Xarkly

Konstantin Wick flees the jurisdiction.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE: BRING OUT THE ROCK An artist's rendition of a Rimetroll Every time Bido closed his eyes, he saw it. He saw Troll Village, the humble little cavern in the heart of the Rimeveld where the Trolls had lived in blissful peace for generations, buried under piles and piles of rubble. He saw dozens upon dozens of Trolls, Trolls with families, younger Trolls he was supposed to outlive by decades, staring up at the Rimeveld sky with blank, death-glazed eyes. He saw his home gone. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his people dead. Massacred. Genocided. "UUUUUH ...?" The grunt brought Bido back to reality. He stood in a wide, open cave, the flat ground and sloped walls blued with ice, and he was not alone. Beside him, a more hunched Troll, his once greyish-brown fur faded to a pale silver, marched with the aid of a thick, carven stick that the Chief of the Rimetrolls always carried. Beneath the silver Troll's gnarled horns, beady eyes were wide with thought and unblinking as they stared at something distant and unseen. It was clear to Bido that his companion - Chief Oxx - was suffering the same trauma that he was. He was trying not to blink so he did not have to face those horrors again. Slowly, Bido turned his eyes ahead of him towards the front of the cave. There, a row of a dozen shapes sat. To the untrained eye, they appeared as mere boulders, some of them with icy stalactites hanging off them, some of them with sparse mossy growth. Upon closer inspection, though, Bido could make out vague faces sticking out from the 'boulders'; a long, toothless mouth below two tiny, beady eyes. They were not boulders, but Rock Trolls, and fitting to their name their bodies were more rocky mineral than actual flesh. They were a cousin breed to the Rimetrolls, and though their people were considered close, they had little interaction, for they stuck to the tunnels and caves deep under the Rimeveld. "Sorry," Bido muttered groggily. He dipped his head apologetically to the Rock Troll at the front of the group, who stood out for the studs of glittering crystals that grew from her rocky back. She was Igga, their elder. "What you say?" With the rumble of shifting stone, Igga raised a rock-skinned hand, and tapped her stony head. "WHYYY ....HUUUUULP?" Her words were clipped, and her voice was coarse, like the sound of a rock being grinded to gravel. The Rock Trolls were supposedly smarter than their Rimetroll cousins, but their vocal abilities were extremely poor. Bido wasn't sure what he believed -- the Rock Trolls had always lived in such seclusion that he had never had a real opportunity to tell how intelligent they really were. Must not be so stupid, Bido thought sadly to himself. They avoid war for so long. Bido glanced to Oxx; he hoped his fellow Rimetroll would answer, for Bido could certainly not bring himself to give voice to the horror that had befallen Troll Village. Oxx only gave him a slow nod before he repeated the tale for the Rock Trolls in his droning, sad voice. "The warmies ... they come to Troll Village while me and Bido gone. They saw they bring food, so Trolls celebrate ... They sing for warmies, give them fire, but then warmies, they ... they make the Village go boom..." Bido's hands clenched into fists as Oxx spoke. From the scant survivors of the massacre of Troll Village, he had heard varying accounts of what happened. Some of the survivors claimed that the warmies had brought one of their Boomies - the devastating, fiery weapons they used to defend their cities - and turned it on the Village. Others say they started a fire that consumed the Village and melted the icy cave in which it was built. Others still claimed that they had taken up their weapons and stormed the Village, slaughtering all in their path. Bido wasn't sure which was true, but it didn't matter -- the only truth that did matter was that the Descendants had attacked Troll Village itself. They had killed countless Rimetrolls, children included. They had tried to kill them all. " ... gone. All gone," Oxx finished in a broken voice as Bido tuned back in, and both Rimetrolls turned their eyes back to Igga and the Rock Trolls. Bido had never wanted to come to the Rock Trolls for help. The war with the warmies was an affair for the Rimetrolls, but asides from that, he very much doubted the Rock Trolls would be inclined to help. Though they were their cousins, the Rock Trolls numbered much fewer than Rimetrolls - who already numbered few enough as a species - and they looked out only for themselves. Rock Trolls did not share the Rimetroll's desperate need for food -- instead, they were blessed with the ability to survive by eating rocks. But now that Troll Village had been destroyed ... now that so many Rimetrolls had been murdered ... Bido did not have a choice. They needed their help if they had any chance of beating the warmies now. "SUUUUUH?" came Igga's rasp. "WHUUUT... YOUUUUU ... EXPUUUUUHCT?" Bido frowned. It was true that when he had led the first raids against the warmies in the south, he had known there would be casualties. Trolls would inevitably die in the desperate struggle to survive, to feed their families. But he had thought it would be a handful of his brave kinsmen in each raid, martyrs who were a tragic but necessary blood cost to the survival of their species who would eventually be avenged. He had been prepared to pay that price. But the slaughter of Troll Village ... "They kill everyone," Bido snarled suddenly. "They kill cubs, they kill innocents who no hurt them, not ever. They kill everyone." At his answer, Igga's body made that unsettling rumbling sound as she spared a look at her fellow Rock Trolls - who numbered no more than two or three dozen - though none of them gave any kind of response. They just blinked their tiny eyes at Bido as Igga turned back to him. " ... STUUUUUUL ... WHUUUUT ... UUUUN ... FUUUUUR ... UUUUUUS?" Bido's jaw tightened. He knew this question was coming. After all, why would the Rock Trolls get involved in a war in which they had no stake? Why would they risk themselves so needlessly? In truth, as angry as it made him that they even asked such, Bido understood it. He was glad when Oxx spoke up beside him with the answer they had prepared. "Because they no stop at us. You Trolls too, Igga," Oxx said, drawing up his shoulders as if to embolden himself. "The warmies no stop until they kill all Trolls, which mean you too!" "They no see difference between us," Bido added. "They no care if you no hurt them. The cubs in Troll Village no hurt them, but warmies kill them." Even with so few facial features, Bido could see the point rang true with Igga. The elder Rock Troll let out a sigh, exhaling loose pebbles. "EVUUUUN ... UUUUF .... WE ... STRUUUUNG..." "You are strong," Bido agreed hastily, and he did not lie; the Rock Troll name was not just for show. The boulders that covered their skin were nigh indestructible -- they were practically walking fortresses. "But you not many. You, what ... thirty, forty Troll? Warmies are many. Hundreds, and hundreds! Only if we work together, like one clan, can we beat warmies! Can we save all Trolls!" He finished with a triumphant fist in the air, but he knew nerves permeated through his voice. This really was a desperate plea for one last weapon in their fight against the warmies -- their fight against extinction. Igga didn't answer. Not immediately, anyway. Instead, her broad, uneven fingers plucked a loose rock off the floor, and flicked it into her toothless maw. Her stony jaw closed around it slowly, and crushed the rock instantly. She chewed it for a long moment, her beady eyes fixed on Oxx and Bido, before she finally swallowed with a sound like a pebble dropping into a cavern. "FUUUUUR .... UUUULL ... TRUUUULL?" "For all Troll," Bido repeated. Igga locked eyes with him one last time, and then she nodded.

WHO WANTS TO BE A MINANAIRE? Wheel of Fortune Tired of working the fields? Tired of hoisting a spear? Tired of being POOR? Fear ye not, for Godani himself hears your plights, and he sends you this Haeseni Gameshow Spectacular to earn your fortune. [FRIDAY APRIL 9TH 5:30PM EST/10:30PM GMT] [SIGN UP HERE] How Does it Work? Teams of two or three can sign up to compete in this five-round gameshow, with only one person from each team competing in each round. Each round will be based around certain topics, and each round will have its own unique twist to it, all of which is explained below. The gameshow runs off a point-based system, and the team that finishes with the highest point total wins! What are the Topics? Each of the gameshow's five rounds will have their own topic [the contestant that rolls highest at the start of each round will get to pick the topic]. The possible topics include: Haeseni History World History Karosgrad Trivia International Trivia Haeseni Figures Haeseni Culture International Culture Economics ROUND ONE: Preliminary Questions Round One is a straight and easy preliminary question stage where contestants will be quizzed on the chosen topic with a choice of four possible answers. Each contestant will get asked a handful of questions, and the overall goal of the round is to build yourself a nice point total, because you stand to lose points in the subsequent rounds ... ROUND TWO: Pass the Bomb In this Round, contestants are still given individual questions to answer around the relevant topic with a choice of four possible answers. However, this time, they'll be holding a "Bomb"** while answering their question, which will "explode"** after a fixed amount of time [two minutes] and DEDUCT points from the contestant it explodes on, and you can't pass the Bomb off until you answer a question right! There'll be several "Bombs"** during the round, so contestants have to answer quick to prevent them from losing points. **By participating you waive all rights to litigate against 'Who Wants to be a Minanaire Plc Ltd' for injuries sustained during Pass the Bomb. ROUND THREE: roight, i'll be havin that Round Three is even more cutthroat. Here, contestants are no longer asked individual questions -- instead, one question will be posed to all contestants (again with four possible answers), and contestants have to ring their bell first in order to answer. If a contestant answers correctly, they can STEAL a certain amount of points from another player! ROUND FOUR: Place Your Bets The stakes climb higher in Round Four. Again, contestants will be posed with one question, but this time there's no need to scramble to answer it. Instead, contestants can BET some of their points on what they think the right answer is (out of a choice of four). If they're confident, they can bet high with the chance to win, or lose, big, while if they haven't a clue, they can only bet a small amount. ROUND FIVE: The Finale In the final round, contestants will again be asked individual straight-forward questions. However, this the topic for the first question is random. If the contestant answers correctly, they can pick the topic for the next question, though if incorrect it will remain the same topic for the next question. This will be the home stretch and the last opportunity for teams to rack up points before the finish line. THE PRIZE POOL If you place in the gameshow, YOU have a chance to win... 1st Place: 300 Mina & a Trophy! 2nd Place: 100 Mina & a Trophy! 3rd Place: The feeling of a job well done. [FRIDAY APRIL 9TH 5:30PM EST/10:30PM GMT] [SIGN UP HERE]

shellfish?

"That won't save you," Ser Aleksandr Hieromar whispered coldly to himself as he prepared a bouquet of tulips for his beloved sister, whose execution Heinrik had ordered. "Nothing will save you."

