SteelMarshall

~ The Last Rest ~ Some time after the separation of the Winglescynn, when the wan light of the sun gave way to murky twilight, Thrydda’s group finally happened upon something as they crested yet another snow-laden hill. Battered by the cold, and running low on food, many had found themselves on the brink of exhaustion when they finally saw it. Before them lay what must once have been a sizable lake, now completely solid. Its translucent cobalt surface was unerringly smooth; so much so that several of the Winglesc wondered aloud how not even the tiniest ripple had graced the water before it had frozen. Far beneath the surface, an ambient light seemed to glow; a soft blue that seeped from below, though many assumed this was their own imagination. In the middle of the ice-lake stood a small island, which was taken up entirely by a brilliant tree. From that distance, none could tell what it was made of, except that it certainly was not mere wood. Its trunk was an onyx black, though its boughs glittered and twinkled in a hundred-thousand places, reflecting the dying light like a priceless diamond. At the foot of the tree something stood, though none could make out quite what it was either. Of the remaining Winglesc, only Thrydda and a few of his brave companions decided to travel across the ice and to the island – the others waited on the outskirts of the lake, stayed by either their awe or exhaustion. As Thrydda and his small band made their way across the lake, the cold seemed to intensify even further. It bore down upon them like a heavy weight, throbbing like an angry bruise and numbing their minds. Their lips cracked and their fingers ached, yet they pressed on – for they knew that each step brought them closer to the source of this brumal force. One of Thrydda’s companions glanced down, and nearly slipped as he shouted in surprise. The others looked to see what had shocked him so, shuffling across the unyielding ice to cluster about him. There were things down there, frozen beneath the surface of the lake, locked within the ice that encased them. Some of these were beasts, their mouths agape and limbs splayed in a macabre stillness that perfectly captured their last moments. Others were people. When Thrydda looked to his own feet, his eyes locked with the dead stare of Ubbr, who seemed frozen mere inches beneath his boots. His arms were held tight against his chest, in what seemed to have been a last ditch effort at keeping warm. His eyes were sunken and lifeless, and his swarthy nose had turned a brownish-black. Thrydda found himself mesmerized by his former chieftain’s gristly visage, as well as by the questions such a sight brought. How was this possible? The young seer’s mind raced, but his thoughts were interrupted by a sudden revelation; with each passing moment, he found it harder to tear his gaze away from Ubbr’s listless stare. It took a tremendous amount of effort, but with a pained wince Thrydda was able to break free of his bewitchment and continue towards the lake’s center. One or two of the others were not so lucky, and as Thrydda looked back he saw their legs begin to buckle – even as they finally succumbed to the consuming cold, and collapsed into their last rest, they were unable to look away from the faces beneath them. They were close, now – Thrydda was a mere dozen paces from the foot of the strange tree, which itself appeared to be made of glistening verglas. Swirling tendrils of vapor hung still in the frigid air, and wrapped themselves about the great tree’s trunk, but as the small group drew closer the screen of mist parted soundlessly to reveal the end of their journey. Before them stood a tall and slender throne, crafted from snow and surmounted by glinting jewels of ice, the roots of the verglas tree wrapped intricately around its legs. The throne was bound by mighty chains, unearthly in nature; they hummed with a latent power, and twisted about as if they had a life of their own, struggling to restrain the throne’s occupant. To look upon the One who sat there was a trial within itself; after only a few moments, all but Thrydda were forced to turn away, the moisture in their eyes freezing and the air in their lungs chilling. Yet the young seer refused to avert his gaze, determined to share words with the One who had brought him all this way. He was garbed in the trappings of an ancient king, and upon his head sat a crown of icicles. In appearance, he was most similar to a sharply frostbitten corpse; his hands were black with clotted blood, and his lips had curled back to reveal white teeth protruding from autolyzed gums. His nose was missing, as if it had fallen off, and his eyeless sockets gazed sightlessly from his sunken face. When he spoke, his mouth did not form the words; in fact, throughout the whole ordeal his entire body remained motionless. Yet it was clear to everyone that the words spoken belonged to him. His voice whistled about them, echoing across the landscape; it was the crack and groan of the ice beneath them, the whisper of the chill-wind that surrounded them, and the soft thud of falling snow. What was