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_Stigwig

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About _Stigwig

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    _Stigwig
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    gus.smith4

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  • Character Name
    Arthur de Bar
  • Character Race
    Human (Savoyard)

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  1. TOURNEY OF THE BICENTENNIAL

    Name: Adelmar aep Stonehallow Age: 27 Nationality/Faction: The Reiter Free Company Race: Human Title: None.
  2. New Character Ideas

    http://whothefuckismydndcharacter.com/
  3. The Life and Death of Marcus Popidius Molacus

    "That's what happens when you go up against rapid-fire Richard." Adelmar mourns, gazing over the broken body that lay mangled and desecrated in the corner of the fighting pit.
  4. Ash Falls Upwards

    ASH FALLS UPWARDS It had begun as a good day. The sun was bright and warm, the paths gentle to Adelmar’s feet as he returned from a trip to Marna. The birds had even been chattering in the trees, whispering out a gentle melody. Yet within a few moments at the Crossroads, a hive of activity and chatter that whirred enough to make his brain hurt, it had turned itself upside down. Adelmar exchanged a few words with his comrade Spencer, vigilant eyes watching over the thin path, as a collection of black particles began to gather together. Thicker than dust, heavy with added substance, the Reiter’s eyes widened as they began to form into a lengthy pole. Adelmar ducked down into the dusty road and, grasping a rock, tossed it towards the materialising shape. It clanged off noisily, attracting the attention of more mercenaries. “I come for a challenge.” A voice boomed out of the pole. Within a moment two flickering yellow eyes peered out of the gloom as a dark form appeared; a knight moving in heavy plate with a long, thin dagger in one hand and a black kite shield in the other. After a half-second the crash of steel echoed about the clearing; Spencer had leaped forwards, a warhammer in hand that seemed to crackle with white flame, and swung his weapon against the Knight’s shield, forcing it backwards. A moment more and the Knight forced Spencer back only to find a circle of steel surrounding him. Berenfroy and Gwyntaran stood side by side, halberds and polearms outstretched, while the fresh-faced Cedric hung nervously to Spencer’s side, hand slippy in a sweaty palm. Adelmar whipped forwards as the Knight advanced, his blade flickering alight as flames wrapped the steel in mid-flight, sparks flying as it connected with armour before being flung back. Adelmar’s eyes widened, a sheen of sweat already covering his forehead, as the knight shifted before them. The dagger, seemingly an expansion of its own arm, morphed and twisted into a huge flail, head dragging across the gravel floor. Cedric stepped forwards with terror-filled eyes, sword jabbing forwards, only to be matched with a heavy swing as the flail flung out of the air towards his form; dark spikes shifting and growing even as it moved. Yet with a swift cry the battle transformed before their eyes as Spencer smashed his warhammer into the weapon’s head, forcing it onto the ground. Every blade there stepped into the opening, ears ringing with the sharp crash of steel. Polearms smashed forwards, forcing the knight backwards and up against a pillar, even as swords flashed up through the air to push back attacking strikes. Then, just as suddenly as it had appeared, the knight disappeared, swirling motes of something forming a portal instead in its place. Caught off balance in mid-strike Adelmar stumbled through, vanishing from before his comrade’s eyes. After another moment the troop of soldiers followed through, the yet to be bloodied Thomas at their head. Adelmar was running. The air filled his lungs as he sprinted across the tops of ravines, bouncing from brush to rock. On almost each one he stumbled, fatigued, palm desperately wrapped around the blade. The flames cast long shadows against the rock, guiding him through the darker sections even as the wind wrapped dangerously around him; sending his hair flying. The initial confrontation with the three - three - opponents seemed long ago. The Reiters had split up and it seemed unclear if they were the hunters or the hunted as he turned another rock formation, eyes scanning both the sky and the ground under his feet. Spencer had done well - far better than Adelmar had - and at every confrontation scored another hit with his deadly warhammer, forcing the knight that they were