EYES OF THE DEAD Konstantin Wick watching his niece's execution. Music "You know, Maric," Konstantin Wick sighed, exhaling a stream of pipesmoke. "You see things a little differently when you're older." Konstantin stood outside the tavern with his successor - Lord Palatine Maric var Ruthern. The two spoke in hushed voices as they stared out across Karosgrad's square, where the charred pyre from the other day's execution had taken place. Maric, having just confided his own fears in Konstantin, spoke with a troubled frown, while Konstantin only kept his gaze steady and unflinching on the pyre. He could still smell the smoke in the air, and the grim edge to the air was palpable. "Just living, just surviving, isn't quite as important as it once was," he explained coldly as he toked on his pipe. "You become nearly obsessed with what you've done with your life, and what you'll leave behind." There came a heavy thud from the front of the Nikirala Palace, and it was followed a moment later by a short whistle. The cloaked figures inside the throneroom exchanged curt nods -- that was the signal. The Earth Atronach had conjured and placed his boulder to guard the entrance, and now the clock was ticking. Beneath rims of the hoods of their cloaks, the figures exchanged reassuring smiles, and then they set about their work. In unison, they lifted the busts of the Kings of Old down from their pedestals, and began to drag them across the floor to the top of the eerily empty throneroom. Koeng Sigismund II. Koeng Andrik IV. Koeng Petyr I. Their stony faces were placed at the foot of the throne, their dead eyes staring down the hallway towards the blocked door. "For me, Maric ... Well, it was all of this, I suppose," Konstantin said, gesturing broadly to the city around them with his smouldering pipe. "I understand your fears for your own family. I ... I watched my own kin walk out, get exiled, or even killed a long time ago. I stayed because I hoped, because I believed, that I might help in building a world that might actually be fertile soil for justice. It didn't matter who was right or wrong at the time. I ... I just couldn't let go of the belief." He exhaled on his pipe once more as he spoke to the Palatine. "When I retired, I was ... happy with what we had built, me and all the others. It wasn't perfect, mind you - far from it - but it was a starting point. Good foundations for the possibility of a good future. Yes. I was happy. Content. I had done my part. More than anything, I could die and rest easily, known I'd done the duty of any man cursed to be born into this world to do everything in his feeble power to make it a little better." His eyes remained on the pyre. "Then I saw what happened here. I saw the execution of my niece Nataliya." The cloaked figures began to empty out their phials and bottles, pouring oil and alcohol alike across the throneroom. At the foot of the throne, facing the three busts of the Kings, one of the figures pulled out a waterskin filled with blood. They gave it a shake, stirring the congealed blood, before they unscrewed the cap and dipped their gloved fingers inside to bloody them. Then, like warpaint, they drew on the faces of the old Kings. By the time the figure was done, the face's of the Kings had been turned into bloody, demonic faces. Faces of wrath. "I watched my niece die." Konstantin had stopped smoking as he spoke, and, as the wind briefly picked up, the wind robbed motes of burnt tobacco from its burning stem. "I watched some toddler drunk on power waddle up to the square, and declare the life of his own kin be taken without rhyme nor reason." He paused. His eyes left the pyre for the first time in a sidelong glance to the Palatine. "Do you know what was worse, though, Maric? I watched good men and women turn into blubbering fuckin' cowards at his commands. Jovenaar Kortrevich, a woman I appointed myself, took a big ol'e **** on every meaning of the word 'justice' as she participated in that circus. The Knight Orders I raised myself twisted the meaning of 'loyalty' until they justified it as a reason to go merrily along with it, and excuse themselves of every bit of chivalry and responsibility they were meant to uphold. When I stepped up myself to try argue for my niece to be given a trial as the law demands, I was arrested. The former Lord Palatine was held at sword-point by bloodthirsty excuses for soldiers that would have made Erwin Barclay roll in his grave." "When I saw what happened here, Maric, I saw more than my niece burn." "I saw this Kongzem burn." Fingers drenched in blood, the cloaked figure bent down, and began to leave a message in the dais with crimson smears. They stepped back once they had it written, and screwed the cap back onto the empty waterskin as they admired their handiwork. Then, they calmly turned and joined the other cloaked figure in calmly walking out out of the throneroom. Their boots squelched as they walked across the oil-drenched carpet. They joined in the vestibule once more, and looked back down the hall at the bloody faces of the Kings of Yore, the blood painted to give their expressions a fiery rage. They leisurely ascended the stairs onto the gallery above, and they stared down the bannisters at the soaked carpets, the slickened stones, and the message in blood. One cloaked figure took a lantern down from the wall, and passed it to the next. Under their hoods, they locked resolute eyes, and tossed the torch down into the oiled throneroom below. "Ahh. I suppose that's just like kids." Konstantin smiled, then, of all things as he looked back to the pyre. "They pump themselves all full of piss and vinegar, and once you go along with it, they think they can do no wrong. It's one thing when your own tot pisses the bed, but it's quite another with this tot pisses on the entire Kingdom and people start to drown." "Tsch." His hand tightened on his pipe. "I should tell you, then, Maric." "They're watching." "The men and women of Elba and the hosts of King Marius II who gave themselves up in the Great Northern War ..." The cloaked figures lingered only for a moment, watching as the oil caught and spread across the throneroom below. For a moment, one of the figures could only stare in awe at the power of fire, at the pure heat it radiated, and the sheer capabilities of human destruction. ____________ "... The brave soldiers who perished on the ends of Pertinaxi lances as they fought a hopeless war against Renatus. A war they knew was hopeless, but fought nonetheless for their home ..." ____________ The heat singing their backs, the cloaked figures calmly set off into the Palace's twisting labyrinth of corridors, and made their way to their planned escape route. ____________ "... The Haeseni warriors who breathed their last breath, their sacrifice fuelled on the false hope of Rodenburg ..." ____________ As they reached their escape route in the Palace, the cloaked figures heard distant shouts echo from the vestibule. Someone had finally noticed the boulder blocking the door. ____________ "... those who surrendered everything for the survival of this Kingdom against Bralt the Boar and his Scyflings, who gave up their lives without ever knowing if it was for nothing, or for everything..." ____________ "PUUUUUSH!" Under their collective might, the responding soldiers pushed aside the boulder, only to be met by a pillar of smoke that spewed from the now-exposed doorway. ____________ Konstantin narrowed his eyes into a glare. "They're watching, Maric. They're watching each and every one of us right now. They're watching what became of the lives they gave for this Kongzem." ____________ The soldiers filed into the burning Palace, buckets in hand, stark fear painted on their faces, and froze at the vestibule as they stared down the hallway to be met by the faces of the bloodied, fiery Kings and the message painted before them. "Never forget that they're watching," he hissed. "Because I promise you -- they will never forget what became of their sacrifice."

