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A Summons to Duel TRIAL OF THE CARROT Issued by THE CARROT On this 9th day of Vzmey and Hyff of 456 E.S. VERILY, Let it be known for before all the realms of Aaun and Haense that I, Vanhart - born to the House of Alstreim and wed to the House of Barclay - do call upon His Highness, Prince James Leopold of Aaun, to face me in combat, as agreed, to prove his worthiness to take the hand of my daughter - the Lady Edith Barclay - in marriage. Verily, though a Prince may have liegemen and banners to call upon, a man is worth nothing if he cannot defend that which is most precious with his own blade. The blessing of this union must be won in strength of arms as a measure of this suitor's honour and integrity. Let all who seek to witness this duel be welcome in the Duchy of Reinmar this coming summer, where we shall do battle. Let it be known -- I shall not part with my daughter lightly. VANHART 'THE CARROT' v. JAMES LEOPOLD ALSTION Reinmar Saturday, December 17, 12EST/5GMT PM

THE BLACK BANNER: THE SUCCESSORS' WAR HAENSE, URGUAN, BALIAN v. OREN, KRUGMAR, HAELUN'OR, ELYSIUM 431 - 434 E.S. | 1878 - 1881 A.H. VICTORY Battle of the Light Purse (431 E.S. | 1878 A.H.) - Stalemate Storming of Daeland (433 E.S. | 1880 A.H.) - Victory Battle of Acre (433 E.S. | 1880 A.H.) - Major Victory Battle of Red Snow (434 E.S. | 1881 A.H.) - Victory SEE THE FULL BLACK BANNER, THE COMPLETE MILITARY HISTORY OF THE KONGZEM OF HAENSE, HERE. _________________________ The Successors' War was christened so because it mainly featured the heirs of King Sigismund III and Emperor Philip III as a direct sequel to the Sinners' War. The years that followed the Peace of Eastfleet, which brought an end to the 19-year-long Sinners' War, brought many changes: in Haense, King Karl III took the throne after his father fell ill and died in an honour duel against Ser Walton the Wall; after a Thanhium blast destroyed her capital, Princess Renata de Savoie dissolved the declining Principality of Savoy; the Elven tribes of Celia'nor, Nor'aseth, Fenn, and Elvenesse (later renamed Amathea) formed the High Principality of Malinor, and set their sights on uniting all Elves under their banner either peacefully or otherwise; and the Orcs of Krugmar briefly grew influential after they vassalized the High Elves of Haelun'or, who feared attack by Malinor, and invaded the Kingdom of Elysium, but they soon found themselves trapped in a doomed war against Vytrek Tundrak, High Prince of Malinor. The most substantial change of the period was the dissolution of the Holy Orenian Empire through a final decree - the text of which has been mysteriously lost - in the will of the late Emperor Philip III and Empress Anastasia I, who sought to reform Oren as a Kingdom under the rule of their third-born son, Frederick. The same decree also ceded the Grenz region of north-western Oren to the scions of the late Manfred of Arichsdorf, who created the independent Crown of Westfall. This monumental edict deeply divided Orenian society, and was contested with steel by the Emperor's first-born, Peter, who was prepared to neither sacrifice his lawful throne nor Oren's imperial status. The viscous Brothers' War followed, which, after a bloody climactic battle in the streets of Providence, ended in the consolidation of the Kingdom of Oren under King Frederick I and the creation of the Grand Duchy of Balian by the exiled supporters of the short-lived Emperor Peter IV under Grand Duke John Casimir. "Them two king's be gettin' ready to swing. I can feels it in me bones." - Billy Barnmallow, a farmer of Honeyhill Both King Karl of Haense and King Frederick of Oren were ambitious young men, and wary of one another. The scars of the Sinners' War ran deep, as many in Oren and Westfall, which remained administratively dependent on Frederick's court after the chaos of the Brothers' War, remained bitter about the cessation of the Upper Grenz to Haense in the Peace of Eastfleet, while King Karl's nobility and council reckoned Frederick was a power-hungry kinslayer and prospective warmongerer. Geopolitics hinted at their eventual confrontation as the two monarchs kept a close eye on the island of Karinah'siol - the home of the High Elves of Haelun'r - off Almaris' eastern coast. In the hands of a military nation, the island was immensely strategically valuable for controlling the eastern sea corridor, and with the High Elves' overlords - the Horde of Krugmar - occupied fighting Malinor far to the west, the island had never been more vulnerable. While King Karl and King Frederick courted Al'Borok, the Rex of Krugmar, to convince him to sell the island, Grand King Bakir Ireheart of Urguan was about to complicate matters. The Dwarven warrior-king had grown bored and belligerent since the end of the Sinners' War, and so he leapt at the prospect of action when it came in the autumn of 431 E.S. | 1878 A.H. after his kin, Balor Ireheart, and his companions were killed after an honour duel had gone askew while visiting Krugmar. Mere hours after the news reached the underrealm, Grand King Bakir marched a retaliatory force of 2,700 Dwarves westward from Kal'Darakaan, and negotiations ensued when they reached Krugmar two evenings later. The Horde expressed a genuine desire to make amends, and the reason was clear: they were losing badly to the Elves of Malinor after their invasion of Elysium had backfired, and they had recently suffered a devastating defeat at the Battle of Mount Karimir. Warring another major power would spell their doom. Despite this, they could not afford the 11,000 mina the Dwarves demanded as recompense, and the Grand King brooked no compromise -- he ordered an attack. The ensuing Battle of the Light Purse was a brief affair, as the tired Orcs engaged the Urguani encirclement for less than an hour before pulling back to their stronghold and resorting to bombardment from their walls. Without the means nor patience for a siege, Grand King Bakir withdrew as night fell. Swallowing his hunger for battle, he begrdugingly marched back home to Urguan to avoid being trapped in the west by the coming winter snows, but he made sure to leave the corpses of slain Orcs as road-markers on his way back. Once back in Ka'Darakaan, Grand King Bakir issued a new ultimatum to Krugmar demanding 7,500 mina, the heads of Balor's killers, a tribute of Orcish leather, and the purging of all Azdrazi, the draconic cultists of Azdromoth rumoured to reside in the volcanoes of Krugmar. It was at this interval that the machinations of Urguan and Krugmar in the west collided with the plans of Haense and Oren in the east. King Karl stood on the verge of striking a deal with Rex Al'Borok to cede Haelun'or in return for sorely-needed funds for his war against Malinor, but the new Urguani threat delayed the agreement. The Orcish Rex called out to all former nations of the Tripartite Accord for aid, but to little avail: Haense was unprepared to alienate Urguan, its closest allies, and the Kingdom of Norland and the Vale of Nevaehlen lacked the strength to act without Haense. King Karl stomached his fury at the Dwarven King for his antics, and arranged a peace conference in his capital of Karosgrad to resolve the matter. As he would soon learn when the conference was attended by a goblin messenger who told the Dwarven and Haeseni kings to suck his toes, the damage had been done; for all Haense's careful planning, the rift caused by Urguan created an opportunity for the Kingdo of Oren. King Frederick