said, none but Thrydda knew – yet after the voice faded the young seer knelt low to the ground, bowing in deference to the chained God before them, and relayed his words to the others. Those who had journeyed to his place had proven their determination – they were worthy to become his servants. If they wished, they could pledge their service to him – and in return, they would be gifted with life in these harsh lands. The message was quickly relayed to the rest of the tribe. As one, the surviving Winglesc made their way to the foot of the God’s throne – not a one among them would refuse the gift offered to them, though one or two more were entranced by the bodies beneath the lake and left to perish. Taking the lead of Thrydda, who had not moved from where he still knelt, the survivors of the Winglescynn offered their devotion to their new God. As they did so, they were bathed in a deluge of frost – yet the chill no longer pained them. They felt their skin toughening against the cold, turning a pale and strained off-white as it did so, and their hair bleached to a silvery-white. The words of their Frozen God echoed about them as he revealed the secrets of winter. They were shown the wildberries and rodents that thrived unseen beneath blankets of snow, told how the packs of larger beasts hid themselves with pelts of ivory, and shown how the ice could preserve food-stores almost indefinitely. They were taught how to use the landscape to their advantage – how to cover their tracks, how an avalanche could be used to drive herds of prey into an ambush, and so much more. When the Winglescynn rose again, they were changed. They were now the children of the Last Rest. Actions: The Winglescynn have been formed. A race of humans altered to withstand extreme cold, the Winglesc currently number 150 members, roughly 50 of whom are combat-trained. The Last Rest has awoken, and an unnatural winter has begun to fall upon the lands around him ((his territory, as shall be shown on the updated map)). Other Gods and nations near this occurrence may sense such a change; either through the rumors spread among the various tribes or by a strangely cool breeze carried upon the wind... The Winglescynn have begun to build settlements within the harsh confines of their God’s lands. They have also been granted knowledge on how to survive in such grueling conditions, which they have put to use hunting and gathering.

~ The Last Rest ~ How had it all gone so wrong? The Winglesc had been rulers, once. When the wildflowers first blossomed in the fields and the tribes convened for their first moot, it was the chieftains of the Winglescynn who spoke first. Their seers were praised for being most attuned to the will of the gods, whose reign in those wild and savage lands was absolute. Their hunters were the sharpest, their warriors the strongest, and their elders the wisest. From the other tribes that were scattered across the great valley they all called home, the Winglescynn had commanded the most fear and respect. But that all had changed. It started with disturbing portents offered by the seers, whose dreams were haunted by ill omens and dark auguries. They claimed that the balance of the waking world had shifted and that powerful beings had been roused from slumber. They babbled about visions in which they saw marching armies, so vast that they seemed like a host of insects, and claimed to witness the construction of settlements far greater and grander than even the mightiest of the tribal villages. At first, the elders disregarded such tidings as madness, perhaps incurred by the seers’ overindulgence in mind-altering brews. Yet it was not long before signs of change began to present themselves in a way that none could deny. A chill had begun to descend upon the land. In the dead of night it crept down from the mountains that stood sentinel over the valley, crawling between the tall trees of the forest like a malevolent spirit. It was the middle of the fertile season; newborn birds could be heard among the boughs of the greenwood clamoring for the worms and beetles brought to them by their parents, and dappled fawns could be seen sheltering shyly behind their watchful mothers. Even the briefest flash of cold weather would have been enough to give the elders pause; and a brief flash this was certainly not. Within days, those tribes closest to the mountains would awake to find their breaths accompanied by clouds of steam, and the ground outside their huts kissed by frost – and it only seemed to be growing colder. In earlier times, these events would have been considered dire enough to warrant an immediate meeting between the chieftains of the valley tribes. In truth, they paled in comparison to what the tribes were doing to each other. Skirmishes and minor conflicts within the valley were common – whether it was old feuds that demanded vengeance, borders that needed defending, or sacrifices that required prisoners, the wheels of tribal politics were often oiled by blood. Despite this, the various groups within the valley had managed to maintain a certain level of cohesiveness; without which the yearly