chasing, a lightly-armoured figure with a deadly crossbow, back again and again. Finally Adelmar heard the sounds of battle again, screams and deadly strikes, as he dropped down to the ravine below. He hit the floor with a soft crunch, legs bending, palm flattened against the earth. He rounded the corner, steel flashing as he took a step forwards. A knight towered over a pair of Reiters and a Hansetic in the narrowest part of the ravine, forcing them back. Its blade flashed again and again, hammering down on the shields held desperately. It laughed, a hollow sound filled with the darkness of the soul, before lifting a foot and smashing it down into the face of the Hansetic; cracking bones. The Reiter stepped forwards again, teeth gritted, and began to advance, feet pounding on the earth below him. Then he was on the floor, blood pouring from his shoulder, as he screamed. A black-shafted crossbow bolt had struck him in the shoulder, tossing his body back against the cracked rocks behind him. Rage seethed through Adelmar as he slowly, inch by inch, brought himself to his feet. Cold fingers closed around the hilt of his blade. His eyes tilted up, scanning the sky, only to see the knight that had shot him fall from the sky. Spencer stood above it, warhammer in hand, sun glinting in his eyes. The knight crashed onto the floor in a tangle of limbs; his descent having triggered a small rock-fall. Pebbles and stones crashed down onto Vadim and the Hansetic, forcing them to the sides of the passage. Adelmar watched, wincing, as Berenfroy spun about with his halberd, separating the knight from his crossbow and scoring a glancing blow across its breastplate. After a few more moments Berenfroy and Vadim trooped away, leaving the first Ebonknight still standing, huge poleaxe forming in both its hands. Spencer had fallen in the time that Adelmar was absorbed in the fight, and even as he turned to examine his comrade he could see injuries. The Reiter tried to rise then stopped, staggering down onto his knees again; pain flashing through his eyes. Adelmar took another hesitant step forwards, grip firming up about his weapon. He stepped forwards, blade flashing from right to left in a long sweep, only to come apart with barely a scratch made on the armour. Dancing back the knight’s polearm struck him on the side, digging through chainmail and tossing his body backwards, his vision flickered - black dots fuzzing around the edges. The knight turned back, almost laughing at the failed attack, as he struck at the Hansetic again, forcing him back into the rock with a series of flashing attacks that drove him away. The fight between them seemed to last an age to the wounded Adelmar as he struggled up onto his knees again, panting with the exertion, bloodied fingers staining his face. The crimson droplets fell down onto the floor, muddying the coarse dirt. His hand shook like a roof in the very worst moments of a storm, fingers grasping the weapon unsteadily. Even as the knight turned and laughed, praising their fire, the sword was held in an unsteady hand. Spencer had risen, slowly, all of his weight tilted on the left side; a mountain wrought from fallen rock and ash, blonde hair floating softly in the breeze. The pair moved slowly, almost lazily, yet fluidly - their actions came in tandem as both moved forwards, the perfect amount of distance between them in order to cover each other safely. Adelmar stepped forwards, fingers shaking, as blood pounded all around his ears. He stepped forwards again, another halting step across the ground. He thought of nothing but the movement of his own limbs, sluggishly pulsing through the airs; he watched, disconnected from the sense of battle, as his own arm swung forwards, driving the sword deep into the knight’s eyes. A second later Spencer swung his own warhammer forwards, driving the sword deep into the knight’s skull. The glittering poleaxe disappeared before Adelmar’s eyes, an inch away from burying itself in his chest, as he fell to his knees. His cheeks were wet with tears as he sobbed in relief, the hollow voice that boomed from the mess of particles that fell upwards into the sky failing to register with the wounded warrior. Dragging himself upwards again, he walked towards the glittering Sun. The pair of them, Spencer and Adelmar, lay flat on the rocks; hidden in a rough undergrowth of twisting vines and thorns that prickled at bare skin. Berenfroy and Vadim had vanquished their opponent as well, and now the whole host of Reiters was united. The scene before them was a bloody carnage. The final knight stood amongst a field of fallen bodies and wounded