on his Throne, Duke Josip Sarkozic oversaw the first Duma in a very long time. He was a man of governance. Those around him declared their needs, their articles, and he oversaw their votes. Only after every other claim had been heard did he declare his own, and with them, the first governance and proclamation of Josip Sarkozic came into effect. [LINK] The Decree of Josip Sarkozic

The Grand Duma of The Duchy of Adria Twenty Eighth of the Amber Cold, 1681. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x0FAosDi4XA The Balt was an eerie calm; such not entirely foreign to the keep as of late, the lack of occupied voices busy in their work, however on this day the absence possessed a tension not seen for many years. The men of Adria were no longer a conjoined kin as once followed the seizing of the Vrakai plains from Lotharingian Barons. The warmth, the brotherhood, had long since vacated. Now, it was a scramble between men indulged in their own self interest to their own benefit, to each one’s own profit. Outside, burghers and peasants made their trades, the influx of visitors for the Duma being lucrative in essence for those seeking to acquire wealth selling bobbles, bread and trinkets. The preclusion of a peaceful ascension drew forth, yet the toil of day was near on the horizon. Josip Sarkozic lowered himself within his cloth adorned seat, the other Barons seated thrice themselves near. For it was an awkward moment of preeminence, each strategist planning their first move in the diplomatic chess game they were to undertake. The Ivanovich Baron, of whom Josip rightfully granted Vilacz once more to by virtue of sacred claim, was to his left, the newest of the company to emerge within the Duchy. To Josip’s center, on the opposite side of the table, was Septimus Bracchus, the Ilatian. His family had acquired large sums of wealth from international trade, and had made its own fair share of enemies in the process. Josip’s, however, had made far more. To Septimus’ right, Maxim sat, the Eldest Baron, perhaps the last Adrian left of the founders; his motives, to Josip, were unknown. He had seen Maxim like an uncle, perhaps the warmth would be soon be reciprocated. None were to leave until a Duke was chosen. “I’d like to nominate myself,” Josip stated. A silence permeated after these words were uttered. Septimus stepped forward. “Not yet,” The Ilatian demanded. “We’ve a piece of legislation to pass prior to this.” “There can be no government without the Duke.” quipped Josip. “I insist.” “Josip,” Konyves stated, rising swiftly. “Excuse me for a moment.” Then, Hell broke loose in Adria. A Stab, a scuffle, a shouting match. Fleeing outside to the courtyard, Josip found himself, Konyves and Maxim, cornered by a large mob of indigo-turbaned mercenaries, burghers, orcs and mages. Huh, he thought. This is how Adria ends, with a whimper against an Ilatian. How familiar. Then, the side gate to the Balt opened. From it, the cavalry poured forth: Fifteen Renatian Knights, from Donald Dabber to Robert von Denhardt, stood behind Josip. Putting on his helmet, the Boy screamed. “Maxim, Konyves! Who do you vote for?” “You, my Duke!” they bellowed, sternly. “For your Duke, Adrians, yield!” He shouted to the horde. He saw familiar faces in the crowd mixed in with the brigands. One was a Valic child, if only Vladan had been there for him. “You are not my Duke,” Dario said, Septimus turning to Vladan. “Long live Ilatia.” Thusly, the charge commenced, and The Renatian knights, along with the Adrian nobles, pulled back. Into Vilacz, Josip, Maxim and Konyves reposed themselves, outfitting themself with the necessary requisitions for battle. While collected, and with a few straggling brigands picked off by Renatian crossbows, the gates were opened, and the horde poured forth into a Renatian spear wall. Josip cut off the head of an orc with three vicious swoops. Maxim was knocked down by two brigands, though saved by Konyves before likely being soon struck down. Robert, the madman, slayed six men that day - they pushed the rest off the bridge. All that was left was Septimus. Josip, doused in the red fluid of his befallen challengers, adrenaline coursing through his veins, grabbed the unconscious man by the foot, and dragged his face through the gravel pathway between the kissing keeps. The cuts seeped blood from Septimus’s unhelmed face. He dropped him, the man’s cries of vengeance fueling his rage further. “You *****,” he’d swear. “Who, who do you vote for? Traitor.” Josip angrily inquired. “I’ll say nothing, you bastard.” “Very well, then.” A dagger raised, Josip sought to bring it down on the man. Konyves stopped his movement with a swift pounce upon his arm. “Leave it to Renatian Law, Josip.” Josip Sarkozic the Boy fell to his knees that day; Adria toiled in battle, his own garments tattered and bloodied - pondering amongst himself, he whispered: “We shall stand ourselves back up once more, for the end is NOT near.” When he rose, the boy rose a man. He arose a Duke. The Red Duke would ascend. All he needed now was the Crown.