moots and organized hunts would have been impossible. Yet all that had changed too – for along with the ill omens and the ever-intensifying cold came a war without end. The Winglesc did not know that their neighbors were whipped into a frenzy by the feral gods, who had taken note of the new deities encroaching on what they believed was their rightful dominion. Nor did the Winglesc realize that their command over the region had been a source of resentment for the same gods that they worshiped; for the pantheon to which these tribes paid homage was a primal and bloodthirsty one, and the presence of a stabilizing force had deprived them of both violence and sacrifice. This had been a tolerable nuisance, while their kin maintained relative hegemony over the world – yet now the tables were turning, and the feral gods could not afford to carry such a burden. What the Winglesc did know was that their brethren had begun attacking in droves, without so much as an explanation or demand offered. The fighting had been different, as well – the other tribesmen of the valley were fearless and crazed, as if they had been taken by some berserk madness. Their dead piled up outside the wooden palisades of the Winglescynn, and yet still they rushed onward. The Winglesc fought bravely, but against all the tribes in the valley they were no match. Which is why their people now stood at the foot of the mountains, shivering in the deepening snow that fell around them. They had left many behind in the heated flight from their overwhelmed settlement, and lost more in the following days. Their chieftain had been brutally cut down several nights before, buying his people time to flee with his own life. His son Ubbr had taken his place as head of the tribe, and though his skill as a warrior was unquestionable, he was young and uncertain. For the life of him, he could not see a way out for the Winglescynn. As they had fended off continuous attacks from their relentless kin, the Winglesc had been pushed further from home, and closer towards the cold that now strangled the once-verdant woods of their summer beauty. Either they would die at the hands of their former kin, or be forced out of the valley to perish in the unnatural winter. Ubbr’s warrior heart cried out for the former; he would rather fall a warrior, drenched in the blood of his foes, than die curled up in the snow like a beast. Yet not everyone in the tribe agreed with him. Thrydda was the youngest seer of the Winglescynn, and he was quite the opposite of the new chieftain Ubbr. Thin and frail, Thrydda had been lucky to survive through his infant years; yet his wit was sharper than a hunter’s knife, and the elders had proclaimed his affinity for the otherworldly when he was just a boy. Now a young man, Thrydda was sharper than ever – and he was also seemingly unfazed by the recent tragedies that had befallen his people. In the entrails of ravens and the blood of goats, he had seen the loss of their home. Now, in the depths of his dreams, he had heard a voice; a weightless whisper that had beckoned to him, offering safety for him and his people... if they were strong enough to venture beyond the peaks that had shielded them for so long. Thrydda had shared these dreams with his kinsmen, some of whom were hopeful. Others were skeptical, Ubbr among them, but none could deny the weight such an offering carried; for the gods that the Winglesc had worshiped for generations had turned on them, and all the other seers had heard nothing but silence since they’d been forced from their village. Thus, despite the unease that weighed on Ubbr like a mantle, he eventually acquiesced; and the Winglescynn marched through one of the steep mountain passes and into the unknown. The journey through the mountains had been perilous for the Winglescynn, yet blessedly brief. The snowfall they had seen in the valley was nothing compared to the storm that accosted them now, and many had struggled to make headway in the blizzard, which slowed their steps and blinded their sight. Fortunately, the calm oversight of Thrydda ensured that the beleaguered tribe made it through without incident. The whiteout had been so intense that none could tell how long it had taken the tribe to put the mountain behind them, but it could not have been more than a day or two. Perhaps more disheartening than the journey itself was what they saw once they put the mountains behind them, and the sky finally cleared. Before them stretched an eternity of snow – an unyielding expanse of rolling white hills halted only by a range of peaks that could just be seen looming in the distance. The glittering shale of a frozen stream and the small copse of trees on the periphery of their vision were all the Winglesc had to break up the bleak monotony. Yet Thrydda urged them to press on, claiming that it would not be long before they reached their salvation. Many seemed unsure of his words – particularly Ubbr and several of the seers, who muttered among themselves at length – yet Thrydda was unwavering in his conviction, and the tribe eventually resumed traveling. Days seemed to blend into weeks. The