Raglin

It'd been a long time. Too long. Numerically, it was more than Raglin even bothered to keep track of. All he knew, was that this old breastplate was getting rusted to all hell.

Fingers that once curled triumphantly 'round the hilt of an axe now curled dependently 'round the knob of a gnarled cedar cane. The bear head at its precipice the perfect mold for the elderly dwarf's grip. A soft smile played on his lips as he peered down at the little visage of the beast. To him, it'd been a confidant for many a year. A face to look into when murmuring or mumbling the woes of a traveler, of a dwarf lost in his own world. The years had not been kind, ravaging what was once the figure of strength and pride, reshaping it into the considerably softer form of an elder. But those arms, wreathed in markings of a bygone warrior, still shown proudly when not enveloped within the warmth of his fur cloak. 

It'd been a long road. What seemed like an age of recuperating from a sickness laid upon him in the most foul of ways, of wounds of the soul and the body, had changed the dwarf forever. The fiery champion of the common fighter looked more akin to a paragon of books and hearths. But alas, it was a lonely existence. Familiar faces had been a novelty of the past, a forgotten fruit born by a life of a traveler, an adventurer, a soldier, and a father. All things of the past, of course. Now, after so many years, he was but simply himself.

Raglin.

The weathered visage peered up beneath the heavy hood he bore over his head, the thick ivory beard the only sign that this mound of fur was indeed of the dwarven folk. A storm blue eye and its milky white pair were cast over the monks' gardens, the pillars that had been such a constant throughout the years. He drew a deep breath through his nose, sniffing the sweet smell of freshly cooked bread, of the books and the orchards beyond. It was from this serenity of nostalgia that he was roused.

"Raglin... Raglin Edgehand?"

(( Hey-howdy-hey! Old timer here. Figured I'd pop back into a community I fell in love with oh-so-many years ago. Nice to see some old friends, old faces. If anyone wants to chat, reminisce, or RP? Just shoot me a PM. Thanks all, and much love. ))

=(Election Ballot of Urguan)=-

Place an X next to the candidate of your choice.

Your Name ((RP and MC)): Raglin Edgehand (_Raglin_)

Race: Dwarf

Kalion Grandaxe (Dashing_Knight)

Lathros Irongrinder (Lathros)

Verthaik Frostbeard (Kralek) X

Skippy Irongut (Skippy369) 

Fili Grandaxe (Cpt_Noobman) 

Changed me vote ta' make t'ings more interesting, hehe. Both lads are great an' worthy.

The clan has officially established its own hall within the limits of Tal Azwyr, and is providing food, gear, and a room to any and all Edgehand members! 

Contact me via forum PMs if you're interested in joining us.

Back in my day, those fiends wouldn't dare fiddle with our sticks!

Anyone with a 'Fair' or above tinkering skill, I have a proposition for you!

I need a Skull Mask made, and will happily provide the ingredients, as well as a 100 minas tip.

Any idea what items are used, exactly, for say, a skeleton mask? 

Any idea what mats are used to create the masks, or if they've even been implemented yet?

(( Just a random thing my friend wanted me to do, working off of the prompt "A simple guard defending his home from a monster." ))

Crunch.

The roach's demise was the fourth of many, squashed beneath the whims of his iron-clad boot. It was a slow day, but it always was. There was hardly a thing to worry about in that little village nestled on the border of the Whitetail River.

Crunch.

Another one gone. So went away another insect, and so went away another minuscule moment of his life.

Now that he thought about it, Frank truly did have a lot to worry about in his small village. Aside from the itchy feeling of his leather jerkin, there was that itchy anxiety involving the merchant's daughter. What a beaut she was, and her eyes the color of freshly hewn emeralds. The young guardsman didn't know a lot about jewels, but he did know that emeralds were his favorite... Ever since she first smiled at him.

A precarious thought, a penniless farm boy garbed in leather and a spear, aspiring to marry a girl of such blatant... Poise. A soft sigh escaped him, as his fantasies drew him away once more, dozing off to that occasional sound.

Crunch.

A few bugs and wistful thoughts later, and suddenly his daydream was shattered. The sweet, honeyed voice of that golden-haired girl was growing louder, deeper, and reverberating, until it was a bellowing voice in his ear.

"FOCKIN' GET MOVIN'! THAT DAMN OGRE IS HERE!"

The sound of his commander always drew a sickening feeling in the depths of his stomach, and this was no better. With a flail and a gasp for air - and reality, no less - young Frank scurried about. It wasn't until he joined the other assorted men that he saw it.