Xarkly The Whisper Knight

MEMOIRS OF A SILENT KNIGHT VOLUME III: FLIGHT OF THE PRINCESS Source These Memoirs are not public knowledge until Aleksandr's death, or shared in roleplay. Volume I: Vow of Silence Volume II: I Did Not Love Her Music Today, I betrayed the Knight's Code of Chivalry. I helped my niece Katerina - King Josef's daughter - flee from Haense. She and the Queen approach me, with Katerina as pale as a ghost, her hands trembling, and, most importantly, her face bruised. Her brother - King Heinrik - had beaten her, it turned out, over some disagreement about marriage, and both Katerina and Queen Mariya asked me to take her somewhere safe from harm, and so I took the frightened girl across the river to stay with a ... friend. I do not know why I did it. If Godan himself asked, I would not be able to answer. I am a Knight - to hold the title of Ser has been my lifelong ambition - and the Ninth Tenet of Chivalry of our Order decrees that I shall be loyal to the King, my own nephew, but surely Heinrik would not have wanted this. No - honour dictates that I should have refused Katerina's request, and reported it straight to the King. A Princess of her station, fleeing Haense like a fugitive ... it would not do, not at all, not for the honour of my King nor my country. So then why? Why did I agree to it without a second thought? By the time I had even stopped to consider it, I had rowed the girl across the river and the sun had risen to make the disturbed water gleam. That question plagued my mind as I walked the girl to the safe hideaway I'd managed to find her, and it haunted me for every footstep as I made the return journey back to Karosgrad that night. Why? At first, I concluded with melancholy that I am a poor Knight. My life's work to become a warrior of irrefutable honour, to become a soldier worthy of my House and my father, only to betray one of the core Tenets of Chivalry - serve the King. It is not only that -- earlier this year, when my squire Marie told me she might very well die on her final trial, I very nearly stopped her. I had no place to do so; my duty is to help train her to succeed at such trials and become a Knight, not to fret over her safety, and earlier this very week when she approached me with concerns that a fellow Knight may be an adulterer, I dissauded her of the notion of doing anything about. Not because I thought she would be wrong to do so, but for the selfish reason that I feared she would be discharged as a squire. Indeed, I thought myself a poor Knight, one who broke the Code of Chivalry and let such fickle emotions rule him. But only at first. By the time I reached Karosgrad's walls, my lungs and muscles aching from travelling all day, I had reached a different conclusion -- a revelation, really. The Ninth Tenet might command loyalty to the King, but had I really done so, had I betrayed the trust of Katerina and Queen Mariya, I would have broken the the Fourth Tenet - to protect the weak and defenseless. For as long as I lived, through all those long years of lonely, vigorous training I subjected myself to all so that I could call myself a Ser, the Knighthood had been a colourful dream in my head. Knights were heroes, men and women who lived purely for the betterment of this world, and I so desperately wanted to be among those heroes. But now that I am here, I can see that there are no heroes. Draped beneath bright heraldry and shining platemail, they are mortal men and women, the same as peasants in the fields, and mortal men and woman are flawed. The Knight's Code of Chivalry reminds me now of my younger self - the younger self that believed Knights really were paragons of virtue. The Code foolishly presumes that all of its Tenets are at all time compatible - it asks Knights to protect the weak from evil, and to serve the King, but what if the King is the evil? What if he becomes a tyrant, harming innocents wilfully? The Code commands to champion the Church and teachings of God, and to help the Kingdom grow strong, but what is a Knight to do when the Kingdom allies with pagans? It was as I stopped at the gates of Karosgrad, the moon dipping towards the horizon and sweat beading on my brow, that the truth struck me. The Code, honour, chivalry ... it does not really mean anything. All these were notions of someone, a long time ago, of how others should live. That is not to say the Code is wrong, that we should not strive to hold ourselves as honourable, but since the blade of Gaius Marius touched my shoulder to dub me the Whisper Knight, I have gradually come to realize the real world is far too complicated for one written Code to cover. It is not the truth I once thought. The real truth, I have come to think, is both much more simple, and at the same time much more complicated. When the weak are threatened by the same people I am sworn to protect, the Code does not work. When I realized that helping Katerina, and that protecting Marie, was a breach of the Code ... I did not regret. Even when I thought it made me a false Knight, in the depths of my soul, I could not bring myself to feel regret. Irrespective of what is written in some book by an old fool centuries ago, I know what I did was right. This morality, this honour, it's not something that can be learned, or taught. It's something someone is born with - it is a part of them, and it is an instinct. A reaction to something without thought, like when I agreed to help Katerina as soon as I was asked. Even though these pages are for my eyes alone, writing that seems arrogant. But even now, I know it to be true. A real Knight - if such a person can ever really exist - will never be forged through some written Code, because a written Code can never really work. After all, if a Knight needs mere words to tell them how to act, then I very much doubt they could ever really be a Knight. All the same, I fear I have landed myself in a mire. Queen Mariya remains in Haense, but she made no secret of her discomfort, and only time will tell what impact Katerina's flight will have. The reaction may be a drizzle, or a rainstorm. Even if it is the latter, though, I know I will not regret my decision then either. For I follow a new Code now.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE YEAR 1 REPORT The first year of enhanced Rimetrolls Raids in northern Almaris had ended. With their farm and sole food source destroyed by Descendants, starvation has driven the inherently-peaceful Trolls south to the farmlands of Haense and Norland, bringing with them death and ruin through their immense strength, their powerful frost-breath, and other hidden abilities. This report will document the status of the Raids from this first year, and the effect they have wrought on the targetted nations. YEAR ONE RAIDS The Hibernation Raid: After waking from their winter hibernation, a stampede of Rimetrolls flooded through the outskirts of the Haeseni capital - Karosgrad - and reaped their entire harvest. Though many Trolls were slain, they succeeded in retreating with Haeseni food supplies. Two Haeseni Knights were killed in the raid. The Road to Astfield: Non-aggressive Trolls attempted to pass through the north into the Haeseni territory of Asfield with a view to reaping vassal farms. The Haeseni Army met the Trolls on the road, and successfully repelled them. The Elysium Pact: Rimetrolls arrived at the Norlandic breadbasket of Elysium seeking food, and the populace instead struck a deal with the Trolls, even going so far as to draw up a treaty. FAMINE STATUS Haense: After losing the entirety of their capital harvest, Haense teeters on the edge of famine. One more lost raid will begin to trigger famine events. Norland: In their deal with the Trolls, Norland exchanged a sizable harvest of crops with them, drastically cutting their own food supply in the first year, though not enough to yet bring them into famine. TROLL STATUS Population: The Rimetroll population has suffered heavy losses during their incursions in Haense, reducing their population to 90% of what it was pre-raids. Food: Despite the losses, the Rimetrolls have managed to steal or trade enough food from Haense and Norland to sustain their population and keep their strength up. NATION RELATIONS Haense: The vast majority of the Rimetrolls are extremely hostile towards Haense after the numerous violent encounters. The chance of passive dialogue with the Trolls grows thin. Norland: Most Trolls are currently passive towards Norland, primarily due to many Trolls returning from Elysium alive and with food. Some Trolls have even signed an agreement with Norland, but the effect of formal alliances on the entire Troll population is dubious, and may not have a real effect on most Trolls besides those who actually signed it. RESTORATION ATTEMPTS Certain groups have begun making efforts to restore the Rimetroll's farm, thereby giving them back their source of food and ending the war. The Fellowship of Umba: A rag-tag group of Highlanders, Elves, and a Heartlander joined forces after they were brought together in the Rimeveld through unlikely circumstances. Working with the Rimetroll Chief Oxx and the demented elder Troll Umba - who remembers the origins of the Rimetroll farm - the Fellowship has traced the farm's magic to the flooded city of Balian in central Almaris. Contending with a strange figure who seems to have deadly control of the seaweed covering every inch of the city, they are currently making their way into the depths of the ruins in search of answers. SIGNS FROM THE NORTH As the Raids enter their second year, wayward rumours and panicked reports from shepherds and lumberjacks make their way down from the borders of the Rimeveld of what the Trolls seem to be doing next. The Northern Frontier: As Haense puts up resistance against the Rimetroll incursions and bodies begin to mount, a slew of Rimetrolls appear to be preparing to push through the northern frontier on multiple fields to spread the Haeseni defenders thin and break into their mainland. The Elysium Breadbasket: After Trolls carry back word of bountiful food at Elysium, the rest of the ravenous Rimetroll population seems likely to try get some of the food for themselves, and there surely won't be enough for all of them.

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE: GREEN NIGHT Green Night had finally arrived. For as long as the Rimetrolls could remember, they had celebrated Green Night - the night on which the northern lights shone over the Rimeveld for the first time after the summer snows. They shone beautifully tonight, with the pale emerald folds rippling through the star-dappled sky. The weather was clear, and the air blissfully cold - for Trolls, at least - and the massive ice spikes that cloaked the Rimeveld gleamed as they reflected the shine of the northern lights above, bathing much of the Rimeveld's valleys in a teal light. For centuries, the Rimetrolls had gathered in the Rimeveld's central valley, which the ice spikes lit up like beacons, to feast and celebrate. There would be rolling competitions down the slope, Muma would famously play the ice chimes, and all the families would have a snowball tournament. But now as Oxx - Chief of the Rimetrolls - stared across the valley, what he saw curdled his blood. A bare handful of Trolls had crawled out of their caves for the occasion, and whereas before slabs of ice and stone were laden with the finest dishes that the Trollwives could cook up, now they were starkly empty. It had been some time now since the Descendants in the south had destroyed the Rimetroll farm - or, more accurately, destroyed the enchantment allowing food to grow in the Rimeveld's inhospitable cold - and the Rimetrolls had gradually been starving every since. No one had yet died from starvation, but the situation was growing more dire by the day. The only solution was for Trolls to venture south and steal food from the same Descendants who had destroyed the Rimetroll's farm. At first, Oxx adamantly opposed the raids: a very long time ago, before most of today's Rimetrolls were even born, they had committed to living a life of peace after they had been gifted their farm. They had sworn to leave behind their violent past of raiding and killing, and instead lived peacefully in the Rimeveld, forgotten by the greater world, living their days in blissful peace with not a care in the world besides rearing their family. But now that their farm - their sole source of food that had fed them for centuries - Oxx was horrified that they were forced back to the old ways. Once again, the Rimetrolls were forced to take up weapons and venture south. "So close," he grunted sadly to himself as he stared up at the northern lights. "So close." For the longest time, the Rimetrolls had been monsters - they had been beasts, an evil to the Descendants, that were feared for their past raids. But then, once they had been gifted their very own farm as a peace offering, they had left behind their identity as monsters. They had their own families, their own loved ones, and no wish to hurt or kill others. They had been so close to forgetting what war, what violence, even meant. But now it seemed to be their only means of survival. Their farm and its enchantment had been a gift from a civilization of humans long ago as a peace offering to end their raids, and now that civilization was long dead, and the Trolls themselves had no idea how to rebuild it. So the Trolls raided once more; the elder Trolls, the precious few old enough to remember their old way of life, taught the younger generation how to steal from farms, and how to kill Descendants. Even as he lay back on the snowdrift he was sat on, Oxx's belly rumbled violently, but he himself did not care to raid like the others. It might have helped his people survive a little longer, but that was it; a little longer. Without a permanent food source, it was only a matter of time until their people died out, whether through starvation or through war against the Descendants. Already, the Rimetroll population had dangerously dipped from so many falling during the raids." "This is the end," he realized. The Rimetrolls would slowly - but surely - die out, now. There was nothing he could. Sighing, he pushed off the snowdrift and found himself meandering up through the valley, past the ice spikes glowing under the northern lights, and ignoring the desperate gazes of the hungry Trolls he passed. Digging his long arms into the slopes of the mountains, he flung himself up the slopes, ascending to the top of the valley. He paused on the ridge once he reached it, where the Rimeveld's harsh wind swept over it. The wind disturbed the surface snow of the mountain all around him, constantly hazing it like white smoke. From the ridge, he stared out to the south, where he could see a sea of dark pine trees in the distance and, deep in that sea, the faint lights of the Descendant cities. It was there that so many of their number had died trying to feed themselves, and it was those Descendants that had destroyed the Rimetroll farm and started this war. With a start, Oxx realized that he was not alone on the Ridge, and turned his head to find a rotund Troll cub - barely five or six years old, by the looks of his size - curled up in the snow, staring out towards the Red City. "Runk," Oxx muttered in greeting as he recognized the Troll cub. "Wot you doin' out here?" The cub didn't take his beady eyes off the distant skyline. "Waitin'. Pappy back soon." Oxx's heart sank in his chest as he turned back towards the city. Runk's father had gone out in one of the raiding parties to the Red City, but that had been weeks ago. He had not returned, and Oxx very much doubted he was going to. He could have offered the child some reassurance, some false hope that his father might yet return, or instil him with some sentiment of revenge. Instead, though, Oxx just sat down on the ground next to him. He knew there was nothing he could say to make anything better. There was nothing he could do to save Runk's father, or any of the other Trolls. Slowly, he narrowed his eyes into a glare at the human cities in the distance. The only thing he could do, he decided in that moment, was to make them pay.

"Lucky there's such marvelous roads for this circuit," Konstantin mused as he eyed the newly-paved roads longingly from his balcony. He was not being dramatic when he concluded that the new Haense roads were quite literally the best thing that had ever happened to the Kongzem.