farther the Winglesc traveled, the colder it seemed to become. Even the heaviest furs seemed to do little to fend off the cold, which clawed and bit at the struggling tribes-folk relentlessly. In addition, the lack of vegetation meant that the travelers were often scoured by a pitiless gale, which tore at their clothes and howled like a feral beast. Several of the Winglesc had succumbed to the severe conditions – their kin would wake up and find them frozen stiff beneath their furs, or they would fall wordlessly on the march and never stand up. In comparison, the trek through the mountains had been a casual jaunt. Things only seemed to get worse when, after a particularly frigid night, Ubbr gathered the tribe about his tent. “Brothers and sisters!” He roared, his hoarse voice carrying over the moaning wind. “I do not know about you, but I have had enough! I tire of wondering whether I shall be the next to die in his tent. Thrydda has led us on a fool’s errand, and he would lead us until we were all buried beneath the snowdrifts!” The new chieftain pointed an accusatory finger at the young seer as he spoke, who remained silent and impassive. “Don’t believe me?” Ubbr continued, great clouds of vapor accompanying his shouted words. “Then listen to the other seers! Hear what they told me just now, as the day broke!” He stepped back, and several shivering seers stepped forward. Their eyes leapt frantically from one person to another, and a sort of manic fear seemed to emanate from them. One of the older members of the group was jostled forward, and he uneasily acted as the voice for the group, his teeth chittering as he did so. “W-we have been g-g-gifted with dreams again – yet they are n-not dreams, but n-nightmares! Our Gods speak again, and they beg us to return home! We do not know that which we march towards, they say. We do not know that which we might disturb!” The old seer flinched visibly as he recalled what he had heard, but he managed to falteringly continue. “Long ago, when our ancestors first found the valley which we called home, there had been One among t-the Gods’ sacred order who had possessed g-great and terrible power. His was the dominion of f-frost and ice, sleet and snow. He r-ruled over these lands, and took from the o-other Gods that which was their rightful due! H-how can the Gods of warfare be appeased, when n-none will fight in the winter months? How are the Spirits of violence satisfied, when n-nearly all that dies is claimed by icy sleep? Who would worship the G-Goddesses of the harvest, when the snow strangles all that grows?” The seer shook his head vigorously. “No, it could not do. And thus our Gods turned on him. They imprisoned him with m-mighty chains, and sealed him from the outside world with the mountains t-that we, in our immeasurable folly, just crossed! They fear that he is beginning to stir once more – and we CANNOT go to him!” At this, the seer bowed his head tremulously and said no more, though now it seemed as if the shaking stemmed not just from his lack of body heat, but from abject fear. Throughout this, Thrydda had not spoken – yet one eyebrow had raised quizzically as the elder seer finished his tirade. “So you mean to say that we should turn back, after all we have been through? After how far we’ve come?” The thin man looked out at the crowd, who had now turned their gaze towards him. “And at the behest of the Gods, no less? The very same ones that damned us? Have you already forgotten how we pleaded with them? How we begged them for even the slightest mercy – many of us with our dying breaths – and were instead scorned? And only now do they call us back, afraid that we might have a chance at actually surviving to exact our revenge! Tell me – what has this Imprisoned One done to us that our own Gods have not?” Thrydda paused, offering the crowd a few moments to answer him. Murmurs rippled through the tribe, yet none offered a rebuttal; and the faces of the seers who had come forward were twisted with shock and revulsion. “I have had dreams too. Dreams of a safe home. Dreams of a God that cares for us. Dreams of vengeance against those who have wronged us! Come with me; finish this journey, and we shall be more powerful than we ever were.” And thus the Winglescynn were split. Some decided to rally behind Ubbr and his seers to attempt the journey home. Others decided to push onward, with Thrydda at their head. With wordless animosity the two factions went their own ways – one group heading back from whence they came, the other striking deeper into the white beyond. Actions: ((Actions shall be detailed in the upcoming post))