Tossed end over end, the merchant cart filled with a myriad of spices, silks, and jewels was upended entirely. The yelping sound of that sorry, fat sod of a merchant pierced the air; and yet was soon muffled by the roar of that hulking beast.

Standing easily twelve feet high, and weighing far more than the cattle it carried on its shoulder, the ogre was a hideous gray thing. With a tooth jutting upwards far past his nostrils, and many missing between, he was an ugly sight. The spruce tree he carried lazily in one hand was lofted high, waggling in fury. That single, red eye, was blazing in a primal rage.

Frank was petrified, and he wasn't the only one. Men all around practically (and some literally) pissed themselves at what they beheld. Yet, their stupor of awe was soon broken. Tossed aside by the whim of a new horror.

Jewels were strewn about, many now worthless and dulled by the dirt of the old road. Yet, a pair still gleamed, glossed and glistening with tears, that fair-haired maiden scrabbling on the ground in terror.

Suddenly, the idea of a golden band beneath a birch altar seemed so fragile. Like a newborn child, it reached out towards him in blind necessity.

It awoke something in Frank. Something deep, deeper than the fluttering heart of adrenaline, deeper than the sickness in his gut, or the quivering in his muscles. It was feral, it was humane.

Striding forward, past the bedraggled line of guards, he hefted his spear in hand. That sharpened steel point looked so meager and useless in the wake of such a monster, but it was no matter. His true weapon gleamed brighter than the gold ornaments about him.

Adrenaline surged through him, bravery coursing through his veins like a valiant destrier upon the fields of battle. The world was growing hazy, the tunnel of focus settled upon that heaving, breathing creature. The squinted hues of the blonde merchant's daughter shined bright in hope. A new fluttering took over her body, a new gripping sensation of euphoria.

With a roar, the young man leapt into the air, a grin nearly plastered on his face. The ogre turned, its eye widening. That great tree began to fall downwards, but Frank felt as if he was flying faster than an eagle. Suddenly, there was nothing stopping him. Nothing would stand in the way of ma--

Crunch.

(( I'm told it'll receive a stamp of approval or whatever from the Grand King, but the clan has existed for years on end, now. So yes. It's a thing. ))

Clan Edgehand

Why did Raglin take the mantle of Clan Father once again?

 To put it simply, he kicked more arse than the previous leader, ha! After enough time standin' around waiting for the beloved clan leader to show his face, Raglin decided enough was enough. He had searched far and wide, visiting every brothel and bar from here to those blistering Orc lands and back... even digging around the human kingdoms for a bit. When the poor bugger never showed up, Raglin was left with no choice but to take charge. Despite all this, he refused to take official charge of the Clan, even at the behest of that annoying Bruce. Such was not the way of the Edgehands. Pride and boasting were of course an integral part of Dwarven culture, but it was no their nature to expose family, especially clan issues. Perseverance became critical, and Raglin certainly drudged on. The position of Clan Father, along with it's recognition and public honor, sat empty as the Clan worked silently in the background to make nessecary preparations. At long last, with the Clan having moved to Karik and settled down a bit... Raglin decided to make his move. He would lead the Edgehands to their rightful place in society.

"Er, wot's it really mean ta be an' Edgehand. An lots of other bollocks."

 

 

Being an Edgehand is (though some might argue the point) much more than being drunk, winning tavern brawls, and flaunting your massive...erm... "axe" around. In fact, that's really more of a pastime than a tradition.

 

"No et's not! Quit lyin' to dem ya pretteh boy!"

 

Right. Sorry. I lied. All three are keystones to being an Edgehand. What I meant to say is that those aren't the only things. The history of Clan Edgehand is, like I said, ancient. Almost as ancient as the Dwarves themselves, which in turn gives them a deep history of tradition and respected values that still holds firm today.

 

 

The Fighting: You can't truly respect someone until they've kicked "yer arse up around yer shoulders".The Edgehands are a fiery bunch, and it's very common for the Clan to jump into a brawl with each other, for no other reason than a bit of fun on a slow day. Yemekar have mercy on the poor fool outside of the Clan who decides to take a swing at an Edgehand. "Ye' fight 'un, ye fight us all!" the saying goes, and the Clan is quick to jump in to assist a brother Edgehand.