The Duma of The Amber Cold, 1681. The Balt was strangely quiet. This was not completely foreign to the keep, a lack of sound, however on this day the absence possessed a tension not seen for many years. The men of Adria were no longer the men they were when they seized this land from Lotharingian Barons. The warmth, the brotherhood, had long vacated. Now, it was a group of men dedicated to their own benefit, each and every one of them. Outside, burghers and peasants made their trades, the influx of visitors for the Duma being very lucrative for those seeking to make some money selling bobbles, bread and trinkets. Josip Sarkozic sat down, the three other Barons next to him. The stared at each other, each planning their first move in the diplomatic chess game they were to undergo. The Ivanovich Baron, whom he had returned Vilacz to, was to his left, the newest of the bunch to join the Duchy. To Josip’s front, on the opposite side of the table, was Septimus Bracchus, the Ilatian. His family had acquired large sums of wealth from international trade, and had made its own fair share of enemies in the meantime. Josip’s, however, had made far more. To Septimus’ right, Maxim sat, the Eldest Baron, perhaps the last Adrian left of the founders. His motives, to Josip, were unknown. He had seen Maxim like an uncle, perhaps the warmth would be reciprocated. None were to leave until a Duke was chosen. “I’d like to nominate myself,” Josip stated. A silence permeated after these words were uttered. ((OOC NOTE: POST SHALL BE CONTINUED AFTER ELECTION HAPPENS IN GAME))

Holy Smokes, lotta hostility here. I think some of the changes are a little crazy, like a 14 day cap is pretty bonkers, but besides that I'd like to test most of these rules out and see how it goes. Just a reminder Narthok, Compromise leaves everyone unhappy. Don't let the haters bring you down.

The Marshal of Adria wets his lips. He salivates for war. Against who, he knows not, though a great crusade does appear on the horizon, and a united South shall expunge the threat of the Other from their realms.

Name 10 things that the current Administration have done of actual value that have promoted server activity instead of stagnation.