God App Name: The Last Rest Symbol (Water, plants, fire, etc): A withered and severely frostbitten humanoid with blackened hands and eyeless sockets, clad in ancient garb and wearing a crown of icicles. Rimed with frost, and currently chained to a throne of ice beneath a great tree of verglas. Race (Default human): Winglesc Nation Name: Winglescynn Nation Symbol: A silver hand Nation Terrain (Plains, desert, etc): A thick boreal forest that would be constantly blanketed in snow were it not for the short (yet agreeable) summer. Spruce highlands nestle beneath dizzying, white-capped peaks. Those intrepid enough to pass this seeming wall of mountains would find themselves in a climate similar to the permanent ice caps – ruthlessly cold and disheartening in its unbreaking uniformity. The lair of the Last Rest is a frozen lake (in the center of which sits the verglas tree and the icy throne) wreathed in vapor and surrounded by what the Winglesc refer to as “Fangs of Ice” (glaciers). Race App Name: Winglesc Originating Race: Humans Features (hair colors, etc): A strain of northern humans that has adapted to extreme cold, partly because of biological adaptation and partly due to the designs of their Master. They are tall and gaunt, yet despite their seeming frailty they are surprisingly resilient to the effects of low temperatures. Their skin is vividly pale, varying in shades of slight yellow or faint blue – almost akin to a body experiencing the onset of superficial frostbite – and their hair is often steel-grey or white. They are often garbed in thick furs, though not nearly as many as a typical human would need to stay warm (once again highlighting their affinity for the frigid temperatures of their home), and are able to operate during the temperate summer months but would likely be at quite a disadvantage in hotter climes and rarely tend to venture anywhere that could be described as ‘warm’. Skin Color: Pallid / off-white

"No True Scots Northman: An informal fallacy in which one attempts to protect a universal generalization from counterexamples by changing the definition in an ad hoc fashion to exclude the counterexample." After reading the definition aloud, the young boy shrugged, and then continued with learning his lessons.

Poetry that is unmatched even by the greats. Shakespeare and Petrarch have nothing on this.

Skellington signing in, For someone who's already at a great spot cardio-wise and is just looking to bulk up, what would you recommend? More reps or higher weight? I'm primarily concerned with adding muscle to my arms, shoulders and chest; got any workouts in particular you think are good for bulking? I'm also interested in adding some forearm mass, does that just come in over time from working other muscle groups or are there specific exercises I should be doing? Lastly, this is more of an opinion question, but do you think you get more out of machines or free weights?

OOC: Username: It'sa me Skype: (Pm if you want.) You've got it Ideas and Suggestions?: Perhaps ask if anyone is willing to co-mod? It seems like you've got some experienced FRPers who might be able to lighten your workload for you. RP (Humans only, I apologize.): Colony Name: Ultinceastre First Planet Type: A planet similar to Earth, but with a near uniform Temperate Maritime climate. Ultinceastre is about 80% water, and its vast seas are churned by a few major storms that seem to be confined mostly to the planet's northern hemisphere. History: Though many of the colony ships that made the great exodus from humanity's dying homeworld were designed to house a specific population or fulfill a certain task, there were many more that were quite standard in nature. These 'baseline' ships were not wholesale, but were instead broken up into compartments; this was quite useful for companies and organizations that did not have the gargantuan funds necessary to commission an entire ship, as it allowed them to buy a reasonable space. The Colony Ship F-005 was one of these typical models. Most of its living space was allocated to house a general population that had been chosen at random, in one of the International Ticket Lotteries - a skyrocketing business in Earth's dying days that operated much like a cash lottery, though the prize was room for the winners and their immediate family on one of the last ships to leave humanity's doomed world. The remainder of the available room on F-005 had been purchased by a collection of the world's leading universities and libraries, and served as dedicated storage for the histories and literature considered most integral to the essence of human nature and culture. Despite the already limited space aboard F-005 (it could reasonably house about 10,000 less colonists than the typical average, due to the space that was being used as the ship's library), errors in the International Ticket Lottery had caused severe overcrowding, with upwards of 130,000 passengers struggling to fit on board as the ship prepared to take off. Luckily, F-005 was able to make the jump without incident - save for the fact that it, like all of the other colony ships, had landed off-course. Unfortunately, the problems for F-005 and its population would come after the jump. Due to its hasty construction, the colony ship had not been properly tested, and it operated poorly in the strenuous conditions afforded by the jump. Its warp reactor, an extremely inefficient and power-consumptive invention, had shorted the primary thrusters on the colony ship. This meant that a journey to the nearest habitable planet, which should have taken days, would instead take months. The people aboard