not only offered Krugmar payment, but also he promised to broker peace with Malinor - his close ally - and join Krugmar in a war against Urguan. It was, without any doubt, a better deal, and both Haense and Urguan were rightfully alarmed that Oren's intervention to defend Krugmar could lead to a punitive invasion of Urguan and a repeat of the Sinners' War. Forced to act quickly before the Rex could accept the Orenian deal, King Karl and Grand King Bakir declared a joint war on Krugmar with Haelun'or as their first target. "Bah, 'tis like my papej used to say. What Dwarves lack in brains, they certainly do niet compensate for in height." - Utvand of Karosgrad, B.S.K. footman Haense and Urguan did not act alone. While Nevaehlen and Norland, disdaindul of Grand King Bakir's wanton aggression in the last decade, refused to join a second Tripartite Accord, the Grand Duchy of Balian was both eager to make its military debut and mitigate King Frederick's gains as revenge for the Brothers' War. Together, Haense, Urguan, and Balian formed the Eastern Almaris Treaty Organisation, and championed the "Azdrazi purge" as their primary justification for invading Haelun'or (as a territory of Krugmar). This rational found little favour internationally, and even many Haeseni doubted the presence of Azdrazi on Haelun'or. It was, for all intents and purposes, a hasty excuse relied upon by Haense and Balian to launch their invasion before Oren could intervene. Their haste, however, was not rewarded: in the summer of 432 E.S. | 1879 A.H., Krugmar officially ceded the island of Haelun'or to the Kingdom of Oren in the Peace of Vienne. Consequently, the land that the Eastern Treaty was preparing to invade was now a part of Oren, not Krugmar, and King Frederick hoped that this political maneuver would intimidate the Eastern Treaty into relenting. This led to a deadly game of chicken as Oren rechristened Haelun'or as "Fi'Halen" and declared that both the island and Krugmar had been purged of Azdrazi. With Fi'Halen now under the rule of a Canonist monarch, the Canonist Church warned the Eastern Treaty - namely, Haense and Balian - to abandon their planned invasion of Haelun'or in order to avoid a war between Canondom. This gave the Eastern Treaty pause - although the Holy Orenian Empire had been soundly defeated by the Haeseni-Urguani alliance twenty years ago, many other members of that alliance were now missing, and, though the Kingdom of Oren had lost many old Houses in the Brothers' War, it was strengthened by a new generation of martially-minded leaders in King Frederick's court. In particular, Oren had found a powerful vassal in the levies of the Barony of Acre under Lords Gustaf and Hannes de Villain, who were competent and charismatic commanders. If the Eastern Treaty backed down, it would permanently damage their political prestige and cement Oren as the chief power on Almaris, not only through their intimidation of the Eastern Treaty, but also by militarising the Haelun'orian island. No steel had yet been drawn against Oren, but King Karl and King Frederick were far too deep into a battle of political wills to turn back. Regardless, the pleas of the Church still placed King Karl in a particularly difficult position - he had inherited the title of Fidei Defensor from his father, and the reigning High Pontiff Tylos II - previously known as Klaus Barclay - was a Haenseman and the former Court Chaplain, which prompted many in Haense to question if the war was a righteous cause. "Isn't it a little too south for an Eastern Treaty?" - Ordys Sivarrin, N.G.S. Cartographer King Karl eventually resolved to see the war through, as turning back now would relegate Haense into a toothless secondary power. King Frederick, surprised at Haense's perseverance, quickly began to bolster his own forces, and a second non-physical battle ensued between the Haeseni and Orenian kings to hire the services of Almaris' two primary mercenary companies, the Ferrymen Band and the Blackvale Vrijkorps, with Haense employing the former and Oren the latter. While Norland and Nevaehlen could not be convinced to join the war, Matyas Baruch - Lord Envoy of Haense - scored an essential diplomatic victory by ensuring they would not join Oren. As tensions mounted and armies mobilised, the Grand Duchy of Balian found a chance to assert itself in the south, where the fledgling factions of Hyspia and Daeland met with the Grand Duchy to ensure that neither of them supported Oren and created tension in the south. Daeland, however, refused to acquiesce to the wishes of Balian and Hyspia. Although only a minor power, the Eastern Treaty was not prepared to stand idle when it looked as if Daeland intended to pledge its banners to Oren -- in the Storming of Daeland in 433 E.S. | 1880 A.H., an Eastern Treaty strikeforce overwhelmed the southern settlement and captured the Piast of Daeland, Casimir Kovaceski. He was brought back to Karosgrad, where he remained under house-arrest for the duration of the war after vowing Daeland would not assist Oren. After a final warning to desist in the upcoming war was issued by Oren and rejected by Haense, King Frederick formally consolidated his allies and formed the United Sovereign States of Almaris, consisting of the Kingdom of Oren, the Horde of Krugmar, the Kingdom of Elysium, and, of course, the High Elves of Fi'Halen. Additionally, the Crown of Westfall pledged its banners to King Frederick, but the short-lived independent Grenzi nation had withered into complete obscurity since the disappearance of Wilhelm van Aert, and had effectively been re-absorbed into the Kingdom of Oren. After over a year of politics and posturing, the first, and most significant, incident of the Successors' War came in the late-spring of 433 E.S. | 1880 A.H. The Romstuns, ferocious bannermen of the Haeseni House of Baruch, captured a noble of the Orenian House of Komnenos and took him to Karosgrad as a hostage, where a ransom was issued to King Frederick. For the first time, the feuding monarchs answered not in words, but with steel, and Oren called the forces of the Sovereign States to his capital of Vienne to march on Haense and answer the insult of capturing his vassal, and so too did the Eastern Treaty gather in Haense. Under the command of Lord Hannes of Acre, the Orenian-led forces sent a rider across the Haeseni border, who brokered an agreement that the two forces would meet in the field and do honourable battle. Thus began the Battle of Acre, where months of vitriol and threats would finally be put to the test. Night came and went as the Eastern Treaty and Sovereign State forces manoeuvred around the north-eastern Orenian border, positioning themselves strategically like pieces on a chessbord, before the Eastern Treaty finally rushed Lord Hannes' army at his home of Acre just after sunrise. The advance caught the Sovereign State in the middle of shifting position, and isolated their cavalry on a cliff while the bulk of the Eastern Treaty forces crashed into the unsuspecting Sovereign State infantry. The Eastern Treaty had some one-thousand more soldiers than the Sovereign States, and even then the Dwarves, Haeseni, and mercenaries were far more experienced in battle than the non-militant High Elves and Elysians bolstering the Orenian and Orcish frontlines. By midday, over-extended Sovereign State lines crumbled, and they sustained enormous losses disengaging. Not only was this a critical victory that proved the Eastern Treaty's strength to the world amidst enormous