Norman

"Hrm," says old Lord Adrian. "That is no good!"

The thick and odious stench of injustice clung to the missive when it arrived at the old count's doorstep, carried to him on the dusky black wings of a carrion bird. When he picked it up and scanned over its contents, an ire boiled up inside him more deep-seated and more malignant than the blackest of all tumors. He snapped shut his fist around the sheet of paper, a single word slipping from his lips like flame from the tongue of a dragon.

Walking... Walking... Walking... Stops Raises a brow as I hear the chaos from inside the church Shrugs and keeps walking

WRIT OF BASTARDISATION AND DISOWNMENT As Issued by Adrian de Bar upon the 4th of The Sun’s Smile, 1531 The patriarch of the noble and esteemed House Ashford de Bar, venerated by Orenian law as nobiles antiqui, His Excellency Adrian of Ashford de Bar, the first of his name, Count of Drusco and Lord Great Viceroy of the Holy Orenian Empire, declares and decrees that from the 4th of The Sun’s Smile, 1531, the late Baldwin of Ashford de Bar is from this day forth posthumously bastardised and disowned from the House of Ashford de Bar. Furthermore, any who claim descent from Baldwin de Bar are hereby disowned and any pedigree or design as a scion of Ashford discontinued. This damnation and subsequent bastardisation of blood stems from the crimes of regicide and kinslaying. These deplorable acts are ones that no family, let alone one which claims descent from the Saintly Lucien I, The Good, can condone or allow. The marriage and matrimony of matrilineal type between the individuals Frederique de Bar and Otto Rovin is declare null of its matrilineal clauses, all offspring born from such a union to be known thus as simply ‘Rovin’ rather than ‘de Bar’. These actions come as punishment for the sordid acts levied by this bloodline against the whole of the house; it is necessary to remove an arm that rots so as to save the greater body, and so is that the decision of His Excellency, Adrian de Bar. And thus it is in light of these points which have been brought to the Count Adrian’s view that the descendants of Otto Rovin and Frederique de Bar, the descendants of the kinslayer Baldwin de Bar, are stripped of the name Ashford de Bar for all of eternity until it is deemed that the stain which rests upon the line of their descent is washed away. Never again shall one of their number wear the esteemed name of Ashford de Bar, nor be granted the benefits befitting one of noble blood. They are not to be given hospitality or aid by any servant or bannerman of the House, nor any of those who bear its name. Never again shall his progeny be granted amnesty or the prestigious name of Ashford. Signed, His Excellency, Adrian de Bar, the first of his name, Count of Drusco, Patriarch of the House Ashford de Bar and Lord Great Viceroy of the Holy Orenian Empire. The proclamation would be stamped and sealed with the seal of House Ashford de Bar, the widely known Ashford sun.

IMPERIAL WRIT OF GOVERNANCE FOR THE PROVINCE OF EROCHLAND, 1528 Issued and Confirmed by His Imperial Majesty the Holy Orenian Emperor John I Frederick, 9th of the Deep Cold, 1528 In light of the growing discord against the Empire's authority amongst the populace of Erochland, the Crown has seen fit to dispatch His Excellency, Baron Godwine Percival Horen, as Imperial governor, to oversee the territory and to discourage any further protest amidst the dissenters. Effective immediately, all subjects of Erochland are to comply with the governor's sovereign-appointed authority by word of the Holy Orenian Emperor. Signed, His Excellency, Count Adrian of the House of Ashford de Bar His Excellency, Baron Godwine of the House of Horen

Adrian de Bar, broad shoulders laden heavy with the weight of a dutiful warrior and his demise, carried the corpse of the ironclad Northman back to the walls of Castle Geldern with unfaltering pace. By the time he had crested the threshold of the brick-topped spires of Peremont, his form was weary and strained from the task, but he was certain he had done what he could to see Ragnar's lifelong loyalty repaid.