 

Similarly, they are often the first ones into battle, carrying their standard high and beating their swords, axes, and hammers loudly against their shields, chanting or shouting bawdy Edgehand tunes. An enemy of the Dwarves is quickly made an enemy of the Edgehands, a trait that has proven useful for their political advancement in Dwarven society.

 

The Drinking: A dwarf's no good if he or she can't hold their ale. Aside from being a social and bonding experience, the more competitively driven of the Edgehands are known to host drinking contests, to see who can drink their opponents under the table faster. Of course, this much inebriation leads to claims of cheating... so it's not rare to find the drinking and the fighting tied hand in hand.

 

The Boasting: Making your accomplishments known is almost as important as actually accomplishing something. The more braggart nature of the Edgehands is one of the few traditions that only reveals itself within the ranks of the Clan itself. In court they tend to be humble, and hard working... but get a group together and the flaunting begins. Like all Edgehand traditions, it's done entirely in good nature and not out of spite for each other. They are all a tight-knit group, and being able to make fun of each other and shamelessly brag is part of the experience.

 

The Honor: In the eyes of the Edgehands, honor is the highest value. You are nothing without your word, and the Edgehands take great pride in their credibility and reputation. Nobody lies to a fellow Clan member, and all Edgehands take great strides to follow the high path of honor in everything they do. Revenge is acceptable (as dwarves never forget grudges), but petty revenge for trivial wrongs, and shady, backstabbing tactics are severely frowned upon. They can be honest to the point of being blunt, and a promise made it a promise kept. While the Clan itself may catch political flak for being a bit rowdy at times, you would be hard pressed to say that the Edgehands don't mean what they say and stand firmly behind their word, be it an opinion or a promise.

 

The Loyalty: "Ya nevah leave yer pal in tae mine wit' no light", the proverbial Edgehand saying goes. Partly a manner of Honor, an Edgehand never turn their backs on allies. An oath made, unless completed, is never broken, and will follow an Edgehand for the rest of his or her life. They are quick to move to the aid of allies and brethren, and go out of their way to assist any friend. Bawdy and violent sure. But when you get in a fight, the Edgehands are the first to watch your back... or knock the other guy clean out. They're not about to let you go it alone.

 

Ah, it seems I had to change the POV on MPM. Solved!

Strangely enough, I've encountered an issue today. When selecting a tile to place a block upon, it places the block one above, or awkwardly away from the point I intended. Could this have something to do with More Player Models, by chance?

Thunder.

It erupted in the wake of night, shattering the gentle nuance of the evening. Like a dragon's roar, it shook the very foundations of the land about him. Such a storm had not reigned in so long, so long since he had last slipped into the shadows of that dark cave. Like a phoenix, the blaze of a torch cast its reign upon the deep shadows of the hallowed cavern, casting the wanton tongues of fire against the reaches of shadow. A deep, resounding thud could be heard, as the boot planted itself near the great stone door.

The torch settled itself in the cast-iron sconce in which it had previously resided, so long ago, as the low form rose to the expanse of rock. With a deep, rumbling growl, the defiant screech of stone upon stone could be heard. Like the shattering of glass, the lightning's glow ahead pierced the stuffy darkness of the room of stone, small motes of dust already seen swarming about, as the heavy boulder was shoved aside, and down the grassy slope ahead. 

Rolling his burly shoulders, the elder dwarf peered ahead, the kiss of rain dappling against his dusty cheeks, washing away the years of settlement. With a deep, loud inhale, his storm blue eye opened wide to the world ahead. There was much anew, many things had changed, and yet here he was. Stalwart. 

His clan, no doubt dissipated to the whims of time, was long gone, leaving him bare and anew, as he had been so long ago. Wars long past, friends long dead, and a home forgotten, this was a land wiped clean of the dwarf's memories, and his legacy. There was a feeling of rebirth, resounding deep within his core, that drew his chest to a firm puff, and his jaw to jut forward, presenting that expanse of silver-streaked ebony.

"Back again."

(( I return to LOTC! I look forward to any and all RP ahead. ))

[size="5"]Thalgrin[/size]
Nicknames: Thal.
Age: Young dwarven adult.
Gender: Male
Race: Dwarf (Mountain/Cave Halfbreed)
Status: Alive

Description
Height: 4 feet, four inches.
Weight: 215 pounds.
Body Type: Muscular, very broad and thick.
Eyes: A very bright blue.
Hair: Coal black.
Skin: A light tanned color.
Markings/Tattoos: Wears the Edgehand insignia on his right arm.
Health: Very healthy.
Personality: Overall friendly, but often grim and thoughtful.
Inventory: Carries his heavy one-handed warhammer. 
Further Details: Learning Fire Evocation.