uncertain as to whether Haense or Oren was the stronger nation, but both the lords Hannes and Gustaf de Vilain of Acre were captured and taken to Karosgrad, where King Karl released Gustaf in exchange for keeping Hannes under house-arrest in Haense, robbing Oren of an important military commander for the remainder of the war. Adding even further to Oren's loss, the Blackvale Vrijkorps nullified their contract and exited the war. "Does that High Elf know he's holding that pike upside down?" - Fergle of Acre, Orenian Levyman Not all was well for Haense, though, and the war was far from over. In a final bid for peace, High Pontiff Tylos II summoned King Karl, King Frederick, and Grand Duke John Casimir for negotiations, where it was established that, while the Eastern Treaty would not forego the planned invasion of Fi'Halen, the Canonist nations would not engage in any raids or battles against each other until the invasion proper. This was an infamous diplomatic blunder on the part of Haense and Balian, and the Eastern Treaty forces were initially outraged - they had long-since held the momentum in the war, and a pledge not to raid Oren utterly destroyed that. King Karl and Grand Duke John quickly issued a statement reneging on the agreement, claiming that the High Pontiff had twisted their words and intentions. Even today, it was unclear what went wrong. Some accounts indicate that the Lady Palatine of Haense, Isabel Baruch, had consented to the ceasefire unwittingly, while others believe that Haense and Balian were forced to break the agreement due to backlash within the Eastern Treaty. Irrespective, the consequences of the ordeal remained the same - High Pontiff Tylos, entirely alienated, stripped King Karl of the title of Fidei Defensor and, while lamenting on how it had been twisted by political prestige, dissolved it. A second boost to Orenian morale followed just weeks later when an Orenian raiding party was dumbstruck to come across Grand King Bakir Ireheart idly walking the roads of Urguan alone. Upon his capture, King Frederick promptly urged the Grand Kingdom of Urguan to withdraw from the Eastern Treaty in return for the life of their Grand King, but the Dwarven Senate famously stated "this changes nothing" and, whether out of commitment to the war effort or content to let the Grand King suffer for his own mistakes, the rest of the Eastern Treaty remained steadfast as plans continued to construct siege-ships and assemble supplies and forces to besiege Haelun'or, which had proven to be a colossal logistical endeavour. The Orenian morale quickly plummeted once again when the Battle of Red Snow ended in disaster for the sovereign States; Targoth Zahgori of Krugmar led a warband of 2,500 that plundered Haeseni villages en route to Karosgrad, but they were trapped and slaughtered at the Haeseni capital by the defence of Lord Marshal Hieran Melphaestus and incoming Eastern Treaty reinforcements. A second blow to the Sovereign States came later in 434 E.S. | 1881 A.H. when the Romstun bannermen added another hostage to the roster of Piast Casimir and Baron Hannes when scouting the roads of Elysium -- Ellathor Vanari, Lord Commander of Queen Leika de Astrea of Elysium's modest army. In contrast with Grand King Bakir's capture, Haense successfully leveraged Lord Ellathor to secure peace with Elysium, as the Elysians were not a militaristic people, already tired from the recent Elysian War, and most Elysians were of the opinion that their nation had no business fighting this. Queen Leika had joined the Sovereign States in order to endear Elysium to Oren, but paired with dissatisfaction amongst her realm and Oren's growing losses, Elysium withdrew from the Sovereign States in the Treaty of Crow and Fox, and signed a defensive alliance with Haense to protect from Orenian or Orcish retaliation. "The Church scorned, the path to power lined with human corpses ... how could the Fidei Defensor do this?" - Prior Ostvan, Karosgrad Monastery Things continued to fall in favour of the Eastern Treaty as summer passed, continuing with Grand King Bakir's liberation from Orenian captivity by the Romstun warriors and a turncloak of Frederick's court. While the traitor's identity remains obscured to history, the Orenian court and army - the Petrine Legion - was rife with disenfranchisement after their military and diplomatic losses to the Eastern Treaty. What had started as an optimistic and clever political play had devolved into a disaster: Oren's raids were overrun with raiders and their harvests had suffered from razed farms, driving droves of refugees to Vienne; Elysium had withdrawn, Krugmar's strength was entirely spent from entering the Successors' War immediately after the Elysian War, and the High Elves had no military prowess in the first place; Westfall had effectively ceased to exist, and Malinor and Nevaehlen refused to join the war. Growing tensions in Oren finally erupted when Gustaf de Vilain, Baron of Acre, declared that he was withdrawing from the war without the blessings of his King. This sedition amounted to open rebellion against King Frederick, and utterly destabilised Oren, especially when Haense released Lord Hannes de Vilain as a show of good faith and implied support of the Acrean rebellion. Faced with an insurrection from his largest vassal and his allies waned and withered, King Frederick was left with no choice but to concede the war against the Eastern Treaty. By the end of 434 E.S. | 1881 A.H., the Kingdom of Oren, the Kongzem of Haense, the Grand Kingdom of Urguan, the Grand Duchy of Balian, and the Horde of Krugmar had officially concluded the Successors' War in favour of the Eastern Treaty. The High Elven island was yielded to Haense, and though the High Elves themselves had no say in the matter, they were gifted 5,000 mina to relocate. Additionally, the United Sovereign States of Almaris was dissolved, and a memorial bench was constructed in Vienne depicting Grand King Bakir and Emperor Philip III holding hands (the two were long-theorised to be lovers). Through a series of dangerous gambles, Haense and her allies triumphed in the Successors' War, which acted as the hammer to the Sinners' War's nail -- it achieved the second major consecutive victory and gained a vital strategic stronghold on Haelun'or, where it would later settle Hyspian vassals. If Oren had been cracked by the Sinners' War, the Successors' War shattered it as King Frederick was left crippled by rebellion. In the ensuing Harvest War, the rebelling Barony of Acre would defeat King Frederick and dissolve the Kingdom of Oren after his death. This victory, however important, had not come without risk nor consequence - historians readily agree that Haense could have ended up facing a dire defeat if some events had gone even slightly differently (such as Nevaehlen and Malinor's neutrality, or Urguan's commitment to the war despite their Grand King's capture). King Karl had lost the title of Fidei Defensor, a prestigious title of deep symbolic importance from the Sinners' War, and earned himself a much more aggressive and warlike reputation than many of his predessecors which would act as both a boon and burden throughout the rest of his reign. Though victorious, not all in Haense were content, especially due to the feud with the Church (particularly the Waldenians of Reinmar). Yet, at the end of the day, none can deny the Successors' War was a phenomenal victory that cemented the Kongzem of Haense as Almaris' strongest nation for decades to come.