THE RIMETROLL EVENTLINE OVERVIEW A male Rimetroll. He is a little bit upset. For generations, the Rimetrolls have lived peacefully in the mountains of the Rimeveld. They are a unique breed of Trolls who long ago forsook violence, and instead lived as vegetarians in the frigid slopes of northern Almaris. All this was made possible thanks to an enchanted Totem Pole - a gift from early Almaris settlers - that allowed food to grow in a farm despite the Rimeveld's murderous cold. For centuries, they lived in the Rimeveld, forgotten by the rest of the world. They, in turn, became vegetarians, and forgot what it meant to fight, to kill, or to raid. They lived their days in blissful ignorance in the far north, rearing families and growing vegetables. Alas, in the first event of this Eventline, the Rimetroll's Totem Pole was destroyed, and with it their food source. Without a way to feed their families, Rimetrolls wandered into the nearby lands of Haense and Norland in search of food, and began reaping the human's farms, though they were too stupid to comprehend the damage they caused to the humans or why the humans opposed them with fire and steel. Now, as the Rimetrolls awake from their hibernation and grow desperate, they begin aggressive attacks on any and all farms on northern Almaris in a bid to feed their starving families. Though incredibly stupid and passive by nature, a few elder Trolls spur them on, knowing their race faces extinction if they do not act. As the Rimetrolls compete against the human realms for food, the consequence of lost raids weigh heavily on Haense and Norland; for every Troll raid they fail to propel - for every harvest lost - their lands succumb deeper to famine. And so, as the Rimetrolls attack from without and famine begins to rot the nations from within, a harsh struggle looms. How will the Eventline work generally? From the weekend of March 13th-14th onwards, the Rimetrolls will resume their struggle to feed themselves after waking from their hibernation. Whereas before they stole from the farms of Karosgrad and Elysium - and had lengthy interactions, both violent and passive, with their respective peoples - these new raids will increase in both strength and frequency, and hungry Trolls will range far beyond Karosgrad and Elysium. No farm in the north will be safe. Every week of the eventline from this starting point, an Update Post will be made to include important information such as the Troll's current strength, the raids lost by each nation that week, etc. Critically, these posts will note how much food each territory has lost that week, which will effect have badly they suffer from Famine as the Trolls trigger massive food shortages. Famine will be reflected in roleplay through Famine Events. What exactly are Rimetrolls? The Rimetrolls are - obviously - Trolls, but there are some major differences between them and normal Trolls. Rimetrolls are, by nature, extremely passive and friendly. They're not inherently violent, but when push comes to shove, they'll definitely fight. They're also incredibly stupid, and, as result, easily manipulated. For example, a Knight was able to prevent a raid on Haense by convicing the Troll he was in the wrong place. The Rimetrolls do, however, have certain abilities that can turn a scuffle in their favour: Size & Strength: The Rimetrolls are, at minimum, eleven feet tall and as wide as a boulder. As a result, they are incredibly physically powerful; Frost Breath: Rimetrolls are able to suck in air and exhale a massive cloud of sub-zero cold that freezes anything in its path for up to ten feet. Its so cold that it can freeze a human solid, but they'll melt soon after (if they aren't squashed before that); Throwing: Rimetrolls have disproportionately long arms. Paired with their strength, their capable of throwing projectiles with devastating strength, like a mobile artillery unit; Troll Roll: If a Rimetroll gains speed, they can tuck their arms and legs together and roll at incredible speed like a deadly ball, and squash anything in their path; Mobility: Rimetrolls can use their long arms, strength, and Troll-Roll to move incredibly quickly in snowy and mountainous terrain. However, in any other terrain, they move relatively slowly. They can only charge for a short-distance, and their Troll-Roll is likewise limited in distance except when used down a slope. What are Famine Events? Based on how many successful raids the Troll's carry out on a nation's farms will reflect which state of famine they are in. Based on this state, the nation will experience various side-events to reflect that state of famine. Generally speaking, these include (and these are just examples): Mild Famine: In this stage, the Trolls have only managed to take a little bit of food from a nation, but it is enough to have a tangible effect on the populace. To reflect this in roleplay, that nation can find themselves subject to ambient events such as: An influx of refugees and beggars; A crime spike; Infestations of rats and other rodents as they struggle to find waste to feed on; Protests against the government for the food shortage; Middling Famine: In this stage, the Trolls have generally succeeded in around half their raids on a nations farm. Based on this state, the nation will experience various side-events to reflect that state of famine, which can include stuff like: Riots over food and against governments for failing to repel the Troll threat; Fights breaking out between civilian groups over food; Wild, rabid animals dwelling the roads; Severe Famine: In this stage, the Trolls are succeeding in the majority of their raids on a nation's food supply, and this crisis will be reflected through significant roleplay events like: Peasant uprisings; Civilian attacks on the nation's farms and granaries; Outbreak of disease and illness from malnutrition; Groups of cannibals forming. How long will the Eventline last? This will be based entirely on the input of the nations involved. Generally speaking, it will probably last throughout March and April. How can I get involved? Currently, the nations involved are Haense and Norland, since they are the major northern territories. However, if you are a Lair or Settlement that operates out of the North Hub, you can send me a message on Discord to have your territory subjected to this eventline. Who are the ET involved? As of this post, we're putting together our Troll Team to run this eventline. You can contact any of these people about, who will be running these events over the next few weeks: me @JuliusAakerlund @Wizry @Burnsider @Limo_man @MonkeNotic Is it just fighting and famine? Nope. The Rimetrolls, as you'll see in the events, are not a bland race that exist purely to attack these nations. They are a fleshed out culture of monsters with their own customs, culture, and history, all of which can lead to a variety of non-combat events in this Eventline. For example, Elysium was able to convince some of these Trolls to protect the town in exchange for food rather than raid it, while Haeseni soldiers have visited the Troll stronghold in a bid to make peace and even made friends among them. So no, you can definitely expect a lot more other than just them coming to kill you. How can the Eventline end? As is normal for this kind of Eventline, there's a lot of ways it can conclude as the events happen and players interact with it. Generally speaking, there are two vague directions it can take: Troll Genocide: It's you or them. Wipe out the attacking Trolls in their entirely to prevent them from starving your nation to death. Restoration: Somehow, figure out how to rebuild the Troll's farm so that they no longer need to raid the human realms to survive. This involves lengthy non-violent interaction, and divulgences into Almaris' history as a whole.

A QUIETER ROAD @Gusano Puffing out a cloud of smoke, Konstantin Wick left the Church. As he stepped outside into Karosgrad's square, the twin banners that had been hung for his dear friend's funeral - Lauritz Christiansen's golden Kaldenic swan, paired by the Justiciar's crow - snapped in Konstantin's direction as the wind suddenly picked up. Even as he trudged across the square, his pipe smouldering in his mouth, the voices followed him from the Church. Konstantin had left before Lauritz's funeral had ended, but he did not feel particularly bad about it. Instead, he found himself ... pensive. There had, of course, been tears at the service, but there had also been laughter prompted by a new spirited kind of sermon. Konstantin did not mind, not really - he knew Lauritz would have wanted laughter at his funeral, but Konstantin could not consign himself to join in. As he mounted the steps leading to the Nikirala Palace, he paused, and glanced around as the late-evening sun slanted across the city. Though there was still a crowd thronged near the Church, merchants remained hawking at their stalls, craftsmen and burghers drifted to the tavern as the evening service ramped up, and a gaggle of children were playing on the street. "Life goes on," he murmured to himself as the soft wind picked up again, messying strands of his grey hair. He broke into a half-jog, then, into the Palace and to his wife's apartments. By the time he scurried back outside the Palace gate - breathless from his haste - the evening light had deepened, and the tolling of the Church bells echoed across the city. He had fetched his redwood lute from his wife's apartments - the same instrument he'd played since he first settled in New Reza - and he skirted around the Palace, taking the path to the Royal Gardens. The Gardens were blissfully quiet, as usual. The noise of the city was muted to a distant din as he set off down the Garden path, the gravel crunching underfoot, and the trees flanking the path swayed gently. He passed by the rows of statues erected along the path in honor of the Knights of the Lily, and it was when he arrived a face carved with face with an eyepatch that he stopped and sighed. "You would have liked the funeral," he muttered idly as he eased himself down, then reclined on the grass in front of the statue, with the Garden's stream trickling nearby. He knew it wasn't a grave, but he far preferred this over some graveyard. As the sun continued to sun, the light fading as it shone through the leaves around him, he leaned back to lie on the grass, propping his head on his hands. "Ahhh. You remember how we started?" His left hand began to pluck a few idle notes on the lute. "In a big city, a very long time ago, far away." When Konstantin had first settled in the Empire on Arcas, he was without friends. He was a Wick, and so the family he did have were ... eccentric. Lauritz had changed that, though; he had been the first Konstantin had called friend, and the first to really teach him much of anything. It was with Lauritz that Konstantin had began his grand legal career; it was with Lauritz he had formed the famous Christiansen-Wick Solicitors; it was with Lauritz that he had endured the House of Commons; and it was with Lauritz he had revolutionized the Haeseni legal system from scratch. Really, the old man had been there for most of the important parts of Konstantin's life. It felt truly odd to think that Lauritz was dead, now. He kept having to remind himself of the fact. "And look at how we finished," he murmured softly, staring up as a wispy cloud passed through the darkening sky. Now, he found himself in a new Haeseni city free from Oren, surrounded by baby-faced bureaucrats, and soldiers who had never seen war. A different world from the one he and Lauritz had grown up in. "Heheh. Do you remember our walks?" he asked, giving the lute a strum. He and Lauritz had often gone on walks, often when something monumental was about to happen. They had walked the outskirts of the Helena moat when he had first become President of the House of Commons; they had walked the smoke-hazed courtyard of Ekaterinburg after Koeng Sigismund's pyre when Konstantin had been thrust into the role of Palatine; and they had walked the New Reza Gardens beneath a murky, rainy sky when Konstantin was preparing to propose to his wife. He began to laugh, but it wasn't long before he trailed off wistfully. "Ah. I suppose you won't be good for walking anymore, now that you'd gone and died and all that." It was only as Konstantin cocked his head up did he realize his eyes had begun to water and blur his vision. "I'll ... I'll miss them." His voice had grown a touch shaky, too. "Godan, what's happening?" he grumbled to himself, laughing wearily as he threw his head back against the grass. Lauritz had died of old age - a natural death - and Konstantin had made his peace with it. Why was he suddenly tearing up, then? "You know," he said hoarsely, tears trickling down his cheeks as he continued to pluck notes on the lute. "I always considered you as ... as my brother." His laughter returned again, stronger than before and more suddenly like a cough, even as he continued to weep. "I'm sorry I never got to tell you that," he managed between breaths. Konstantin could not have said how long he lay there in the middle of the gardens, crying and laughing while playing on the lute, but by the time he stood, the deep burnt light of the sunset had been replaced by the pale light of the moon. It was only by telling himself that his wife would be wondering where he'd vanished that he managed to push himself to stand, and laid his own wrinkled hand on Lauritz's statue. "Thank you," he breathed softly, throat choking up again. "Brother." He would miss his walks with Lauritz. He knew that for a certainty as he began the slow trek out of the Gardens. Life went on, though, and Konstantin had no choice but to continue with it. In his eyes, life was just a little quieter now.