soldiers, four arms swinging steel about it. Two axes flashed, beheading a levyman who had followed them by chance, as a trio of Reiters held their ground, long polearms warding the final opponent. It was surrounded in a circle now by tired men, battered and bruised, who flexed arms uneasily to ward away fatigue. Then, suddenly, the earth broke apart from under their feet. The being summed to thrum with energy to Adelmar’s eyes as he was tossed apart like a doll. Men all over fell down, broken, as their steady footing was lost. Screams bounced about the hillside as Thomas fell on his arm. Cedric was similarly injured, the young unblooded's shouts of pain echoing about the ravine in which he lay. The setting sun gave one final burst of light to the scene, illuminating broken bodies strewn about as other men clambered unsteadily back onto all fours, before it flickered behind a distant hill. Something in that final moment, the final flickering of the light, broke many of the injured men. Flaxen-haired Spencer, up until now indomitable, staggered backwards to avoid the enormous knight. Berenfroy stepped forwards, bright eyes glazed over as he readied his own halberd and raced down the hillside. Adelmar watched it all over with dull, unseeing eyes, an insane grin splitting his broken lips. He struggled gently to his feet, rocking on his own haunches even when the inverted earth came to rest, murmuring a string of inanities. Each sentence was mumbled in praise of the Sun, the hopeless words of a zealot lost to anything but his faith, as he took another unsteady stumble forwards, falling down onto the rocks before him. Before he had even fully raised his blade the knight swung around, metallic fists grasping his wrist. He squeezed, and the world was undone. He was screaming; screaming louder than he ever had before. Each gulp of air brought a fresh burst of pain that wracked his entire body. He fell to his knees, tears staining the cheek as the night air whipped around his broken wrist. Then, suddenly, the knight spun away and left him sprawled in a heap on the ground. He closed his eyes, desperate for relief, for an end to the pain, desperate for death or anything. Yet nothing came. Around him spun the most intense moments of a battle; the seconds when both sides hang on the very precipice of destruction, walking the razor’s edge between victory and defeat. Berenfroy slammed the halberd into the knight, gaining nothing, as the blackened being swung both his swords to impale the Hansetic soldier; finally ending his life. The Serene who had accompanied them, a mage, finally grasped their blade and entered. Berenfroy was the only man still standing, barely visible through Adelmar’s hazy eyes as he searched out for hope. His red scarf hung loosely around his neck, pulled low, as sweat speckled his cheeks and forehead. Thick arms pulled back the halberd to grasp a warpick as he continued the onslaught, bringing down the blunt end of the weapon in a long, sweeping blow even as the Ebonknight turned to end him. The final strike resounded with a deafening crack about the hillside, whispering through the ferns and roaring past the peaks of the mountains behind them. Finally, blessedly, the final knight dissipated again; black ash floating upwards before Adelmar’s own failing eyes. Squeezing tight his eyes, he slept. The ground shall be broken asunder, ash shall fall to the skies; Men shall die, men shall bleed, men shall weep and men shall scream; The Last will stand before Ash and open his palms, The Truth will stand at last. The First will be born once more, spears aflame. The Ashenborn will plant a mighty tree in a copse of adders; The Faith returns. The Sun burns, the Dark fades. The Son of Sun is born again. - The Prophecy of the Last Tree, from the Faith of the Sunsingers It was morning now, and the Sun had returned. It burned down, soaking up Adelmar’s pain, dulled by the battlefield ministrations of Gwyntaran. He stood in a rough circle with the men who surrounded him: Berenfroy, Gwyntaran, Spencer, Thomas. Both experienced and freshly bloodied Reiters leaned on each other for support, resting roughly after the dangers they had faced. Found in all that they had lost though, was faith. Each man spoke the ancient words, the oaths of the Ashenborn priests, and promised to devote themselves to the ways of the men that had once been known as Sunsingers; pagans that worshipped the Sun. With a soft sigh, they turned themselves north and began the long walk back to the Whispering Crossroads. Each dawn brings hope, but this one had brought rebirth.
  5. The Mother's Breast Fighting Tourney