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SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER IX: THE SONS OF KARL A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen Chapter IV: Soul & Sword Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules Chapter VII: A Pact of Glass Chapter VIII: Dules Besieged The Siege of Dules, the focal point for the struggle to control all Ruska, nears its conclusion. In the Electors Palace, Josef Tideborn - captain of the Stagbreaker mercenaries employed in the city's defence - consults with Lady Yaina, one of the few Electors of Dules who is of a mind to help him. In the Nzechovich siege camp, Vladrik and Szitibor Nzechovich contend that the Karovic must be forced to reveal the plan they risked everything on by coming to Dules. In the ships of the Karovic fleet moored on the riverbanks south of Dules, the Karovic Princes - the Elder Prince Barbov and the Younger Prince Kosav - reflect on the heavy burdens thrust upon them since the Coup of Lahy and the death of their father, and Prince Barbov struggles with the choices he must inevitably make to become the King of Ruska. Music - Play & Loop All At the very least, the Siege of Dules had not been boring. As Josef Tideborn stared down absently at the painstakingly-detailed map of Dules spread across the desk, he reflected on past sieges in his decades as a mercenary; most of them had very little actual fighting, and instead left defenders squatting inside their walls, underfed and with gloomy thoughts slowly crippling their will as the days passed as slowly as months. Sitting in a squalid, disease-ridden encampment for months on end on the attacking side was not much better, either. It was no wonder that most mercenaries, the Stagbreaker Company among them, avoided siege contracts with a ten-foot pike. In contrast, the Trade-City of Dules had only been under siege for barely over a month, and since the Karovic fleet arrived from Mejen twenty-two days ago and struck their little deal with Vladrik Nzechovich, the city had been attacked daily. It made for a much more exciting affair, and a fitting way to mark Josef’s final war. Or, at least, it would be an exciting way … if we had much hope of winning. At that moment, Josef stood not on the walls amidst battle, but in one of the ornate offices of the Electors of Dules where every stitch of furniture was dark hardwood or shining marble and nearly every edge decorated with gold leaf. The tick of a grandfather clock replaced the ceaseless din of screams and clashing steel, and the only thing that burnt here were the logs in the marble fireplace, not sails, ships, and corpses. In peaceful moments like these, it was Josef’s own mind that was besieged. A hope of winning … is it really time to turncloak? Mercenaries were no strangers to distasteful tactics to secure not only their lives, but their payment, but Josef’s jaw clenched stubbornly at the prospect. If this is my last war, is that really how I went to go out? Dragan and I’s legacy will be … winning a siege by treachery. The idea of winning this war for Dules against seemingly impossible odds seemed like too good of a legacy for Josef to pass up, and yet he had weighed up every possible option, and the chances of surviving the combined Nzechovich and Karovic onslaught grew more slim by the day. A loud tap brought his attention back to the table as slender fingers moved one of many marble figurines to a specific spot on the harbour wall. “And now they’ve even attacked the refuse gate.” It was difficult to believe that the dainty fingers moving those marble figurines, representing armies and bloody clashes, belonged to the young woman with plump cheeks, youthful eyes, and brown curls on the other side of the desk. Lady Yaina Zeravozch was the youngest of the Electors of Dules, apparently after the untimely death of three seniors in the wealthy Zeravozch family, which had controlled Dules’ Dyers’ Guild, but perhaps it was because of her youth that Josef found her much more tolerable than her peers. The other Electors, most of them wrinkled and completely inexperienced at war, tried to ignore Josef and the war outside their Palace - their war - but not Yaina; Yaina had asked Josef for private reports of each and every battle, the status of the walls and their defence each day, and Josef was happy to deliver. At least she cares about her city. The only problem was that the Electors of Dules ruled the city as a council, and Yaina could do little to help Josef on her own. “Ai, my lady. It was not cheap to have a dozen men sit in the refuse tunnel for the last three weeks.” His eyes drifted to the marble figure Yaina had just placed over a tiny label on the north-western edge of the harbour wall, marked ‘refuse gate’. It was barely big enough for a grown man to crouch in, but Josef had placed a token guard down there just in case. “I’m glad it paid off.” Just before dawn that morning, a stinking messenger from that token guard reported they had just fended off a crew of Karovic soldiers trying to sneak into the city. “Still, I have to admire Prince Barbov’s commitment. Most royals wouldn’t lower themselves to attacking through the sewers.” Yaina snorted, though calculating eyes did not leave the map. “Barbov? No, you had the right gauge of him. I’d bet the entire city trying the refuse gate was not his idea. I’d wager it was Kosav’s doing instead.” “What makes you say that, my lady?” Josef arched cautiously with an arched eyebrow. It was not the first time he had noticed the young Elector speak of the Karovic Princes with a sense of familiarity. Yaina’s eyes flit up from the map, meeting Josef’s. “You don’t know much of the Princes, do you, Tideborn?” Josef shrugged indifferently. “The last time I spent longer than half-a-year in Ruska, King Karl had made his peace with the Nzechovich. After that, I spent the better part of fifteen years fighting on the Waldor, but most folk spoke fondly of old Karl. Didn’t hear much of anything about his runts.” Yaina pursed her lips. “I was tutored at the Royal Court in Lahy. Granted, we were only children, but I find it hard to believe the Princes have changed much.” Josef smiled faintly. “That so?” The politics and history of royals and rulers had never interested him a great deal, but he was in the thick of it now, and if Yaina could tell him something that might allow Josef to understand and predict his enemy … well, he was certainly not going to say no to that. Yaina nodded, her eyes glazed in thought. “Barbov was well and truly the son of King Karl - belligerent, demanding, and prideful, redeemed only by brutish charisma. History remembers King Karl as a wise and fair ruler, but it was more than obvious from within Lahy Castle that all of Ruska’s prosperity came from the White Sage.” “The White Sage?” Josef baulked a laugh. “What, he had a wizard in his pocket?” Yaina didn’t seem to share his amusement. When she spoke again, it was with admiration. “Not a wizard - his brother, Prince Diedrik. It was he who told Karl where to swing his hammer, where to show mercy, and how to unite Ruska.” “So why didn’t this White Sage just become King himself?” Yaina sighed as she stared down at the marble figures marking the Karovic fleet moored along the banks of the Lower Huns River south of Dules. “The Palace chaplain used to say that God did not make perfect men. For all his merits, I’d say Prince Diedrik lacked the heart to overthrow his own brother. He was eventually exiled, either self-imposed or by his brother, after they feuded over a woman, of all things. They say that was the moment King Karl began to die." “Hmph. God does have a way of making sure things are never easy.” Like this bloody siege, he added to himself. Everything would have worked perfectly if the Nzechovich and the Karovic had just fought each other like I planned. His eyes flit to the encirclement of black marble figures around the city representing the Nzechovich siege lines - they were over three times as numerous as the Karovic. “It seems to be a curse in the Karovic dynasty, though. Barbov is the brute who wears the crown, but his younger brother is the one with the brains.” “Prince Kosav? Hmph. I heard he’s as gaunt as a stick, and too weak to hold a sword.” Yaina smirked fondly in recollection. “Well, he’s no warrior, but he’s not sickly either. He was my … friend, back when I studied in Lahy. While the other young lords always had their heads filled with notions about becoming great Bogatyrs and conquering the known world, Kosav was one of the only ones who really cared … anything else, really. I actually thought I might end up marrying him one day.” “You speak warmly of a man who is doing everything he can to take this city.” Her smile slowly faded. “That’s hardly unusual. War often turns kin against each other.” “True enough, as