Konstantin drops down from the chandelier of Franz's bedroom, mouth agape.

Konstantin Wick pokes his head out of Franz's wardrobe, wondering what all the noise was.

HAESENI ZVAERDSA: SCHOOL OF THE WHISPER Foolish is the warrior who thinks that strength and size are paramount in combat. There is an enlightenment to those who dedicate themselves to the science of sword-fighting in the Haeseni style (Naumariav: Zvaerdsa). These learned warriors dedicate years to not only honing their body, but also their mind. Those learned in Zvaerdsa care not how large their opponent is, or how strong, for every enemy carries a weakness, be it an overextended swing or exhausting aggression. This text marks the first of its kind to grace Haeseni libraries for the purpose of mentoring future generations of Haeseni Knights and Squires, particularly those who do not use heavy weapons such as longswords and poleaxes. This Zvaerdsa, which I have named the School of the Whisper both in recognition of its lighter characteristics and my own moniker as a Knight, encompasses not only sword-forms and attack styles, but also breathing techniques to better a warrior's stamina and focus in combat. I pen this in the hopes of translating traditional Haeseni Zvaerdsa from custom into text, and to inspire my fellow Knights to do likewise so that we may one day build a true library of martial works. - Ser Aleksandr Hieromar Barbanov, the Whisper BREATHING FORMS An unlearned warrior might scoff at the notion that breath is important to combat, but in doing so he betrays his naivety. One of the greatest techniques the learned warrior wields is masterful and conscious control of their breath in combat, which serves both to maintain focus, conserve energy, and fortify balance. As such, Breathing Forms constitute a key aspect of the School of the Whisper. These Breathing Forms, each of them with their unique uses for different situations, require dozens of hours of practice to ingrain themselves in the mind of a warrior so that they will not instinctively lapse into uncontrolled panting in combat, and instead teach their bodies to constantly use these Breathing Forms. All these Forms require strong lungs, which in turn requires extensive training on the part of the warrior, and this training is often an arduous endeavor: I myself learned through submergence in the waters of the Karosgrad Gardens for as long as possible every day over the course of years. Concentration must then be drilled into the mind of the warrior once they have strengthened their lungs sufficiently, and they must expose themselves to pain or discomfort - such as standing on a bed of coals - and ignore the pain to exhibit these Breathing Forms. Breathing Form One: Four-Beat Breathing Overview: In combat, a warrior must not allow themselves to succumb to nerves and lose concentration. Instead, the sole focus of their entire being must be on their opponent, and an unsteady hand or reckless instinct can spell death. The first Breathing Form allows one to steel their nerves, quash fear, and achieve clear focus once again. It is salient for warrior's to use in stressful situations. Technique: Four-Beat Breathing is very simple, and is achieved simply by inhaling for four seconds, holding one's breath for four seconds, and then exhaling for four seconds. Inhaling must be done through the nose, and exhaling through the mouth. Use: Four-Beat Breathing is the School's standard Breathing Form, and should always be used by a warrior unless they find themselves in a situation which specifically requires the use of another Breathing Form. Breathing Form Two: Frayed Breathing Overview: Prolonged combat encounters can leave a warrior exhausted, and in such cases they will require more air than standard Four-Beat Breathing can provide. Frayed Breathing is thus useful for the conservation of energy when a warrior's stamina dangerously wanes, and when they wish to recover their breath and energy as quickly as possible. Frayed Breathing does, however, require the conscious use of both the mouth and nose simultaneously, and is therefore particularly tricky to master. Technique: Frayed Breathing requires a warrior to suck air deep into their chest, rather than just their diaphragm, as quickly as possible without resorting to panting. The warrior must then exhale using both their mouth and nose at the same time to quicken the process and allow them to draw deep breath once again. Use: This second Breathing Form should only be used as a last resort, when a warrior's strength is fading and they must preserve their stamina for as long as possible. Naturally, Frayed Breathing is most useful in drawn-out battles in which a warrior is offered little reprieve. Breathing Form Three: Brace Breathing Overview: If a warrior finds themselves facing a relentless flurry of strong blows, this will exact a toll of their body regardless of whether they deflect the enemy strike or absorb it with their armor. Brace Breathing steels the body in the moment before impact, allowing a warrior to keep their balance and focus to outlast an aggressive opponent. Technique: A warrior must first identify a pattern in their enemy's strikes, and time their landing. Just before impact, the warrior must draw a deep breath into their diaphragm and expand it as much as possible without breathing into their chest to strengthen their core and dampen the shock from enemy impact. Use: Brace Breathing is a defensive Breathing Form, and allows a warrior to remain firm in their footing until they find an opportunity to counterattack. It should be used when a warrior consistently finds themselves forced on the defensive during a fight, typically against a stronger or more skilled opponent. SWORD FORMS Combat is not unlike a language. The enemy raises their blade to strike, and the learned warrior must respond in turn to answer the strike appropriately. It becomes an exchange of forms; when an opponent attacks with the Roar Form, the learned warrior answers with the Deafen Form. Mere untrained instinct and blind swings, however strong, will serve only to render one vulnerable against the learned warrior who not only has perfected their own Sword Forms, but can recognize the forms and patterns of another and exploit the weaknesses that come with them. Thus, the School of the Whisper contains several Sword Forms to be utilized against opponents of all varieties to emerge victorious. Akin to the Breathing Forms, hundreds of hours of training are required to replace these rehearsed forms with reckless instinct that a panicked warrior will naturally resort to in a fight. Sword Form One: Echo Requires: This Form requires the use a bastard or longsword. Function: The Echo Form allows a warrior to stun their enemy and follow-up with a critical blow. Execution: The warrior must strike openly and forcefully at their opponent to bait them into parrying. When the enemy does parry, the warrior should press their blade against the enemy's in a clinch, and then, as the enemy begins to parry the warrior's blade to the side, they must thrust their hands forward to slam the pommel of their weapon into the enemy's face and stun them. The warrior should instantly transition into a more powerful swing at the enemy's vitals to capitalize on their disorientation. The Echo Form is versatile, as it is ideal as an aggressive opening attack or a counterattack against an enemy parry. Example: Sword Form Two: Hiss Requires: This Form requires the use of two weapons, one of which must be a dagger. Function: If executed correctly, the Hiss Form is a devastating disarming technique that can also maim opponents. Execution: The warrior must strike at their enemy with either a broadsword or shield, and force them to block it with their own weapon. Then, with the dagger in their own hand, the warrior must precisely slice at the enemy's fingers or wrists holding their weapon to incapacitate the hand and render them extremely vulnerable. If the enemy is wearing inadequate hand protection, the Hiss Form can easily slice off their fingers. Example: Sword Form Three: Deafen Requires: There are no specific requirements for this Form. Function: The Deafen Form is used against a shielded enemy to trip them to the ground. Execution: To execute this Form, a warrior must rush the enemy and feign a strike at their head in order to make them raise their shield to defend. In doing so, the enemy will place the shield over their face and temporarily block their vision. During this moment of blindness, the warrior must drop low and sweep the enemy's legs out from beneath them, or otherwise strike at them through the knee or foot. The warrior must build up momentum in their charge in order to sweep the legs, but if executed correctly, the shielded enemy will be tripped to the ground. Example: Sword Form Four: Sing Requires: This Form is incompatible with long weapons, such as longswords or polearms. Function: The Sing Form is hyper aggressive against opponents using heavy or long weapons and robs them of the strength and momentum required to use them. Execution: A Warrior must evade or deflect an initial strike from their enemy, before they press in to close the distance between themselves and the enemy. The enemy will naturally attempt to step back, but the warrior must doggedly follow and keep them in extremely close quarters to frustrate their attempts to draw back to gather momentum for their own strikes. Within such close quarters, the warrior will have the advantage with light, small weapons. The Sing Form is especially effective the warrior can use it to force their enemy against a wall. Example: Sword Form Five: Murmur Requires: A quick, light piercing weapon is required for this Form. Function: The Murmur Form is used to withstand aggressive or armored opponents and slowly weaken them through bloodloss. Execution: The warrior should familiarize themselves with the opponent's pattern of attacks, and use quick footwork to maintain enough distance to deflect and evade strikes until a window to strike can be identified. With this window, the warrior must strike at a weak point in their opponent's armor - the forearm will be the easiest to reach, but if possible, a blow to the armpit is far more effective. Once the opponent is bleeding, the warrior continues to evade their strikes until bloodloss weakens them enough for the warrior to assume the offensive and overpower them. Example: Sword Form Six: Chant Requires: There are no specific requirements for this Form. Function: Chant is a somewhat niche Form which can be used when the warrior does not have firm footing, but otherwise should not be used. Execution: If a warrior finds themselves with insecure or no footing - should as when in the air, on ice, or underwater - they must twist their entire body with their blade outstretch and draw strength from the momentum of their turn, allowing them to slash a wide, circular arc to strike anything nearby or ward off opponents. Example: Sword Form Seven: Roar Requires: The Roar Form requires a shield or strong buckler. Function: Similar to the Sing Form, the Roar Form is hyper-aggressive through the use of a shield to constantly maintain the offensive and overpower opponents. Execution: With a strong shield to absorb strikes, a warrior can raise their shield and charge their opponent to force them back or throw them off balance. The warrior must maintain a continual charge and thrust to prevent the enemy from coordinating an attack of their own, and, similar to the Sing Form, can be particularly effective if the shield can be used to push the enemy against a wall. Continual shield thrusts to the head will eventually concuss an opponent, after which they can be finished off, if they are not thrown to the ground by the shield's force beforehand. Example: Sword Form Eight: Whisper Requires: There are no specific requirements for this Form. Function: The Whisper Form is a last-resort method to land a mortal blow on an enemy at the cost of a grievous injury to oneself. Execution: When a warrior is certain they cannot beat their opponent through conventional forms and they cannot disengaged, they can deliberately allow the opponent's blade to impale a part of their body. Ideally, this should by the arm. When the enemy's blade is sheathed in their arm, the warrior must withstand the pain and take the opportunity to strike at an opponent's vital region while they cannot move their own sword. Example:

MEMOIRS OF A SILENT KNIGHT VOLUME II: I DID NOT LOVE HER Ser Aleksandr Hieromar, the Whisper Knight, and his elder sister Nataliya. These are the memoirs of Ser Aleksandr, a Knight of Haense sworn under a Vow of Silence. They are not published. Characters mentioned are @MotherLay @ColdestPepsi @Flapman @Zaerie @Gusano@doreebear@CaptainHaense Read Volume I, on why Aleksandr took his Vow, here. Music: I never had much mind for love. Not like my siblings, at least. Sometimes I think my little brother Franz may have been born just to love and marry; he always had that social disposition, his odd charm, and not to mention the cohort of damsels he surrounded himself with growing up. I always teased him about that, but I suppose he took it for jealousy. It would be a reasonable conclusion, though ultimately inaccurate. I'm quite sure what it is that makes Franz and I different in that regard; often, when I would sulk in the corners at feasts and balls, he would try to coerce me into dancing with someone, or try to figure out which maiden I had taken a liking to. There never was any maiden, though. I never seemed to share the feelings Franz had. My other siblings didn't share my lack of concern for love - as far as I know, anyway. Josef wed that Baruch girl at a young age, and while I'm not really sure if he ever had feelings for anything besides food, their marriage at least seemed amicable. It was political, of course, brokered by my mother and Konstantin Wick when we were just children, but I can't help but wonder if they grew affectionate towards each other despite that. I wish I had gotten a chance to ask him - ask him that, and so much more. Then Nataliya, of course, sealed her fate in her pursuit of love - she got herself disowned, stripped of her title as Prinzenas Royale - for wanting to marry the Queen's brother. She made that sacrifice, though, and I think she made it happily. To accept that ... it leaves me feeling bittersweet. She left her family name behind and moved far away to have a family with the man she loved. I am, of course, happy that she has found happiness and overcome her curse, but a small part of me cannot help but wish she still lived here in Haense with me. I miss her so. Then there is Juliya. Like Josef, she had a more formal marriage, and was betrothed and wed to the Lord Fiske Vanir. She seems happy, though I find it hard to tell. When we meet, she often drops idle complaints about where her husband has gotten off to, or why he was not around to dance when the music started They're so minor that I dismissed them as jokes at first, but I've begun to wonder if she is not so happy after all. She smiles all the time, of course, but I think Juliya would smile in the face of Iblees. Then she lost her firstborn child. Even if I could speak to ask her about, I am not sure if I would. Would she take offense? Would it be too sorrowful to speak of? The last thing I would want to do would be to offend her. She has a child now, happy and healthy. Still, I think I must one day ask her whether she is happy in her marriage. Lastly, there is my twin Stefan. I wonder if he found love on his travels. I wish he would return home, or even write to tell us he is not dead. Of course, we are children of royalty, and marriage is no simple affair. My father King Sigismund allowed his sisters to marry freely out of love in his time, but my mother and Josef regressed to traditional political marriages. That makes sense, of course. That is how favor is maintained and loyalty built. Most of us were betrothed from a young age -- even me. It was some Helvets girl, though her name escapes me all these years later. I do, however, distinctly remember that Franz, Stefan and I called her Rat Girl because she kept a rodent as a pet. My mother called off the betrothal when I was nine, though, and had only met her once. To this day, I'm not quite sure why she ended it - at the time, I think I was just grateful I would not have to marry a girl with a pet rat. I wonder where she is now. From that point, neither love nor marriage were a feature of my life. My mother retired from public life, and Josef became the King of Haense proper when he turned fourteen. Those years feel like a grim blur, when I was hardly worth remark. I was just a gaunt, stuttering Prince with nothing to offer and nothing to do. It was as I came into my later teenage years that the notion of knighthood cemented itself in my head, and I pursued it vigorously for the years that followed, so much so that I did practically nothing else. I have no friends to show for my time, and most certainly, no love. I do have my knightly title, though - I succeeded, and became Ser Aleksandr the Whisper after I swore my Vow of Silence. However, then came Marcella Barclay. We had met a few times before, when we were both much younger. It shames me to say that I mocked her at our first meeting - during our Oath Hunt to join the H.R.A. - but she had her revenge when she trounced me in a tournament in the tavern. After that, our sole interaction was in the form of sneers and begrudging looks. I did not see her many years after that, and I soon forgot about her as I dedicated myself wholly to becoming a Knight. Then, not long after my dubbing, Duke Friedrich Barclay - the Lord Marshal of the H.R.A. - approached me. Supposedly, he had been struggling to arrange a marriage for his sister, owing to both the fact that there were not many bachelors of age in Haense at the time, and because she herself supposedly refused most matches. Lo and behold, his sister was Marcella Barclay, and she had reluctantly agreed to consider me for courting. I was, needless to say, rather stunned at first. Why on earth would she agree to that? I was, however, a grown man now. I considered it from a wholly political point of view; it was my duty as a Prince to continue the lineage of my House, and the House of Barclay was a very good match indeed who had long been overdue a royal match. I accepted the Duke's offer. Marcella and I began to meet after that, and we reacquainted ourselves. She was no longer the arrogant, reckless young girl who had charged a bear during our Oath Hunt over ten years ago. No, she was a grown woman herself now. She was as sharp as a blade and worked under my uncle Konstantin as Deputy Palatine, and though I was never attracted to the appearance of others, she was ... pleasant to behold. I was tense, at first, while she was blissfully carefree. She laughed at me when I asked about dowries and the formalities of betrothal, and when I brought up such with her brother Duke Friedrich, Marcella took off swimming into the lake to avoid it. She could not have cared less about it. We spoke - well, she spoke, I waved my hands - of the world, and places we would like to visit - we agreed to one day visit the Halflings together. She told me of 'beach parties' that were held at Reinmar, where they wore bizarre flowery shirts. She promised to make me one, even, and invited me to one of these parties. Of course, I would never attend one. Marcella is gone, now. Shortly after she succeeded my uncle as Palatine, she abruptly resigned. There was no official missive from the government, no statement on her departure. Word from House Barclay was that she had decided she was too young to be Palatine, and went travelling. No one seemed to know the truth of it. She left me a letter, though, slid under my door when I returned from sparring one day. Aleksandr - I'm afraid that our adventure to the Halflings will have to wait. I've come to realize a few things about the world, and would like to see more of it, and more of myself. Recently, I noticed that I was unhappy," she wrote, "I felt quite hollow. I've never taken a moment to think about myself as a person, only my future projects or what work I was going to do. Never stopping like that only results in wrinkly old women that have nothing to show for their lives but some empty accomplishments that go in history books. History books don't write what you enjoyed or what type of person you actually were; they don't write if you stargazed, or taught your niece to swim; they don't show anything beneath the surface, and I don't want to live my life as a person in a history book." It was of no concern to me. Or, at least, that was what I told myself. Why should it matter? I had agreed to the betrothal based on pure politics, on my duty to the House of Barbanov-Bihar and as a courtesy to the House of Barclay. Her letter ended with these final lines: "I'm sorry that I kept my judgment from when we were younger. I should've seen the growth and noticed that perhaps you weren't the same anymore. That'll forever be my fault and I regret that I waited so long to see it. I'll avoid the Halfling village on my travels -- I'd still like to go there with you when I get back." I did not love her. If there was one thing young Aleksandr knew back when he sulked and spoke to no one but his brother, it was that he - that I - had no need for love. The same is true to this day; my goal is become a true Knight with the power to root out dishonor, cruelty, and malice within Haense, and I have no need of a marriage, and I most certainly had no need of love. At least, that was what I told myself. I realized that night it was a lie when I sat hunched over my desk and - to my great surprise - found tears welling in my eyes. For the life of me, I do not know why. Still, I know I did not love her, and I am resolute in knowing that my duty and my destiny has need of neither love nor marriage. Even so, a small part of me could not help but long for the kind of companionship I had started to believe she would bring. I swore a Vow of Silence to never speak again, and I have precious few I consider friends besides Franz, Nataliya, and Juliya. But I cannot speak to them, and they have their own lives to lead: Franz is married now, with a horde of children, and besides from that he is a Knight himself and is running for his fourth term as Maer of Karosgrad; Nataliya, too, is married with children of her own, and she lives all the way in Providence; and Juliya is no different, and has her own family to attend to. I think, deep down, I wanted someone who could perhaps understand me despite my silence, and someone who could be there for me in those dark nights when my apartments of the Nikirala Palace are so very silent. I did not love her, but I cannot help but wonder if I might have grown to. My mind keeps asking that question, but there is no point in dwelling on it. She is gone, and I have my own destiny to follow. I know that, yet I find myself lying awake these nights, staring at the ceiling. I suppose this feeling is loneliness. I do not think, though, that I have suddenly become lonely now that Marcella has gone. Rather, I think I was always lonely, and she merely reminded me of that fact. She taunted me with a possible cure to that loneliness, and when that cure vanished I was left all too aware of the loneliness I had become numb to. It is like a cripple who had lived his life without the use of his legs since birth - by the time he is a grown man, he has no idea what it is like to have functioning legs, and his entire reality is based off the use of his broken ones. But then, one day, a doctor tells him an exciting new development in medicine might restore use of his legs. He grows excited, and his minds rushes with all the possibilities, only to find out that the medicine will not work. He loses nothing, for he has long since learned to live without legs, but he feels their loss ever so painfully. I did not love her. That is what I must believe if I am to numben myself once again.