    Adelmar aep Stonehallow triumphs over Baby Reiter Richard in the second round of the Mother's Breast Fighting Tourney, colourised by Mercellis.
  6. Relics and other goods for sale.

    "I am willing to offer more than anyone else for the sword Glory." Adelmar writes in. "I will finalise an offer soon."
  7. The Black Reiters

    Adelmar shoulders his sack, having returned from his brief holiday to foreign lands, as he sets his gaze on the fort before him. A small wooden construction, hardly able to match the size of Fort Knox nor likely to contain the riches that Calais once had, he was still delighted to call it home. The soft medley of salmon pink and blue that filled the dying sky behind the crossroads made him smile a longing smile - a distant memory of past battles and the promise of future ones to come. For now, though, he was just happy to have a bed to lie in again. Ships were truly awful.
  8. [Denied]Fawb GM App #2

    Fawbole is a very smart and conscientious guy who I am sure possesses, most importantly, the ability to learn how to make a fantastic GM.
  9. The Triumvirate of Man

    Warclaim completed. Renatian victory.
  10. In Defence of Humanity

    Warclaim has been completed. Renatian victory.
  11. Tip of the Spear

    Warclaim has been completed! Norlander victory.
  12. Augustine Fast Travel

    Denied, we transition in 5 days.
  13. Blood and Ashes

    BLOOD AND ASHES Ifan Ben-Mezd looks up to the fallen Krag | circa 1641 His mouth tasted of blood. He raised a pair of hesitant fingers up to his lips, worn tips dragging away to reveal blood. The air tasted of blood. All about him the air hung heavy, enveloping him and warping the sharp sounds of battle, the fresh clang of steel that should be ringing in his ears, to sound further away. He was distant, separate, enveloped in his own floating bubble of death. He wrenched the spear from the corpse of the man before him, blood flying in a long arc to cover the company of men that stormed past him, a lofted banner marking them as Lucienists. They looked disgusted, but they were not true killers. Experienced and bloodthirsty if men were not of their faith, but they did not kill as Adelmar did. Adelmar worked art. He threw himself forwards, dancing across the cobbled roof of yet another layer of the fortress as he spun the spear about him. He had learnt the forms as a man who was still yet a boy, barely past thirteen years of age and clumsy with the weapon. Now he embraced them, moving as a man who had known the weapon for his entire life and - more than just knowing it - loved it. He glanced up as another body fell, licking his lips. The world tasted of blood and ashes. Reiter forces cross towards the docks of the Ben Quadinaros. Their hooves pounded on the softly packed earth as the armoured column rode cross-country, eyes scanning the horizon warily. They were not on friendly land, if any patch of earth could be called friendly for mercenaries. A few hour’s more travel, the sun slowly inching its way further away from the men, bathing the world in shadows that danced and fled from Lans’ torch. They were not soldiers to be perturbed from a hint of darkness, though, driven forwards by their golden idol into the darkest hours of the night. Finally they crested a slight hill, a rolling meander of the land that had dipped and curved so pleasantly on the journey, to reveal a glorious sight. Beneath them was an enormous ship, the size of an armada, covered in a sea of shimmering lights. A thousand torches danced in the night, a weave of stars to rival the sky above, that illuminated lines upon lines of mailed men, nervous hands clasping spears or swords or axes or hammers or any one of an endless list of items bound to serve one purpose, death to Norland. It had been a rallying cry for many of them, a driving force to encourage thousands of men to take up arms. Here and there wandered a man in pure white except a cross that spoke of blood, a Lucienist knight. Norman reined the group in with a lofted hand, instructing the men to dismount and continue onwards. An enormous mast towered up above the men, covered in climbing soldiers and lines of rope that only served to confuse the untrained eye. Before the Reiters lay the Ben Quadinaros, the greatest ship of war ever seen on Axios, and ready to burn a kingdom. Billy duels an unknown Norlander by the docks of the city. “KEEP GOING!” the words echoed in Adelmar’s ringing ears as he drove himself onwards across the bridges, a cloud of arrows blacking the sky above them; a world of darkness; of ash, and blood. Another Reiter yelled the roar behind him - Berenfroy perhaps - but the words had little effect on Adelmar. He heaved himself to the side of the bridge, hardly injured yet almost dead from the fatigue of the fight, and glanced over the side to witness a raging battle. A pack of Norlanders had somehow left the Krag; he was unsure how, and he knew his treacherous eyes would hardly tell true when they saw soldiers seeming to glide across the sky above them, but they fought ferociously. He admired their killing, its brutal honesty and its desperation, as the world burned about them. Even with their city, their homes, destroyed they fought on, clinging desperately to life as a man might hold on the very last pieces of a falling cliff. He blinked, wiping away the sweat with a gloved hand, as he watched another man, scarf covering the upper half of his face, driving down towards the stairs. He did not stop for the first man, nor the second, as he flung an enormous warhammer about him with an uncaring, indolent attitude. Behind that lone warrior came a whole force of men, tattered banners telling the story of a dozen lords and nations, that drove away this fledgling force into the water. Surely their numbers had fallen in the castle before them - surely they were safe? Even as he spoke the words his world contracted, vision shattering apart as he gaped at the scene before him. A corpse - what had been a corpse but a moment earlier, but now seemed to fight with vehemence despite its gaping wounds - had risen up and struck at Reginald, throwing him towards the water and leaving a bloody smear against the river surface. Adelmar forced himself to his feet with shaking hands, dragging out his blade with a soft rasp of steel. His hands shook again. A fractured sky hung above him, disturbingly silent. The battle had long since passed them by as the triumphant soldiers returned to sack the city. He had other goals, though - more men to kill, more blood to taint the ground, more ashes to fill the sky and cloud his eyes. The Norlander’s body lay on the ice before them, though he was not sure why it was ice now and not water, as he closed his eyes to avoid the scene of death, to silence the throbbing in his ears. They had pursued the would-be assassin all around the base of the Krag, watching the elf dart away from them again and again. He had fired arrows and flung himself across the dirt, slamming his blade again and again at the man’s cracked helmet until he finally realised that the elf was dead. Revenge was the dream of a foolish man, short-sighted, but it was still a sweet thing, however fleeting. He cradled that prospect, the idea of revenge, as the sky turned black around him. He hung back as the rest of the Reiters threw themselves into the city, taking their payment in the forms of relics and armour from the Norlandic vault. He looked over the battlefield instead, the enormous piles of bodies across the bridge, the corpses that floated their way across the dark river below. He looked up at the ash that fell from the sky, lofted and dragged apart by a thousand different roaring fires, and embraced the passing of a nation.