long as you are prepared to kill him,” Josef bristled. “If you knew these Princes personally, tell me this, then, Lady. Why are they here?” Yaina narrowed her eyes. “What is that supposed to mean? They’re here to take Dules to regain their father’s throne.” “Naturally.” Josef’s eyes flicked between the Karovic fleet, and the much larger Nzechovich army. “But why here, and now? Their army is smaller than both ours and the Nzechovich, and while they may have reached a deal with Vladrik Nzechovich for now, I can’t see how it benefits them. As soon as the city is in his clutches, Vladrik will kill them. They must know that.” Yaina shifted uncomfortably. “I … have been wondering the same.” “So, why would the Karovic put themselves in this position?” Josef pondered, before his eyes drifted back to the refuse gate. “As of this morning, they’ve tried to infiltrate every one of Dules’ gates and weaknesses. There’s nothing else they can do, which means …” Yaina Zeravozch “ … they are out of options!” “Conventional ones, at least,” Szitibor added with a frown. It was on his way back from another failed assault on Dules’ gates that one of the Nzech watchmen had reported the Karovic attempt to sneak through the city’s refuse tunnel earlier that morning, only to be met with a garrison of Stagbreakers. “So, was that their big plan? The refuse tunnel? No, surely not … though, it is fitting for Prince Piggy Barbov.” Vladrik Nzechovich chuckled into his cup as he lounged back in his high-backed chair. A tent it might have been, but Szitibor felt widely out of place among the lavish furnishings and rich banners and tapestries in his bloodstained cloak and armour. Vladrik, of course, with his chainmail vest unlaced and his face freshly shaven, had not yet taken to the frontlines himself. “Perhaps we should focus on our problems first, cousin,” Szitibor said stiffly. “That Waldenian monster practically cut down the fourteenth banner single-handedly during our assault this morning.” “Hm?” Vladrik glanced up from his cup, as if he had not really noticed Szitibor until now. “You mean Dragan Skullsplitter?” Szitibor grit his teeth. “Yes. I’ve been telling you, he’s been cutting swathes through us. We can’t keep attacking the gates while he’s leading the defence; we’re losing scores of our own, and I can see no sign of the defenders growing tired.” “Yes, well, don’t fret too much,” Vladrik muttered tersely. “We still have plenty of troops to spare.” “Then why aren’t we using them? Why are you restricting me to only three banners of troops to attack the walls while Dragan Skullsplitter cleaves a hole through us every time?” “Damn it, Szitty, would you think?” Vladrik rapped his knuckles on his forehead. “It’s the Karovic! You said it yourself that day when we met the damned Princes - they have some kind of plan. They wouldn’t have deliberately walked into the bear’s den and put themselves between us and Dules otherwise.” Szitibor blinked. “I don’t -” “They’ve tried to use every hidden gate and weakness the city seems to have,” Vladrik went on. “Even we didn’t know about some of these gates, but seems like it doesn’t matter. Good ol'e Josef Tideborn has been two steps ahead of them every time. He’s covered up every weakness, every nook and cranny.” Szitibor had to stop himself from raising his voice. “And Dragan Skullsplitter is two steps ahead of us at the city gates. What’s your point, cousin?” “We’ve been waiting all these weeks to see what trick they were going to try pull, to see why they risked coming to Dules and putting themselves at our mercy, and I don’t believe it was to try sneak in any of these gates.” Vladrik tapped a finger pensively on the rim of his cup. "We keep a healthy stockpile of troops in our camp so we're ready for whatever trick they have up their sleeve. And, besides, it's no harm letting them whittle down the harbour defences in the meantime." “So, what?” Szitibor unconsciously flexed his hand on his sword-grip. He had little patience for whatever games the Karovic, the Electors, or even Vladrik were playing -- his sole priority was to save his sister from the mess he had landed her in. I can’t lose sight of that. “It means, dear Szitty, that if the Karovic do have this plan that they were willing to stake everything on, then …” Szitibor Nzechovich “ … we have to do it now, brother!” From the foggy window in the ship’s cabin, Barbov Karovic stared out into the churning, grey waters of the Lower Huns River. He sat uncomfortably in a suit of fine chainmail that had not a speck of blood nor chip on it -- despite his base instinct, he accepted he could not waltz out onto the frontlines himself. As much as I’d like to. At the very least, it would make for some stress relief. But no, instead he remained cooped up safely behind his armies, with the weight of the world on his shoulders. “We have to put the plan into motion now, brother,” Kosav repeated. His younger brother was the only person in the cabin of one of the ships that Barbov had taken for his study, though there was no decoration besides a plain desk, a rug, and some chairs. Kosav wore a look of pained urgency on his gaunt face, and his mop of dark hair was strewn from the wind. In a way, Barbov felt strangely proud to see his brother like this; back in Lahy, his eyes always wore a flat, lazy gaze, and he seemed to look down his nose as if he couldn’t understand the way everyone else behaved. He’s changed a lot since the Coup of Lahy, since we were driven out of the nest. As a cloud passed overhead, Barbov saw his own wide-eyed expression reflected in the window. Have I? “Brother?” “I heard you, Kosav,” Barbov said at last, and he could hear the deflation in his voice. It wasn’t like him, that softness, but when he was alone with Kosav were the only moments where he did not have to layer his voice, and his composure, with strength and authority - it was those moments where he did not have to pretend that everything was going according to plan, and that he was the true King of Ruska that would deliver his followers to salvation. Kosav’s face seemed to be a battleground of doubt and determination as he locked eyes with his brother. “Can … you give the order then, brother? We must play our hand now before we lose too many more soldiers at the harbour.” “Must we?” He looked at the sword laid on the table in his bejewelled sheath inlaid with silver vines - Svetjlast, the blade of Raevir kings that had been wielded as a mark of absolute authority by Nzechovich and Karovic kings alike. On the night of the Coup of Lahy, Barbov had commanded his scant forces make a push into his father’s reliquary to retrieve it, and that had nearly spelled his doom. One of his father’s Bogatyrs - Lorszan - had died to fulfil that request. It had seemed so important to Barbov at the time, but as he eyed Svetjlast now, he found it hard to believe he had chosen that path, and whether Lorszan had been content to sacrifice himself so that Barbov could hold a piece of metal. How could he be? “Must we?” Kosav repeated with a knit brow. “What’s that supposed to mean? We have no other choice, Barbov. We’ve tried to fight our way into the harbour, we’ve tried every gate and weakness this city has, but the Stagbreakers aren’t letting their guard down. We’re out of options.” “I can think of another option. We could die.” Kosav narrowed his eyes. “What?” Barbov was not quite sure where the words came from; he did not think as he spoke. “We’ve come this far. We escaped Lahy, we rallied an army in Osyenia, we won at Mejen, and we came to Dules. Maybe … maybe this is as far as we can go.” “Are … you drunk?” Kosav’s voice was an incredulous whisper. “What are you saying?! We - we can go further, brother! We can win at Dules!” “And then what? Our army grows larger, and the stakes grow higher? Then, next time we’re gambling with fifty-thousand lives instead of ten?” Kosav dropped into a chair across from Barbov, his shoulders slumped and his face haggard. “Where is this coming from, Barbov?” “I … don’t think I can do this, Kosav, not anymore.” His own voice dropped to a whisper. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand those eyes.” “E-eyes?” Barbov nodded as he stared at Svetjlast, unseeing. “The eyes of the living, who trust us with their lives to bring them to victory as if you and I know the first thing about real war, the eyes of those who silently need to know that their sacrifice will be worth it, that we’re not just two kids who are going to get them killed without any meaning … and the eyes of the dead are there, too.” His eyes, watery now, slid to his brother. “Tell me, Kosav, do you feel him? Do you feel father, watching, judging?” “ … No,” Kosav sighed after a moment. “I don’t, but you always were father’s favourite.” “Well, I do. I can feel him watching, all the time, even now … watching to see if I do the Karovic dynasty proud, if I do right by our bloodline, if I continue the work that our forefathers gave their lives for … if the sons of King Karl are worthy of their name.” “So, what, you’re worried father will scold you in the Skies if you don’t live up to his expectations?” “It’s not just him. It’s … it’s everyone who’s died for us. I can feel Lorszan watching to see if it was worth giving his life to deliver me Svetjlast, and all the others who died giving their lives to get me and you out of Lahy Castle safely because they thought I was their rightful king … I can feel Miliv and the dead from Mejen, who were cut down from behind instead of dying in honourable battle, each and everyone wondering whether dying like that was a price they were willing to pay for me to win the throne back … but …” his voice became a scarce breath. “How can it, Kosav? How can any of that be worth it?” “Barbov …” Kosav began weakly as he placed a hand on his shoulder, but he paused, struggling for words. “No, Kosav, how … how can we live up to that? How can we possibly make any of their sacrifices worth it?" “I … I don’t …” “That’s why maybe it’s just easier … for us to go out here, at Dules, with honour. We can die fighting the Nzechovich for our throne with honour, like father would have wanted, and stop this madness before we have a chance to throw any more lives away. We can do right by the Karovic dynasty, and - and just …” Kosav’s hand tightened around his shoulder. “ … No. If that’s what haunts you, then you can’t stop now. ” The waves crashed noisily against the hull as Barbov turned his head to face his brother. “From the Coup of Lahy, to the Battle of Mejen, to the siege we’re fighting right now -- so many have already died, brother. They’ve already made their sacrifice, and everyone still following us is prepared to do the same. We can’t just … let that go, Barbov. We can’t turn back now, and we can’t give up either.” Barbov closed his eyes on warm tears. “I know that, but those eyes are just … crushing, Kosav. I don’t know how I can keep going. I just … lack the strength.” His brother’s hand squeezed his shoulder tighter. “Then find it, brother. We’re the sons of Karl, and we chose this path when we raised our banners at Osyenia. We cannot turn back now, for the sake of everyone who died believing in us -- in you. So, whether it’s in the end of a bottle, some pretty girl’s smile, or the spirit of a King, find the strength, and keep pretending to be Barbov the Strong until we have won.” “Where do you find it, then? Your strength?” In all his life, Barbov had never heard this heat, this conviction, in his younger brother’s voice. In their youth, when Barbov was off playing Bogatyrs with the other noblemen, Kosav had always kept to himself. Barbov had always known his brother was smart, but he had never thought he had this kind of spirit to him until they left Lahy. “Well, it’s a little selfish, but I suppose we’re beyond keeping things to ourselves now.” He sucked in a quiet breath. “All my life, I felt like I was waiting for my real life to begin. Since I was born, it always just felt like I was waiting for … something. All those years just reading, learning, and lounging in Lahy Castle … I never knew what I was waiting for, exactly, but I knew it would be something monumental, something that would actually mark the start of my real life.” He laughed faintly, and bitterly. “Maybe it was the Nzechovich coup. I … suppose the point is that I’ve waited all this time, that I’m not going to let my life be ended by Msitovic and his Nzechovich traitors. I just - I just can’t let it happen.” Barbov opened his eyes, and gave his brother a sidelong look. “You’re saying this war has made you feel … alive?” Kosav nodded slowly. “I know, it’s … terrible to think, but I’ve never felt more alive than I have these last months. So … there you go, then. That is my strength, brother.” To fight to let my own brother live … well, maybe that can be a strength in itself. Barbov sucked in a sharp inhale, and straightened up. “Very well,” he said at last. “Seems I’ve got no choice. We’re both the sons of Karl, and I won’t let you show me up with a stronger spirit. You’re right; I’ve no choice but to redeem every sacrifice made for us so far. Iblees would take me otherwise.” Even as he spoke, Barbov was not sure if he was lying to himself, but he had no qualms if that were the case; if lying was what convinced him to carry on, then he would lie to himself to the very end. For Kosav, and for all the eyes. Kosav returned a weak smile, but it lasted only for a moment. “So, you’re not going to die on us?” “Not yet, at least.” Barbov stood at last, brushing Kosav’s hand off, as he turned back to the cabin window. In the evening light, the pale walls of Dules stretched along the horizon, topped with the tiled domed towers and spires beyond the walls. “What about -” “Yes. Give the order. Let’s see if this crack-brained plan of yours will work.” If you are watching father, then … I’m sorry. I have more lives to answer to than yours. “Let’s see if we can take this city.” Barbov the Black "Finally," Ratibor grumbled as Stanislaw delivered the news. "I could have done with waiting a while longer," Stanislaw grumbled in the doorway of Ratibor's cabin, where he stood mailed and cloaked in the moonlight. "Attacking at night like this is far from ideal. There's something cowardly about it." "Oh, relax," Ratibor snorted as he buckled on his scabbard. "Sometimes you have to play a few sly hands to win." Stanislaw's gaze hardened. "How can a Bogatyr speak like that?" "Hmph. Maybe I'll tell you some day." Ratibor's sword clicked as he slid it into its sheath. "Now, where is my squire?" __________________ Josef had barely taken a sip from his freshly-poured cup of mead when Dragan relayed the message from the walls. "The entire Karovic fleet is attacking?" he repeated as he sighed, and took his cloak from the peg on the wall. "Right now?" "Most of it, at least." Dragan Skullsplitter's form was silhouetted by moonlight in the door. Behind him, the sound of Stagbreakers being roused from their sleep to rush to the city's defence rang through the air. "You think this might be their big push?" "We'll just have to find out." He tightened the cloak at his neck with his broken-antler brooch. "If it's the entire fleet, I'll need your help this time, Dragan. I have a score to settle with Ratibor Skysent." His hulking companion gave a stout nod. "I'll be at your side, Josef. After all, a worthy opponent might be just what I need to feel better after shredding all these little Nzech." __________________ Slavomir the Drowned quietly ran an oiled cloth along his sword as Karovic soldiers dashed back and forth across the deck. Hastily, soldiers loaded arrows into their quivers, tied their bowstrings, fetched their polearms and shields from racks, and donned their scalemail and gambesons. The excitement, anxiety, and anticipation was practically electric in the air - despite the fact a clouded moon hung high in the sky, there was enough ambient on the Karovic ships - and from nearby Dules - to match a fair at noon. Slavomir did not share their excitement, though. One battle in the service of King Karl, and now his sons Barbov and Kosav, was much the same to him. "TONIGHT, THE KAROVIC BANNER SHALL FLY FROM DULES!" one man - Slavomir thought it might have been Ratibor - roared, and was met by hoarse cheers and applause from the soldiers. It was only then that he realised some of the ships had began to glide through the oil-black water, towards the harbour of Dules. "ASERE TRIEKMARV WJEIK KARONYZ!"

Ok well That could be anybody

i just think @UnBaed might get carried away

i thought of this really good one: Were there ever any big "inflection points" during your time on here? Moments that you can look back to and say "if I had does this differently, then things would be way different from how they are now"

Hope you're keeping well fella <3 I was pretty lucky in how NL timed up with real-life -- in 2021-2022, I was doing my Masters degree in Law, and if you know much about Law studies, it's that it's extremely low-contact hours (in other words, less classes than a lot of other fields, with you being expected to fill the other time with research and reading). For most of the 2021-2022 academic year, I only had maybe six-ten hours of classes per week, so it left me with tonnes of time to focus on NL too. I prefer to study/work in bursts rather than steadily throughout the year (which is not the ideal way to do it), so when exams/essays came around, I just took a small break from the Craft to sink heavy hours into getting my exams done. If I had been in a different course of study or working like I am now, it definitely wouldn't have been possible, so I'm grateful the stars aligned.