MEMOIRS OF A SILENT KNIGHT Ser Aleksandr Hieromar Barbanov, the 'Whisper'. VOLUME I My mamej once told me that our family was cursed. Cursed by some old Scyfling, supposedly. I've no mind to give credence to anything supernatural, but looking back at the lives of my parents and siblings, I can't deny the hardships that have befell each of my us. My father - King Sigismund - took his own life when I was just an infant, and my mother preferred to be a soldier rather than parent; my brother Josef gluttoned himself to an early grave, while dear Nataliya was disowned in her pursuit of love; my own twin Stefan has been away travelling for so long that I'm certain that he's met some ill fate, and little Franz still claims he can see and speak to the ghosts of the dead. For a time, I thought sweet Juliya had escaped this curse, but then she birthed a dead child. As for myself, I was born with a broken voice. I could not complete a sentence without spiralling into incomprehensible stutters. To this day, I don't understand the ailment; for others, words flow as tranquil as a river, but my own words knot my tongue. It did not do for the child of a King, especially when it molded me into a recluse who sulked in corners at feasts and balls. Ultimately, I was not worthy of the bloodline I was - for better or worse - born into. So, I trained to become a Knight, though I lacked any gift for arms or warfare. In hindsight, I think it was the romanticism that lured him; the notion of some great warrior, chosen by Godan, who devoted their entire lives to helping the weak and powerless. Surely then, I had told myself, I would redeem myself in the eyes of the world; I would turn from a frail, stuttering third-born child to a decorated Knight, worthy of my father's House. I even found what I thought to be a cure to my stutter - on the eve of my Dubbing, I swore a Vow of Silence before a priest, and since then I have spoken just once to a single person. Despite my inadequacy, I persevered, and was knighted as Ser Aleksandr Hieromar, and, because of my Vow of Silence, I took 'the Whisper' as my moniker. I sit here now in the Karosgrad Tavern, writing these memoirs, having maintained my silence for nearly five years now. My Vow of Silence allowed me to hide my stutter, and, without having to speak and show my ailment, I became confident, and stronger in spirit. I recognize now, though, that this does not come without cost; there are few in this world that I love, and practically none I call friend, but these past years I've been unable to say a word to neither Franz, nor Nataliya, nor Juliya. I did not even speak to my mother the last time I saw her alive. Still, I kept to my Vow. Many have asked me - from Franz, to the Ruthern boy who watched me train in the square just the other day - why I took this Vow. Even if I could speak, I very much doubt I could answer. At first, it was to hide my broken speech - my greatest weakness. It succeeded, but hiding a problem does not fix it. Though, then again, nothing can fix it, so this Vow is a good as solution as any. I would like to claim that another reason was to prove my dedication and chivalry to Godan, but the truth is that I was trying to prove it to everyone around me rather than Him. I wanted people to look at me in admiration of the burden I had assumed in my pursuit of knighthood, and I wanted their respect. I thought it would make me stand out from the other Knights, to be worthy of the second glances I never received in the halls of Ekaterinburg, and to build my own mythos. 'The Whisper', I told myself at night with reverence, 'an icon of Haeseni honour'. Years later, I can see now how it was antithetical to seek honour by doing something as brash as swearing never to speak again purely for the recognition and respect of others. Deep down, I think I knew that at the time, but I justified it for what I think was a much larger reason. I had nothing to say. My sole drive in life was to push out of the shadow of my stutter and inadequacy, and earn my place proudly among my family as a Knight. A Knight did not need to say anything; they merely need to live by their Code of Chivalry, and obey the will of the King and Godan. What tripe. Not long after becoming a Knight, I realized that it was laughable to think life as a Knight could be lived so simply. I trained my entire life and devoted nigh every waking hour to call myself a Knight, and to champion the virtues that all men and women should live by. It was to be both my redeeming burden and rewarding blessing. Despite the training we undergo, I soon learned that the Knight I idolized in my childhood - that chivalric champion I aspired to become with every fiber of my being - does not exist. He cannot exist. This is what I realized the other day when my nephew - King Heinrik - had the Knight Paramount whip a woman who neglected to stand when he entered the room. I desperately wanted to say something, to lessen the girl's punishment for an offence so trivial, yet what could I do? I am bound to act with unquestionable honour, but also obey the King. When the King commands dishonour, what is a Knight to do? It was then that I realized I did have something to say. It was then that I realized if I lived by that prior belief that all a Knight needed to do was follow the commands of those above, then he cannot truly be a Knight. A soldier, or executioner, perhaps, but not a Knight; not what a Knight should be in my eyes, at least, that being someone who represents what a true and honourable man or woman should be, someone who lives not just for themselves, but for the betterment of others, and not only endures this dark and wretched world, but make it better. As it is, I have come too far. I refuse to accept this ... simplicity. So how can a voiceless Prince become a true Knight in a world like this? I don't know. I suspect no one does. But that does not mean the answer does not exist, and I will find it. For now at least, all I can do is to be the model of chivalry and honour myself, even if I am yet to understand what that truly means, or if it can even exist. To that extent, my Vow of Silence will help. In the absence of speaking and interacting with the world as others do, it has given my a perspective and insight that I think most lack. An understanding - an enlightenment, almost. All my life has led to becoming a Knight - all that hardship, that curse, I endured alongside Franz, Juliya and Nataliya. It has tempered me like heat tempers a fresh sword, and I very much suspect the others would say the same. It is because of that endurance that I will not - I cannot - consign myself to be being this half-knight. With that comes the recognition that the Knight's Code of Chivalry is contradictory in acting with honour, and following the absolute will of the King and Godan, for Kings can be fools, and Godan is silent. Though I will keep my Vow for now, I have found my voice, and I will embody it in these memoirs. I hope to write many of these volumes, not only to record my life, but to note my experiences that will pave my path forward. One day, for better or worse, others may find these pages, for these pages will be my voice. These pages will be my shout. These pages will be my roar.

" ... now the Emperor won't let them marry!" Ser Aleksandr Barbanov - the Whisper Knight - overheard the scandal from gossiping courtiers as he trudged his way through the Royal Gardens to the training grounds. It was the first week of Jula and Piov, and the winter's frigid cold had finally yielded to clear skies and a warmthless sun, so the gardens were thronged with Haeseni who had been stuck indoors for most of the winter. As Aleks made his way to the training grounds, his dark, shaggy hair swaying in the chill wind, he heard the tragedy of Margaux from more than one gaggle of nobles. When he finally arrived at the training grounds, leaving the gossiping courtiers behind him, he found his gloved hand shaking as he reached for the arming sword sheathed at his belt, and when he glanced to a puddle at his feet left by yesterday's rainfall, his eyes were narrowed into a glare. At the bitter wind picked up, swaying the trees around him, Aleks recalled his own family's tales of love and woe, from Nataliya, to Juliya, to Alexandria. He had seen this kind of thing time and time again among his own, and he had never seen it end well. What a wretched man, the silent Knight thought grimly to himself as he pulled his sword out. His hands were still now, and his face statuesque once again.

remove 2nd row of hearts

Konstantin Wick: GONE FISHING “... the road wandered to moonside, then morning again …” Konstantin Wick sang softly to himself as he worked. His voice was a low, untuned murmur, and his only music was the scratching of his quill as he wrote. His stage was his office, cramped and dimly-lit in the evening’s fading light, and his audience were heaps of paper, half-finished notes and unread letters, haphazardly stacked up on his desk. “... she wound through the day, over field ‘n through fen …” He trailed off, and found himself squinting at the words on the page in front of him. When did it get so dark? He had started his work penning this report at noon, when the light was bright and pale, but that had felt like it was just ten minutes ago. As he craned his neck to look at the windows behind him, he found the deep, golden light of sunset slanting through his office, casting deep shadows. He grimaced; it had become a bad habit of his, losing track of time like that. “... and then with the stars, fled to heaven again ...” Sighing, he lazily pushed back in his chair and stood. The motion disturbed one of the stacks of paper, and sent them sprawling to the floor, but he paid the mess no more than a dismissive glance as he stepped over it - he would have the Barclay girl clean it up later. He scooped up the lantern left on a bookshelf adjacent to his desk, and then cursed under his breath when he realized there was no oil left. “... but her stones did not falter, and nor did they fade …” He continued his muttered song as he stepped over the fallen paper, and trudged to the far side of his office where he kept his spare oil. At his balcony, though, he paused; here, the open balcony faced directly into the setting sun, and Konstantin had to squint through the intense golden light as the sun slowly sank into the Karosgrad rooftops. A soft, brisk wind blew softly through the opening into his office, carrying with it the distant din of voices and laughter from the city outside. “... the path did not balk, through sun, rain, nor shade …” Despite the burnished light of the sun, the frigid Haeseni air made Konstantin’s hairs stand on end as he stepped out onto the balcony. Still squinting, he made his way to the balustrade at the edge of the rooftop, which afforded him a birds’ view of the red city that spanned out before him in every direction. “... ever forward she led, and ne’er she strayed …” He sagged against the balustrade, head resting on his forearms, as he watched the city below. In the sunset, half of Karosgrad was cast in deep shadow, and half in that burnt orange light. The strength of Konstantin’s eyes had long since begun to fade, but if he squinted, he could still make out the shapes of townsfolk thronging the streets. Craftsmen drew the shutters of their workshops, dots of torchlight began to dapple the darkened red-stone buildings, and people flocked to the Old Stout Crow Pub in the city’s square. Konstantin even thought he heard the sound of a bard’s lute resonate from the tavern - that only made him frown, though; naturally, no other Haeseni bard was remarkable compared to Konstantin Wick. As the laughter of children echoed from the square, he found himself heaving a deep sigh. “ … yet no road runs forever, not even she …” Perhaps it was his choice of song, or perhaps sight of the city beneath him, but he was suddenly beset with a strange feeling of nostalgia. He could not quite describe it. He raised his hands into the sunlight. He was an older man now - nearing his sixtieth birthday - and yet he was still surprised at his wrinkles. Had they always been so, and he had just never stopped to notice? He supposed that would be just like him. He did not only lose track of time when working in his office. It always seemed to happen. “ … though the mountains she crossed, and the forests, and sea …” His voice had grown hoarse as he absent mindedly continued the song. Though time had become a blur to him, he was not oblivious to its effects. He remembered a meeting, many years, in New Reza where he had appointed the Aulic Court’s first Jovenaar. It had been a mundane meeting, no different from any other, but he explicitly remembered something he had said: in our line of work, we do not live for ourselves. To an uninformed ear, the statement rang pitifully, but not so to Konstantin. “ … but she knows she’ll ne’er sit in the shade of her tree …” It had been thirty-one - no, thirty-two - years now that Konstantin had served as Lord Palatine, and seven of those years had been as Lord Regent while Haense had been rocked by the death of King Sigismund. All at once, it felt like a lifetime ago, and it felt like it had happened this morning. He found himself laughing mirthlessly at the notion, before the laugh transitioned into a raspy coughing fit. It took him nearly a minute to calm down, and suck in the cold evening air to settle his lungs. His years of heavy smoking were, it seemed, beginning to catch up with him. “ … t’was for others she laboured, and others she loved …” He fished his redwood pipe out of his pocket. Even since those nasty cigarettes had become popular, he had kept this pipe with him through the decades. A puff from it had always settled his temper, it had always strengthened his resolve, and it always gave him the spur he needed to keep working, to keep building his dream of Haense. His other hand froze as it reached towards the tobacco pouch on his belt, and he found himself staring absently at the pipe instead. “ … and thus she’d plant her seed, and watch from above …” As he stared at the pipe without blinking, another meeting - this one more recent - crossed his mind. He remembered asking his assistant - the Barclay girl - why she had agreed to work under him, and tolerate his infamous eccentricities. To make Haense a better place, had been her answer, and to help all those who live here however I can. At first, he had dismissed it as a boring, naive answer, the same kind of response he would get had he asked any old fool on the street. Now, though, he was not so sure it had been a bad answer. A simple one, but perhaps the drive to work to make the lives of others better could not be captured in words alone. Had I been any different when I first started on this path? He asked himself. Had my desire been so simple? “ … with no choice but to believe what she had done was enough.” No, that’s a lie. When Konstantin had first begun his path to become Lord Palatine, his motives had been selfish. He had wanted fame, he had wanted respect and recognition, both for himself and for the mired name of Wick. But only at first. That had all changed when he had met Princess Alexandria Barbanov, his wife. It was only then that his motive had become to build a better Haense, and to make the lives of the Haeseni people better however he could. All his selfish motives had melted away then, like snow in the Sutican sun. “One day, her stones grew brittle, and her gravel weak …” His eyes drifted back to the city once again. The light was fading now as the sun slowly dipped beneath Karosgrad’s crimson walls, and the shadows stretched longer, and the dots of lantern light multiplied. A better Haense … In the fleeing sun, he spotted a duo of Crow Knights marching their way down Crown Avenue, the golden crow painted on their breastplates gleaming even from this distance. He could see Brandt Barclay milling about the Golden Crow Bank on the square’s corner, putting up fresh notices on his trading board, and a few moments later a score of young men and women - students, he thought - filed past him, circling around a cloaked Jurist. “ … and she could nay look back on all she wreaked …” A better Haense. Yes. From the reformation of Knighthood, to the Haurul Caezk, to the Aulic Edict, to the Golden Crow Bank … Yes, he was confident he had achieved that simple desire as best he could. Then, a more unsettling thought skittered across his mind: why am I still here, then? He certainly did not have a plan, no goals nor roadmap to speak of. On the other hand, he had never really had a plan throughout his career at all - he had simply just done things as they popped into his head. Yet, as he stood on his office’s balcony, something felt … different from before when he had worked through his various projects. He was not quite sure what it was, but he did not like the feeling. “ … and found that … found …” He stopped singing. Am I just waiting to die? His fist closed on his pipe, smashing it in his hands, and he suddenly bellowed a hearty laugh. Waiting to die, when he had still yet to live a life for himself? That was ridiculous. He spared one last glance from the city below him as the last of the sunset light - which was nearly red, now - shone on the city. He smiled softly at what he saw, and then tossed the smashed remains of the pipe over the balcony. Konstantin dashed back into his office, then, and threw open the little cupboard behind his desk. Inside lay two items, both fashioned from pure gold. The first was his Snailula One trophy, and the other was the Golden Bulava - an intricately decorated mace - that served as the badge-of-office for the Lord Palatine. Konstantin hefted the heavy Bulava on his shoulder, grunting under its weight, before he threw open the door of his office, and took off at a sprint through the corridor. He must have looked quite a sight, running past startled courtiers and servants with a golden mace on his shoulder, but Konstantin did not spare them a thought. When he finally arrived at the doors of his apartments, he was wheezing deep breaths through his toothy grin. Inside, he found his wife - Alexandria. She seemed to have fallen asleep at the parlour table, wrapped in fur blankets, a book propped open in front of her. When Konstantin barged in, she bolted upright, wide-eyes snapping to him. “Konstantin! Has something -” “Would you like to go fishing?” he stammered over her. “I -” he paused, swallowing to wet his throat. “I promised I would take you fishing.” She lofted a surprised eyebrow. “Fishing? It’s dark out, Konstantin! Besides, that promise was years ago.” His smile twitched wider. “I have time now.” Then, a mischievous gleam crossed her eyes, and she mirrored his smile. The next morning, as the Highland sun rose over Karosgrad, its pale light glinted against the Golden Bulava. The mace was left carefully leaning against the doorway of King Heinrik’s bedroom, with a short note tied to its shaft. ‘Gone fishing.’