F-005, already high-strung due to the ship's overcrowding, panicked; it was not a closely guarded secret that they would run out of food long before they could disembark. The next few days aboard F-005 were more akin to a hellish nightmare than reality. Order quickly broke down as the colony ship's guards were overrun. Rioting and infighting reached a fever-pitch as the colonists, fueled by fear and hunger, slaughtered each other for control of their spacehulk's valuable supplies. Vicious skirmishes erupted between sleeping quarters; the once pristine hallways were smeared with blood and offal, and the screams of the dying echoed horrifically through the beacon of hope that had become, for many, a tomb. By the time F-005 entered the orbit of its intended target, its host population had been slashed to about 75,000. The survivors were led by a man who was simply named Odda. Who he had been on Earth (where he had come from, his occupation, even his last name) was a mystery. He had led his housing block to dominate the others, through shrewd deal-making or merciless conquest, and his authority was now absolute. Map location: Actually, I was hoping that I could be given a randomized location (to reflect the randomness of the colony ship going off-course), so if you could put me wherever you see fit that would be great!

Osferth rushed toward the echoing din of battle as fast as his short legs would carry him. He ignored the pleas of the prisoners that reached out to grasp him as he hurtled past. He rushed towards the small battle, which was more akin to a brawl than a true fight, as the narrow hallways did not provide enough room for more than a couple guards to stand abreast. The rugged dwarf bent, lowering his shoulder as he charged forward. He hoped that his forward momentum and burly figure would be enough to send the skeletons sprawling back, even if for a moment; for a moment was all that he would need. Once he had unbalanced the savage undead, he might have a chance to grasp one of the weapons that lay limp in the cold fingers of the guards who had been slain. He could only hope to find a blunt instrument, a mace or a blackjack perhaps, but any weapon would do. If he was successful, he would sprint back the way he had come, and begin the arduous task of breaking the padlocks on the barred cell doors.

Osferth's mind was preoccupied with stewing over his grim future. First, he thought, he would spend the night in whatever dingy, gloomy cell these guards were leading him too. Then, at the crack of dawn, he would be forced to perform backbreaking labor, which would likely continue throughout the day, punctuated by paltry meals and the occasional prison brawl. This would last for several weeks, give or take a few days, until he was inevitably marched out of the prison and promptly sent to the gallows. The rugged dwarf's face soured, though his glum visage withered into a rictus of terrified surprise as the first boulder came hurtling down. Undead?! Well, the Wayfarer certainly hadn't seen that coming. He stumbled backwards as the guards rushed forward, simply too stunned to react. Then he felt adrenaline begin to surge through him, as his survival instincts kicked into high gear. He was still shackled, but hopefully it would only be a matter of time before he got them off. But what then? Osferth's flinty eyes scoured the impromptu skirmish. Several of his fellow prisoners were fighting alongside the guards. Sensible, Osferth thought, for he truly doubted that the unliving would distinguish between guard and inmate. No, if the skeletal fiends won then they would massacre every living thing in sight. But what if the guards were the victors? Osferth doubted that a charge as severe as his would be commuted, even if he was judged to have fought valiantly alongside the prison guard. Which meant that he had to slip away during the ensuing battle... But how? Suddenly, with a flash of realization, the dwarf understood what he had to do. A pack of wolves, he reasoned, would easily take down a lone ox; But when surrounded by a herd of its brethren, the ox could ignore even the most savage of predators. Osferth had to be like that ox, and disappear into the herd; a herd that would be created when he released as many of the inmates as he could. It was a ridiculous idea, bordering on insanity; but everything that had transpired in the last few days had felt like insanity to the dwarf, which meant that this might just work. His plan was dangerous in its simplicity; instead of making for the exit, he would instead go deeper into the prison. Once there, he would turn loose as many of the trapped inmates as he could. Hopefully their sheer numbers would be more than enough to break through to the prison gates, and the chaos that the ragtag band of criminals caused would hopefully be distracting enough so that Osferth could slip away unnoticed. All he needed was a pair of keys, or a hammer, or even a large stone, anything that he could use to break open the cell's metal padlocks. He searched frantically, still manacled, for such an object, for he hoped it would prove to be his salvation.