Hoooooooooooooooooooooooooh that's a toughie. I think that moment where we did one of the first Scyfling events on Athera, when they pretty much appeared for the first time and how we worked together to make the experience, without knowing what it would become down the line, is really cute to look back on. As for RP itself, I think that last interaction between Sigismund and Adrian was quite cool. Though in isolation it mightn't have seemed like a great deal, I think there was a lot of weight to that interaction about the "answer" and "understanding" (if you remember what we were talking about ;) ) from both me and you as people who have seen and been through a lot on this server and with the Haense community specifically that transcended the characters themselves. The Cactus Green drug bust also deserves an honourable mention .......... Hmm. I'd probably say being part of people's lives and vice versa. Like I said when answering an early question, it's genuinely astonishing to me how some people have been able to make amazing friendships that will last long beyond the time they spend on this server. I think a lot of the world, especially our parent's generation, wouldn't understand that whatsoever and even people on this server think there should be a genuine line between your real-world relations and your online ones. Of course, you always need to be careful and exercise caution, but even doing so, I think it's indisputable the connections you forge on this platform are real and meaningful, and you shouldn't relegate them to some kind of secondary tier of friendship. Human connections is what makes life worth living for most people, and I've made some really special ones here. This is a difficult one because at certain points it becomes hard to distinguish between the rose-tinted lens of nostalgia and genuine loss. I definitely loved the sense of wonder and adventure that I experienced as a lil 15-16 y/o Conor wandering the earlier maps like Athera and Axios and finding all sorts of builds and places, and hearing about all sorts of heroic lords and characters that felt like they actually were from some fantasy epic. That sort of things loses it shine over time, as all things do. When you don't know everything in the world, the world seems so much more mysterious and exciting. As for something or someone I genuinely miss .... You know what it's like yourself to have stuck around here for a long time and seen people come and go (and then usually come and go again for a second or third time), but overall from my 6ish years actively playing, one person I used to have a lot of fun with was NJBB, both in Haense and other stuff. One of my funner times on the server was when he set me up with a Dreadknight character and we used to raid Sutica in Axios, and use it's really long bridge as a bottle-neck. Did we ever find that post again? A galapagos turtle. Obviously. Probably that one arc where Aleksandr helped Katerina escape Haense from Heinrik. It was a pretty big moment in terms of my character's development and his hatred towards Heinrik, and his whole sort of vibe of trying to be this white knight who couldn't really get anything to go his way and didn't have the courage to do anything really drastic, so to him it felt like he was finally making a difference by helping Katerina escape, but that feeling of futility grew worse for him when Katerina ended up returning to Haense, which made for some cool evolution of the character. comin' down on a sunny day? #ShearThoseEars is trending again. :J I suppose in the context of nation leading and especially between you and me, I think I'd have to say the Haeseni withdrawal in the 2nd stage of the war. I'm sure you can imagine, but it was genuinely a very difficult decision to make about whether to stay involved in the war at a potentially disastrous cost while getting pretty good deals to back out of it. Without a doubt, I'm sure the server and recent history might look very different if a different decision had been made at the time and Haense had left the war. @UnBaedtake the capybara's knee-caps.

Probably when I PK'd my King of Haense. Seems a bit weird to say that for ending a character, but the RP itself was just really nice and moving. I more or less spent the whole day RPing goodbyes with people as the character was on his deathbed, and it was a really touching culmination of everything he'd done in his life and the friends I'd RPed with. To see it all come full circle and to end the story in a way that was meaningful to create a finished, cohesive story for a character was genuinely just such a fun and rewarding experience that I don't think any individual RP moment could top it. Whole point of any writing is to make you feel things, and it was one of the few occasions where I've gotten teary in my time. Probably the Banner Saga trilogy. It's one I've come back to over the years that's just ticked every box for me -- it's got a great world/setting, meaningful dialogue choices, fleshed out characters with intriguing storylines and development, engaging combat, awesome art and music, and a fascinating overall-plot. I wouldn't say the game is S-tier in any of those categories, but it's one of the few - if not the only - game I've played that hits an A tier in all those categories so consistently. Thanks man appreciate you saying so. I like to think I'm not overly influenced by anything, but I do have a couple of different pieces of media that definitely inspire me on certain narrative aspects, for example: - Robert Jordan's Wheel of Time books are probably the main inspiration and one of the main things I read growing up (which quite literally lasted for my teenage life, since the book series is 14 volumes). It's undoubtedly been the foundation for my writing style and I don't think I could change that even if I wanted to. - Attack on Titan really inspired me, but probably not in the way it does for most people; rather, I came to really love the depth of strategy that went into a lot of AoT. I know it's probably not what everyone looks for in entertainment, but the way AoT drew attention to the various strategies at play in battle and what the characters needed to achieve always added a lot of realistic weigh and excitement to the series for me. I think the best example of this is the showdown in Season 3 Part 2 where there's a lot of different tactics and plans at play, which just totally engrossed me at the time and made the character's choices and actions feel a lot more grounded. Actions making sense is really important to me, and so I just enjoyed that aspect of the series a lot. As a result, I've always tried to include that depth in my writing so that there was sense and logic in the narratives and not railroading circumstances for the plot. - Vinland Saga has some absolutely fantastic character interactions, and it represents one of the best ways an author has managed to communicate core philosophical ideas and themes without it seeming out of place or boring. think I'm gonna need to see a pic

I wrote and rewrote this paragraph maybe three or four times before realising there's a couple of important lessons I'd leave behind. 1. Like pretty much anything in life, the value of this server is making great friends and sharing great moments with them. None of us (hopefully, at least ...) are going to stick around here forever, but what makes this server truly impactful on us are the memories and friendships that will outlive almost anything. I know I speak for a lot of people when I say that people genuinely do make incredibly strong friendships here that will probably last a very long time into the future, and that's just really cool. Any time you spend on the server should ultimately be devoted to the memories you'll take with -- because of that, it's important to pick your battles and try to make your time here as amicable as possible. When you're sitting in some VC as a boomer chatting shit, it'll be your friends and the funny/cool/historic moments you experienced together that you'll talk about, not the time you had a falling-out or argument with X about Y. 2. As part of the above, I don't think you can do much of anything - whether with friendships, RP, or Staff - without being patient and empathetic. Our server has a really broad demographic of players, including lots of young teens and people with various real-world problems (chiefly mental health issues) that find comfort and escapism in the server (which is great). As a result, we're not always dealing with rational actors and people who share our experiences and viewpoints, so it's inevitable that disagreements sometimes arise, some justified and others not. Just try remember the range of different people from all walks of life on our server and try see why they think/act the way they do before going off on someone. 