[size="3"]Life Style[/size]
Alignment*: Neutral Good.
Deity*: Dungrimm.
Religion: Brathmordakin.
Alliance/Nation/Home: The Company of the Brotherhood of the Chalice.
Job/Class: Warrior.
Title(s): The Justiciar.
Profession(s): Fighter, soldier.
Special Skill(s): Very minor fire evocation (learning). Exquisite weapon handling.
Flaw(s): May be too bold, or too headstrong for some situations.

[size="3"]Magic*[/size]
Current Status: Learning, progressing.
Arch-type: Arcane.
Sub-Type: Fire Evocation.
Rank: T2, (Started at about T2, due to his IC extended time with Baldir Toov's teachings.) 
Weakness(es): Still new to the magic, is often fatigued by the conjuring.
Strength(s): Understands fire with a great knowledge, due to his being a smith.
Current Spell(s): Sparks, and small flames. 


[size="3"]Weaponry[/size]
Fighting Style: One-handed weapons. Primarily his warhammer.
Trained Weapon: Warhammers, swords, axes.
Favored Weapon: His hammer.
Archery: Terrible at it. 

Biography
Parents: Father- Raglin Edgehand Mother- Unknown
Siblings: N/A
Children: N/A
Extended Family: The Toovs, adopted.
Pet(s): N/A

History
 Thalgrin was born to the clan lord Raglin Edgehand, raised in the Edgehand Clan Hall beneath the mountains of Kaedrin. His father was quick to raise the boy as a hard, strong lad. When his father died, the young dwarf was left with not but Baldir and Tanith Toov to raise him. Baldir Toov, a strong and hard man, raised the dwarf as a fine warrior, training him with hammers and axes. When he had finally grown his beard, the dwarf set out into the world to learn of its secrets. 

For two years he explored Anthos, visiting places such as Kal'Azgoth, Kaedrin, Malinor, and many others. During his travels, he learned of the mysteries of the arcane, and began to seek out those that would teach him such powerful magic. His journey took him to the dwarven library, where he found the records of his clan's bloodline. 

Thalgrin, raised to believe most dwarves could not learn magic besides the Ironguts, was surprised to see the strange, mixed bloodline of his father. Irongut and Grandaxe blood alike ran through his veins, which merely boosted his confidence in becoming the magic wielding warrior he would hope to be. When he returned to his home with the Toovs, Baldir (who knew the ways of fire evocation) agreed to mentor the dwarf in his magics. He now continues his studies to this day. 
Artwork

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Thunder struck the sky, piercing the pitch black of night like a dagger. A dwarf was silhouetted against the sky as lightning flashed brightly behind him, eyes as blue as sapphires shone in the darkness for a brief moment, before he entered the shelter of a forge.

Warmth surged over him like a wave as he stepped inside, the light finally traveling over his features. His skin was a gentle tan, the perks of youth showing along his thickly bearded face. Bushy eyebrows furrowed together over a slightly crooked nose, whiskers as dark as coal glistened in the firelight. He was a dwarf of thick stature, but not from the comforts of luxury. He was sinewy, his arms baring sword scars, and a particularly large clan ink marking along his right bicep. He wore a simple tunic and thick leather boots, all topped with a worn cloak.

An old man stood over the forge, his eyes squinting at the newcomer.

"Wot d'you want, eh? I'm all closed for t'night." He grumbled, laying his hand on a dagger at his belt.

"Ah believe ye'll work fer me, mister." A large pouch of gold was set before the old blacksmith, which produced a very toothy grin from the old fellow.

"Heheheeee! Aye, aye! Whateeer ye wunt!" The blacksmith said happily. In turn, the dwarf threw a small blueprint to the smith.

"A hammer. Have it done by the end of the week."

Came a gruff order from the dwarf.

"Let's see... Birch hilt, easy enough.. Silver filigreed into the butt end, easy...bear engraving on the head... Steel-reinforced stone for the hammer itself? Tougher, but manageable..." The old man rambled on, even after the dwarf began to leave. Before he did, though, the old smith called out.

"Er, wots your name?"

"Thalgrin, son of Raglin." He said, as he disappeared into the storm.