RIMETROLL EVENTLINE: THE LAST TO REMEMBER The Rimeveld, Northern Almaris The frozen earth of the Farm crunched under Bido's heavy footsteps. The Rimetrolls - the huge, fat creatures that had inhabited the Rimeveld in northern Almaris for centuries - were an old tribe, and even for a Rimetroll, Bido was old. He was one of the few old enough to remember a time where the Rimetrolls were not peaceful vegetarians; a time where they had not spent their days in blissful peace in the Rimeveld, with nothing to do other than raise their families and waste their days with sleep and games. He remembered a time before the Farm; before they had had an ample source of food, when they had needed to fight, slaughter, steal, and kill for their food. No crop could grow in the Rimeveld, not with the intense cold that quickly killed any creature that was not a Rimetroll. That was why, centuries ago, they had been forced to fight and steal food from the civilizations to the south. They could never have migrated to the south themselves; no, they were Rimetrolls - they were monsters, to be feared and killed. So their way of life had been to raid the farms of Descendants - or warmies, as the Rimetrolls called them - in the fertile lands of southern Almaris, and then retreat to their mountainous home in the Rimeveld. They had been a war-like race, then, who lived purely to kill others so that they could survive. But then they had been given the Farm. It had been a gift from one of the lands to the south that the Rimetrolls had raided - a totem pole, with strange faces intricately carved up its wooden length - that had been imbued with some kind of magic from that land, a magic that Bido - nor any other Rimetroll - had no hope of comprehending. But it had worked; when they had planted the Totem up in the Rimeveld, it had caused the inhospitable cold to abate around a small area, and filled the soil with life and allowed the Rimetrolls to grow their food. That had become their saving grace; no longer did they need to venture south and raid. With the Farm, they had quickly lost their ways of warfare. They had stopped eating meat, and eventually, many Rimetrolls forgot how to even fight in the first place. That was so long ago. Now, Bido was one of barely half-a-dozen Rimetrolls old enough to remember a time before the Farm. The Rimetrolls of today did not even knew what death really was, much less what it meant to kill another. Violence had been completely erased from their memory after centuries of peace and happiness. After all, why recall the horrors of war in a world where there was no concern but to raise your family? To love your mate and your children? Bido was glad that was what the Rimetroll people had become; they were no longer monsters, no longer feared nor hunted by the Descendants to the south. They were friendly to a fault, and mostly forgotten by the world anyway. Sometimes when a wayward Descendant found themselves lost in the Rimeveld and slowly succumbing to the cold, the Rimetrolls helped them; they gave them warmth, and food, and returned them back south to safety. They had forgotten violence, but Bido had not. The Farm - the source of the Rimetrolls' peace and happiness - had been burnt by Descendants some months ago now. As the snow spiralled down in a strangely calm wind, Bido stared ahead on him at the burnt husk of the Totem in the Farm's centre. It had been set ablaze by Descendants, and its magic destroyed; as a result, it no longer warded off the cold, and it had murdered the Rimetrolls' sole source of food, and their sole source of peace. The worst part was that Bido did not know why - he did not know why the Descendants had torched the heart of his people. And now, his people starved, and they barely understood what was happening, stupid as Rimetrolls were. They had ventured down south cautiously, and some of the Descendants down there had given them food, but Bido knew it would not last. He sighed deeply, his heavy breath seeping out in mist. Then, he glanced up in surprise when he saw a round shape shift at the foot of the burnt Totem. "Cob?" Bido called huskily. Cob - a younger Troll, with decorated paper talismans hanging from his curved horns - looked up in surprise. A goofy smile split his furry face as he waved a broad paw at Bido in greeting. "Bido! Hi!" he grunted cheerily. "What you doing?" Bido asked, narrowing his eyes at the younger Troll. Cob seemed to have several misshapen planks of rotted wood stuffed under his arms. "Oh, this?" Cob's smile widened as he brandished the wood. "Cob trying to fix Totem!" The wind briefly picked up, sending the snowfall into a flurry, as Bido sighed once again. "No fix, Cob. It broken." "Hruh? You sure?" Cob asked, scratching his chin with a long, grey-furred arm. "Me think if we just give Totem new wood -" "It broken, Cob," Bido cut him off with more anger than he intended, his fists balled at his side. Most of the other Trolls did not understand what magic even was, nevermind that it was the reason their Farm had been able to produce food so far north. "Oh." The planks clattered from Cob's arms to the dead soil as his smile faded. "... But...why it broken?" he asked meekly. "Warmies," Bido grunted through grit teeth as he glared at the burnt totem. The blackened faces of the wood stared back at him as the wind continued to pick up, whipping snow into his face. "They break it, Cob." "Warmies? Hruh. Guma say he meet warmies, and that they not so bad. Why warmies destroy Farm?" Bido's fists were clenched so hard that they had begun to hurt. He closed his eyes, then, and sucked in a slow breath. Cob, nor any of the other Trolls, did not understand. They did not know what violence was, and it was unfathomable for them to think that Descendants might try to harm them. It was unfathomable for them to think that anyone would want to harm anyone, for they were too young to remember what life had been like for the Rimetrolls before they had been blessed with the Farm. But Bido remembered. "Because warmies," Bido began, opening his eyes once again and unballing his fists, "are bad, Cob." "Bad?" Cob said, his face blank. "Like Yetis?" "Worse than Yetis." That produced a small gasp from Cob, but it was clear from his dull eyes that he did not really understand what Bido was saying. "But... what we do for eats, Bido? Me not has lots of food for cub, and me lady barely have any food at all." Bido glanced into Cob's eyes, then. It was clear the younger Troll didn't understand why anyone would want to harm them, but the worry was obvious in those eyes. Bido could not bear to stare into them for longer than a moment before he averted his gaze with a hiss. "You no worry, Cob," he said, gritting his jaw as he slowly turned back towards the Farm's exit. "Me ... me know a way to get food again." He did not need to look to know that Cob's face had lit up at that, and he heard the younger Troll clap his hands gleefully as he bounced from foot to foot. "You do!? Ahhh! You amazing, Bido! You smart!" "No, not smart," Bido said as he stomped out of the farm. He wasn't smart; he just remembered how Rimetrolls survived before the Farm. And so, he knew how they could survive once again.