Osferth sat hunched over his plate of food, his thick forearm held defensively before his humble meal of meat and cheese. He scooped the food into his mouth swiftly, barely pausing to chew. Once he was finished, he pushed his plate to the side and immediately grasped for his tankard. It was human-brewed mead, which meant that it would probably taste more like watered down pigswill than alcohol, but it would have to do. The dwarf drained his cup in long, gulping swigs, before slamming it down with enough force to distract the jailed from his game. Osferth, to put it lightly, was in a truly rotten mood. Why wouldn't he be? He had been making good progress through the Wyvern Hills, and earned plenty of coin while doing it; enough to earn him a few nights of hearty food and strong ale, and perhaps even a good scrub in a tavern washroom. Instead, all of his hard-earned gold had gone straight into the pockets of the manhunters who had accosted him. Not that it mattered, Osferth mused sullenly. He was being held on account of murder, and the grizzled dwarf gave it a few weeks until his ugly mug sat on a spike atop the city's main gate. A few weeks, at best, which meant he had to find a way to escape, and fast. The dwarf sighed, and wiped his large hands on the rough spun fabric of his trousers. Only then did he take a moment to glance at the other prisoners that had been brought in with him. His flinty eyes appraised the motley bunch thoroughly, watching as several of them conversed amongst themselves. They spoke easily, as if already becoming fast friends. Sayadar, the scaly one. Osferth had never seen one of his kind before, and it piqued his curiosity. Also, judging by the way he talked, it sounded as if he was a repeat offender. Perhaps he would have an idea on how to break out? The dwarf turned his attention to the other one. Rock, was that what he had said his name was? Osferth grunted. Typical of the Rmar, who he thought were a truly unimaginative people. It wasn't that he hated the race of lumbering, stone-hewed giants; he had certainly never participated in any of the frenzied gem-hunts enjoined by his kin. But he had been raised to distrust the glittery-eyed rivals to his own race, and so took note to keep an eye on this 'Rock.' Osferth ran a thumb along the nasty scar on his cheek, before butting in to the prisoners' conversation with a strange tree-man. "Osferth, Wayfarer." He grunted. His voice was deep and gravelly, and though he did not possess the thick brogue touted by most western dwarves, it was still clear he had been raised in the mountains of Urulesh. "Waiting trial for assault and murder." He added nonchalantly, as if it was but an afterthought.