THE FIRST BORN’S CURSE The young knight cursed through the knee-deep snow in a hasty, determined gait, the discordant shouts of his pursuers urging him forward even as the blizzard surged up from all around him. He dared not glance over his shoulder, but he knew that they still chased him into the storm by the dull crunching thud of arbalest bolts and other projectiles as they buried themselves into the soft crust of the snowdrift mere feet behind him. There had been an altercation in the stark fields outside Westmark wherein a band of rowdy levies, the dragon of Horen emblazoned upon their gambesons, hurled their denouncements at the young man as he passed. Ever bold, the knight met the imprecations with audacious words of his own, and in consequence ten blades hissed from their scabbards and there was a short and tumultuous clash of steel. The knight remembered how he fought like a man bedeviled against the host of bannermen, how he left a pair of them on the roadside rasping for breath, but a grimace crowned his gaunt face in bitter reflection as he remembered the surprise of a mislayed parry, the painful bite of a sword as it pierced his side, the shame as his blade slipped from his grasp in a hasty retreat into the mountains of the Northlands, into the white squall that enveloped the terrain ahead and rendered a seeing man blind with its ire. The knight’s fingers brushed his side, and he groaned as his hand came away soaked red. Crimson welled through the slash in his jerkin, drops of his blood steaming in the frigid air and falling to the snow underfoot as he staggered onwards. The men behind him had slowed in their chase, unwilling to advance any deeper into the snowstorm, but his feverish eyes weighed the haze ahead without a trace of hesitation. The knight armored his heart and pressed himself beyond the wall of white, into what would be his last fight. Not one step back. Keep moving forward. Plough you all. --- He did not make it far. The knight lay facedown, half-buried by the frost that whipped around him mercilessly. Blood, red as summerwine, pooled under his lifeless form, absorbed by the snow on which he lay. Behind him, his even footsteps had deteriorated to heavy drag marks, the bloodied snow he left in his wake thickening as it drew closer to his final resting place. In the heedlessness of his escape he had run into the unforgiving snowstorm, stubbornly refusing his fate, willing himself forth even as his strength waned and his legs gave out - but for his final heartbeats the boy had lowered himself earthwards with a harsh acceptance of the end, destined never to rise again. He would sooner die than surrender to the men he fought, but yet the storm was there to take him when he slumped into the snow and conceded defeat. Carden de Bar, unyielding and headstrong in life, died in a place the sun seldom favored, where nothing grew - with none to bear witness to his last moments safe for the cruel storm that embraced him warmly as the life ebbed from his body.

NO MATTER THE COST https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLJZzuzEyNw Adrian de Bar towered over the corpse of his brother’s murderer, chest rising and falling at a dogged pace as he struggled to regain his breath. A sheen of sweat clung to the man’s brow from the resilient chase, the sable cloak that oft fluttered behind him tattered and frayed from his sprint through the Crownland’s woods. Loosening his grip on the bloodied sword in his hand, Adrian fell to his knees cumbersomely alongside it, drawing in a shaky breath. He had pursued the man that slew his brother from the walls of the palace and through the burghs of Dour Watch and Peremont in a chase that would brook but one conclusion. It had been hours into the relentless hunt that the assassin’s stride had faltered before Adrian’s, and he had turned to accost the prince with a cruel smirk, arms akimbo as though accepting his demise. A few chance words were exchanged, but Adrian remembered them not; solely beset on recapturing the moment he disemboweled the traitorous bishop. “In all my dreams I’ll kill you,” he had promised the man as he ran him through with his sword, teeth gritted in dogged resolve. “A hundred thousand deaths are no less than what you deserve.” “Look at me, interloper.” With his passionate words echoing through his head, the man’s haunted mind was put to peace as he knelt beside the man’s corpse. The assassin lay in a pool of his fleshtone, intestines splayed out across the grass like a macabre arrangement of eels. Adrian could not have saved his brother, for all of his strength - but to see the man who slew him dead himself brought forth fleeting a semblance of satisfaction. It was a final victory for the patriarch of House de Bar, a parting triumph. From somewhere deeper into the brush, a familiar voice called out for the slain assassin, the discernable sound bringing a pained grimace to the prince’s face. The dissenter approached from somewhere behind him, but Adrian did not move for his blade, rise to his feet, hurl a bold imprecation. He had had his vengeance. Adrian de Bar closed his eyes with a reconciled smile as his nephew approached, at last putting to rest the grief that bewitched him for all his life. The dying sun drew a long and daunting shadow over the kneeling man before it ducked below the treeline, favoring the prince with a last, ardent glow of deep orange before it took its leave. He would see his brother again, some day. He knew he would.