DUCAL ORDER OF ST. EMMA The roads of Whispering Crossroads fell silent on this day. The buzz of industry and commerce in the nearby City, known to all as Belvitz, stood unmolested by the clashing of steel and spilling of innocent blood that had plagued them for so long. Dwarven bandits laid slain, strewn up on trees along the road towards the Cloud Temple. It stood as a reminder to any future slaver’s endeavors in the area. There was a time when the guard was little more than the town’s population, fighting as blacksmiths, tenants and tavern keeps. Those days past when the gold came in. There was a time when they populated the caravans of the continent. Those days past when the gold stopped. Now, they stand at a new chapter in their identity, one which brings with it steel. To protect Belvitz in these trying times, the guard must expand outward into the world, the roads, the Baronies, the entire Kingdom. They must spend time actively extinguishing vagabonds and banditry, instead of reacting to it. The guard must push out, rather than hold a line. Under the leadership of the newly ennobled Marshal of Adria Vladan Valic, the following changes are to be made. THE BELVITZ GUARD SHALL HEREBY BE KNOWN AS THE ORDER of SAINT EMMA, AND ITS JURISDICTION SHALL BE TRANSFERRED FROM THE CITY OF BELVITZ TO THE DUCHY OF ADRIA, AS WELL AS ITS RESPONSIBILITY SHIFT FROM THE CITY TO THE DUCHY. THE JURISDICTION OF THE ORDER OF SAINT EMMA IS TO BE ALL OF THE EASTBLIGHT, FROM BRIDGE TO BRIDGE. THE ORDER OF SAINT EMMA IS TO HEREBY PUNISH ALL BANDITRY BY DEATH, WITHOUT TRIAL. VIOLENCE IN THE CITY OF BELVITZ SHALL NOT BE TOLERATED AND ON THE ROADS AS WELL. RANKING: Marshal: The Marshal of Adria, commander of all Adrian Forces. His word is absolute, only answering to the Duke and King of Renatus. Seneschal: The lead administrator of the Order of Saint Emma. Responsible for leadership in peace and in war, and the strengthening of the Order. He must be appointed and can be removed by the Marshal. Knight: Rolemodels of the Adrian Military. Skilled in swordsmanship and negotiating their way through Court, those who are deemed fit for the rank are recommended to the Duke to be made into Knights in the Kingdom of Renatus, and serve as the core leadership of the lower forces. Sergeant Major: The heart of the Order. Responsible for recruitment, leadership and combat experience, the Sergeant Major’s job is to keep the blood pumping through the Order’s logistical and psychological veins. Sergeant: The senior position for most Order members. Responsible for the leadership of Newer recruits, introduction into the military. Man-At-Arms: The rank of a veteran foot soldier. Expected to perform well in combat and against opposition. Guardsman: The rank of an experienced foot-soldier. Expected to perform well in combat and understand the workings of the town. Watchman: The rank of a newly blooded foot-soldier. Expected to understand the base concepts of the Order. Recruit: The rank of a newly recruited soldier. Expected to be able to pick up a sword and swing it. PAY: Seneschal->Sergeant: 300 Minas (EXCLUDING LIEUTENANTS, UNPAID) Man-at-arms: 275 Minas Guardsman: 250 Minas Watchman: 225 Minas Recruit: 200 Minas. Pay is once a saint’s week, and if you fail to attend practice, you shall not be paid unless a proper appeal to as to why you missed practice is made. BONUSES: For defense of the city of Adria and its surrounding territories: 100 Minas For successfully accomplishing Adria’s mission in offensive operations: 150 Minas. For continued and loyal service to the guard: 500 Minas. For the protection of a civilian both in the city and on the road: 300 Minas. For Recruiting New Members: 200 per person. UNIFORM REGULATIONS Brigadiers are expected to wear the standardized uniforms of the guard, the only optional piece of the uniform being a helmet. CURRENT ROSTER: Seneschal: Lotoras Sergeant Major: Pandir Sergeant: Alexander Virre Man-At-Arms: N/A Guardsman: N/A Watchman: Talsena Dellos Colt Harrison Recruit: Huck Cameron Steve Sior Canes Martyn Rouge

Role-play: Vladan Valic stood before the King of Renatus. He pled his case for why the village was a threat, their constant harassment of individuals with threatening graffiti throughout the city. One rogue halfling with a few tree people around him would not live to tell the tale after insulting the Kingdom of Renatus as such, and spreading such discomfort to the citizens. He pleaded for two things: The declaration that the leader of the village would be known as a public enemy of the Kingdom, and that they move to takeover the lands shortly. Both were granted. With such, the Kingdom of Renatus went to war on the petty village, and it went with fire and steel. CBs: Known Enemy of the Nation Yes, this build is a minor freebuild, counting traditional buildings there are 5 in place at the time of this post, meaning there is more than enough of proof for this claim. I can provide screenshots and evidence if necessary. Side A: Kingdom of Renatus Side B: Ent Village Proposed Date & Time: Friday August 3 2 PM EST Proposed Rules: (Suggest any unique modifications or restrictions for this warclaim.) No Allies Location: (Provide a screenshot of the area being warclaimed from the dynmap.) Not applicable, as the map webpage is still down. However will provide aerial screenshots in war chat. Discord: (Your current Discord username, example: Test#1234.) Mogroka#8088 Kid Mackin#0502

*Laughs in Adrian*

Vladan sighs, bathing in his 40 thousand mina filled tub, thinking of the loss he received. He feels parched from the mourning, so he decides to drink the bottled Courlandic tears harvested after Whitepeak.