(( Since some of my good friends are returning, I've decided to come back to the good ol' love of LOTC. I hope to help make the server better in any way I can, even if that means just making fun walk up RPs and enjoyable storytelling more abundant. This character is the son of my former character, Raglin. Perhaps you'll find him along your travels! ))

More letters are found amongst the stash.

To Roggar,

You were a fine neighbor! I had one of me kin leave you a big apple pie for yer clan! I hope you will remember me as not only a fiend, but a brother.

To Aengoth,

I leave you the fate of the clan. Do with it what you wish, old friend. I know you'll make the right choice.

To the remaining Roses,

Only good tidings and fair roads I wish upon you all. You've been through hell and back. There's a world out there for you to discover. Don't let anything get you down.

To Avern'len,

My long-eared friend! I wish you a happy life with your child and wife. Never let your birch tree fall.

(( Not sure. May pass it on to Aengoth, I believe. ))

Raglin hacks and coughs in his chair, blood splattering over his beard and chest. He heaves and pants, looking over his home in Hyrr. He calls for a fellow Edgehand, who takes him to Kal'Azgoth for the last time. The old, sick dwarf looks fondly upon Raglin Road.

"Ah hope me name'll be remem-ACK-bah me..."

The dwarf heaves up more blood, slowly climbing the steps into the city. So beautiful, the snow powdering his hair. He breathes a clear breath, smiling.

Raglin falls to his knees, holding his hands aloft. His eyes swell with tears, his mind flashing through images of his time in this world. Asulon; his many years in Kal'Anart and battle in the Dwarf Orc wars. His friends he had met, the love he had felt. Anthos; his time amongst the Rose and the dwarves alike, staying friend to both no matter the situation, deep down.

Raglin slumps against the stone, clutching a pile of letters against himself. He died there, his eyes drifting closed. These letters were addressed to his friends.

To Baldir,

You'll always be bigger than life, friend. Wether in spirit or in body. I only wish you the best in your endeavors. Don't forget your short friend.

To Tanith,

Your beauty is deeper than the flesh, lass. Your kind heart can light even the darkest of places. Take care of that boy of yours.

To Arthal,

Keep up the good work, boyo. Grow a beard for your old pal, yeah? Miss ya.

To Mayirr

You were a grand friend, and I only hope that you meet your goals in life. And don't stop giving 'em hell.

To Bazian,

You're perhaps one of my oldest friends. I only hope ye keep my name living, old boy. I can never thank you enough for the kindness you've shown me.

To Nalro,

Hey, lad. Keep up that genius work. I've left some ideas imprinted inside this. Take care, bud.

To the Dwarven King,

I want meh statue! Haha!

(( I am leaving LOTC, for real this time. I've loved my times on the server, you all will hold a special place in my heart, trust me. I thank all of you out there for making this place great. Take care! ))

Raglin coughs haggardly, blood splattering in front of him, over his beard. The dwarf heaves and pants for breath.

Raglin Edgehand watches Thomas limp within the castle from a perch on high. He shook his head, sighing. "Age and wounds seem to strike even the strongest of men..." The dwarf muttered, as he began making his way home. No more would he and Thomas charge into the fray together. It was a grim thought, and a sobering one. The dwarf had become more reclusive of late, and if one is wandering about in Hyrr, they'd likely catch the sound of a hard, wet cough from the dwarf.

Oh, how he misses the old days.

Raglin nods slowly.

"Ah may not beh fighting, but damn it all, the dwarves best put up a good scuffle."

Raglin hears word ofthe speech, as he leans forward in his throne, pondering.

"Ah know quite a few dwarves who would take up Horen on tha' idea. Thorin's got shet comin for him eit'er way."

Watched this all transpire as he turned away from the scene, the keep of Hyrr loomed before him, casting a shadow over his eyes. He closes them, whispering.

"It begins. My very soul torn apart by this..."

He reopens them, whiping a tear which had shed in the thoughts of what seemed like his very livelihood split in half.

"Please, by Yemekar, by the Ruhn, let this end swiftly, for I fear if not, it'll end me."

The dwarf walks slowly into the keep.

Raglin leans back into his throne in the Edgehand Clan Hall, rubbing his forehead slowly.

"No... Dis is nae gud fer anyone. They'll rage war until it tears them apart."

He shakes his head, closing his eyes. He was split between the Rose and the Dwarves. And so would stay out of the conflict altogether.

Stares at the petition, then promptly shouts at Hunwald.

"OI. SIGN MEH UP."

He then learned how petitions work, and signed it himself. He walks off to go treat his beard with coconut oil.