Name: Osferth Wayfarer Age: In terms of human years, mid to late twenties Gender: Male Race: Dwarf Notable traits and appearance: Osferth is quite tall for a dwarf, standing at around 1.2 meters (4 feet). He is also not quite as heavily built as other dwarves, though this slight distinction is imperceptible to all but his kinfolk; non-dwarves would simply see a stocky, barrel-chested dwarf, with shoulders like boulders and legs like tree stumps. He had a grim face, with a hard jaw and bushy brows. His eyes burned like coals, and his thin lips were often set in a slight frown. His hair was thick and dark. His beard, though full, was more akin to a thick stubble when compared to the braided monstrosities that were brandished by the fashionable elite that dwelled in the larger dwarf holds. A disfiguring scar ran along the left side of his face, and another crested the bridge of his nose. Background Story: Osferth was born into a family of minor nobles, and lived a rather uninteresting childhood. This all changed, however, at Osferth's coming of age ceremony, when Osferth chose to undergo the Wayfarer's Rite. The Wayfarer's Rite, a tradition held in high regard among the western dwarf holds, is a cultural practice whereby a young dwarf eschews most aspects of dwarven society and embarks upon a journey across the land. They lose all of their titles, and take on the name Wayfarer,to identify them. In addition, they may not contact any of their family; in fact, they are barred from speaking with any dwarves except other Wayfarers. The dwarf's mission is to prove themselves, and to find something worth finishing the quest for. This may come in the form of a lost treasure (of which there are many in the ruined mountain holds), a sudden revelation, or even a bride; for both dwarves and dwarfesses may take the name of Wayfarer. Upon their return, the dwarf may reunite with their family; the longer and more trying the Wayfaring is, the more honor and prestige is bestowed on their family. The Wayfarer's work is often martial in nature, as the Dwarven byways are plagued with all manner of brigands and monsters. -Reason for Imprisonment: Osferth, while traveling the roads that ran through the wyvern hills, came upon another Wayfarer fending off a band of highwaymen. Osferth, naturally, sided with his kinsman by oath, and the roguish ruffians received a hearty thumping before they fled. Unfortunately, one of the brigands died of his wounds sometime later. Even worse, this particular bandit's sister happened to be none other than the courtesan of Buba's chief magistrate, a fearsome woman who had no qualms about pulling some strings to ensure that a reward be offered for Osferth's capture. Shortly after, he was tracked down by man hunters, and is now being taken en route to Buba, where he shall be tried for one count of murder and four counts of assault.

That second image looks amazing. Very cool stuff! I think that aesthetics are one of the many important facets that contribute to the staying power of a city. I'd actually argue that the city's interior is much more important than its exterior. If a settlement looks great from outside of the walls, that will certainly peak my interest. But it's what a city looks like on the inside, it's marketplace and housing and streets, that will keep me invested in role playing there. So if anyone has pictures of those things, post them too!

The city of Felsen bustled with activity, a veritable sea of its inhabitants jostling and shoving as they laboriously strove to make headway through the narrow streets and alleys that funneled them through the beating heart of the Empire. All about there could be heard an overwhelming din, a tempest of sound that seemed to swell as the sun made its languid climb through the sapphire sky. The buzzing white noise of tramping feet and a hundred conversations was occasionally pierced by the booming cries of the street vendors, or by the high-pitched whinny of a courier's horse. But today was different, for another sound sang out above all else; an incessant, jolting commotion caused by the ringing of a town crier's bell. The townsfolk swarmed to the noise as one, causing an uproar as they boisterously clamored to be as close to the crier's stand as they could. The bell rang out again, and the great herd fell silent to hear the barrel-chested crier read out the missive he had been presented. Amidst the large crowd stood a thin man, a faded red cloak wrapped about his shoulders. Though he was quite young, the man looked slightly ill; his face held an unhealthy pallor, and his eyes were weighed down with dark and heavy bags. And yet beneath these droopy lids, a pair of bright eyes flashed, flitting about in their sockets as their owner listened intently to the message penned by one Lepidus Cuman. As the town crier finished reading, the crowd of Orenians erupted into applause, crying their praise and clapping vigorously. The man who listened did no such thing, though a smile tugged at the corners of his weak lips. "Praise be to the Creator." He offered, raising his hands to the Seven Skies. "At least some of us remain reasonable. In dark times like these, we must strive for clairvoyance of the mind, just as Exalted Siegmund has taught us."

Pour out the forty for Ayresalex, miss ya brotha I remember the Valden Company very fondly. Just spending our days training, hanging around the camp that we had outside of Kralta, chilling with the strelts and sparking one of the first border disputes with the Teutons that would eventually lead to civil war. Fun stuff. I also really enjoyed my time as a retainer in Cracker's court at Kralta. Out of all my great times in LotC, those days are the ones I had the most fun with.