A letter from Lord Justiciar Titus de Sola flies from Aeldin. "Authorized," it reads.

A rush of cold air gusted over the mountaintop relentlessly, blanketing the windswept terrain in layered snow. The unforgiving peaks of the elevation did, for those willing to brave its ascent, grant a boundless view- the expansive vista of Summerhall visible from atop the mountain. A fair place for a forktail's nest. The daunting reptile, with scales the color of flesh-tone and the luster of burnished steel, descended unceremoniously from the sky and landed near its roost. The nest was littered with the bones of foolhardy adventurers and errant travelers past- their broken swords and snapped staves coupled with their ravaged remains. Two fresh and mangled forms lay supine amidst the macabre collection - the newest victims of the creature's insurmountable prowess. The unmoving carcass of a creature akin to the serpent itself lay half-buried by snow, broken wings fluttering listlessly in the strong wind as the crimson forktail slithered past. Four had come to its perch, and yet two remained. The party of hapless explorers fought with vigor, and though they scored an onslaught of blows none could best the indomitable serpent. Two had escaped the creature's fury, but a keepsake remained: the shattered shield of one of the survivors. The brigands had not escaped empty-handed besides, for where once a pair of fledgling eggs lay nestled in the roost there was nothing. The forktail sidled around fruitlessly, arching its bristling neck at last to release a keening, ear-splitting wail skywards. For two winters the creature had watched over its den, repelling all those who had been bold enough to accost it. But it was all for naught- it had long lost the scent of the thieves that had purloined its nest's contents. The forktail's wings shook and unfurled as it roared again in contempt. It would never find the robbers, but there remained one vestige, one vessel to make its ire known: Summerhall. The gargantuan creature raked its gaze to the quaint and unassuming township, reptilian eyes glinting with a carnal and beastlike fury, before it lifted itself into the air with a final, vengeful screech.

Wanted: Serpent of Summerhall. Threat level: Medium-High. Description of beast(s): A large draconid, with matte colored scales, a burly tail, resembling a fork at it’s rear. Location: North of Summerhall, found in the peaks of the snow-cloaked mountains. Rewards: 1500 minas.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yCC_b5WHLX0 A lone man sat in his study, mulling over a collection of stratagems and doctrines despite the squall that rumbled outside. The resounding crackle of thunder garnered his attention at last, and he wrenched his gaze from the papers he was scrutinizing with a haggard sigh. Pacing towards the ornate window that framed the candlelit room, the man stared through the drenched and misty pane at the tempest that hung over Felsen in the north. A sudden feeling of overwhelming bereavement struck the man as he looked towards the distant spires of the palace, but a sigh was all he conceded at the unusual sensation. The storm will pass, the man assured himself as he strode from the study, no trace of doubt clouding his thoughts as he left to let the downpour rage on. Soon enough, the dawn will break.

Wanted: The Lord of the Wood Threat level: Medium Description of beast(s): The primeval creature is wrought with a body made of oak and vines, the horned skull of an equine animal adorning it's head. Location: The creature has been sighted in the tucklemore forests eastwards of Geldern Castle, the holdfast of Peremont. Rewards: 1250 minas.

It is time to shut it off.

There is no denying the strength of Willam's prose.

-- A notice hangs on all the streets and signs of Felsen, bearing the insignia of House Ashford de Savoie. -- Hark citizens of Oren, let it be known: The savage and barbaric death of Camile de Savoie, Princess of Oren, has been attributed to one of the Fjarriauga - that being, in layman’s terms, a primeval frost witch of yore - following a thorough analysis of the macabre scene. Concluding a brief, and fruitless, investigation, and at his Lordship Adrian de Bar’s behest, all citizens of Felsen are urged to be wary of the malicious crones that mask their true form with magical guises; those with skin frigid to the touch or women with a penchant for approaching men with apparently salacious desires. -- Remain Vigilant.

​ From a loyalist war camp abuzz with the hum of labor, Adrian de Bar would learn of the Golden Crow's refusal to capitulate with the rest of their conquered allies. The weary nobleman conceded a snort of derision, looking to to those around him with a perfunctory nod. "The northmen would sooner die than surrender; a defiant lot until the end. I had figured as much."