3. The number-one killer of things on this server - from staff to nations - is lethargy and a lack of love. If you don't innovate and exhibit passion in your position, you shouldn't have that position. Whether it's a passion problem or you don't have time, I think people need to be more inclined to pass-off their role if they aren't living up to the potential and the trust placed in them to do a good job. While we have a lot of immediate problems on the server, I think a lack of passion in leadership roles is undoubtedly one of the biggest long-term issues we have. I don't actually play all that much at the moment. What does keep me around in any capacity, and what's always kept me around before though, is my friendships with people here. Like I said above, it's really touching how some of us make profound connections and relationships over the medium of Minecraft RP (of all things), and I'm no exception. I've made some really, really great friends (mainly in the Haense community), and they're the reason I find myself still hoovering around, even if I'm not always active. As for providing, I'm not entirely sure, I guess I've just always been a 0 or 100-type of person. I find it difficult to do something without giving it my all or pouring a lot of time and energy into it (which isn't always a good thing), so that goes hand-in-hand with enjoying telling stories and making characters on this server. On top of that, I generally just tended to enjoy things like ET, NL, etc. These days she's too busy drawing Ilaria playing guitar hero I'm starting to get a bit old (not @JuliusAakerlund-old though), so in a year or two I'd probably prefer to have another creative outlet. If we're talking an ideal world, I'd love to be writing on some kind of professional level at some point in the future. We all have that one dream from childhood of the perfect job we'd like to have, and a writer with a livable salary is mine. Over the next year or so, I'd really love to try my hand at less-traditional fields of writing, too, like video essays and things like DnD campaigns. That's the creative side of me, though. In the next year or two, I'd probably see myself finishing training to be qualified as a lawyer. One of my big personal issues is that I've always struggled to figure out exactly what I want to do in life (in the short-term) or where to go, so I tend to just play things by ear at my current age, but I can definitely see that being an inevitability. I really really love doing DM/event stuff, just feels really rewarding to craft a storyline that people genuinely engage in and to get creative with all sorts of mechanics. Probably one of the best examples of this is one of the naval battles in the Scyfling invasion -- for context, naval battles with more than one ship are extremely difficult to pull off when the ships are moving in different directions and with the player crews doing different things (which had fucked up some of my previous naval events), all on top of the usual event challenges like keeping track of emotes etc. This one, though - I think it's called the Battle of the Shoals - went off pretty well and made for a really fun and rewarding experience, topped off with things like CartographyKing's character having a duel to the death and PKing with one of the Scyfling captains. As for least fun, I'll refer to a particular moment. I think it was 2016, and I was a pretty young and naive Mod during the Greyspine Rebellion. Rules weren't so fleshed out back in that day, and part of this war we sanctioned the anti-Courland rebels to try coup one of the castles because one of them had keys. There were no coup rules, though, and so I played the situation entirely on the fly and it went horribly. I ultimately had to make a call as to who won the coup when the Courlanders had the rebels (most of whom were my friends) pinned in a throne room that they couldn't access, and I gave victory to the Courlanders. A lot of my friends from the rebel side were upset with me, which is to be expected in the best conflict-of-interest situations, but both sides were displeased by the way it was handled, and rightfully so. To this day, that's probably my least favourite moment on the server, and it weighed on my mind for days afterwards. isn't that Ben's alt

thanks man I think the most stressful part of NL was dealing with internal issues, which thankfully wasn't very common. I mean mostly OOC issues, where like one person of your community is at loggerheads with another over something only the NL can resolve. For instance, there was a point around the halfway mark of my time when there was an OOC issue about the inheritance of one of the noble houses. I was still learning a lot about how to do NL at the time, and I got caught up in trying to please both sides/reach a compromise when it probably would have been better to just make a decision and stick to it. That was definitely probably one of the most 'stressful' moments looking back, because as NL of a community-centric faction with a lot of veterans and people who've poured blood sweat and tears into the place, it's very hard not to feel an immense pressure to live up to the trust people have placed in you. Ironically, there's just situations where that won't be possible, and that's a tough and stressful reality to grasp.

https://gyazo.com/961c2dc041cb0c7970e0a0afbeec349b As for favourite or best RP moments, obviously a lot of factors go into what makes something memorable, from moments that mark a personal achievement, to something you were just happy to share with friends. For me, I think what was probably my favourite moments was wrapping up the Scyfling eventline, since it had had months of build-up and there was always so many moving parts and different events with different sub-plots, so finally wrapping up a story with a decently cohesive ending in a way that people were happy with was definitely super super rewarding. also you're short

It doesn't get much better than 1,000 posts on minecraft roleplay forums. I figured it would be a little anticlimatic for my 1000th post to probably be some memey shitpost, so I suppose this is a decent way to do something fun with the occassion. From nation leading, to ET, to real-life, feel free to ask whatever, just don't do that one where people are like "opinions of me? :DDD" because that's awkward and weird and I'll send @UnBaed to take your knee-caps.

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER VIII: DULES BESIEGED A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen Chapter IV: Soul & Sword Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules Chapter VII: A Pact of Glass Josef Tideborn and Dragan Skullsplitter, the mercenary captains in charge of the defence of the Trade City of Dules - the most vital city in Ruska - are left scrambling when the impossible happens after the armies of Vladrik Nzechovich and the Karovic Princes, both of whom are competing to control the realm, strike a temporary peace to attack the city together. After a naval assault on the city's harbour, in which Ratibor Skysent fells scores of the city's defenders, Josef Tideborn realises that the city won't hold under these circumstances, but it becomes clear the bickering Electors of Dules, most of whom are merchants and not soldiers, lack the foresight and grit to do what needs to be done. Music - Play & Loop All The three Stagbreakers attacked at once. Ratibor’s sword descended in a blur of steel, slicing through the shoulder of the first Stagbreaker as he raised his axe to swing, and he went down as Ratibor pulled his blade back to clang against the warhammer coming from his left. His sword parried the hammer cleanly aside, leaving the attacker open to a clean riposte through the neck. Ratibor slammed his shoulder into the hammerwoman to shove her off his sword just in time to intercept the spearman charging down the deck; his sword clashed into the spearhead to deflect it away from his chest, and he moved his blade into the path of the spearman’s neck. Blood sprayed onto Ratibor as the Stagbreaker stumbled forward, and fell with a gurgle. “IS THAT ALL?!” he bellowed to the deck of the ship littered with dead and dying, both his fellow Karovic soldiers and Stagbreaker mercenaries alike. “HAS ANYONE ELSE THE BALLS TO CHALLENGE RATIBOR SKYSENT!?” “I - I don’t think anyone else can hear you, my lord,” came a faint voice behind him. “No, I don’t suppose they can,” Ratibor sighed in agreement. He stood on one of many Karovic carve ships that congested at the walled harbour of the Trade City of Dules, where the mercenaries of the Stagbreaker Company, hired to defend the city, had been fighting off Karovic naval advances for days -- today was the fourth assault. All around him, soldiers fought and died on other ships, but his was pitifully empty. “You know, Vlasta, usually squires help their Bogatyrs. Fighting three at once is a challenge, even for me.” He turned behind him, where his squire squatted over a Karovic soldier with a stomach wound pumping blood slumped against the ship’s mast. It was true that Vlasta of Osyenia had saved the Karovic Princes from a ruinous defeat at the Battle of Mejen, but since Prince Kosav had assigned the girl to train as Ratibor’s squire, he had his doubts about whether the girl was cut out to be a Bogatyr. For one, her combat training was minimal, and she certainly lacked the stomach for battle and bloodshed that most warriors took years to develop. Despite her scale-mail and helmet, from which strands of her dark hair stuck out, she did not look at all like a warrior with her wide eyes, pale face, and the trembling fingers with which she was trying to tie a makeshift bandage around the soldier. “I - I’m sorry, my lord,” she stammered as he tried to knot the bandage. “I - I just - Zedov got cut in the stomach, and I -” “Zedov looks like he’s got a slashed gut, Vlasta,” Ratibor explained calmly as the sounds of battle continued to ring out all around them. “You can’t just stop to treat the wounded in the middle of battle. Prince Kosav wouldn’t be pleased with me if you died on my watch. His Highness seems rather fond of you.” “I-I know.” Vlasta’s movements did not stop, though. Blood trickled from Zedov’s mouth, and his twitching lips were the only sign that the fellow was still alive. “But if I can just … if I can just finish …” Ratibor sighed as he approached. In one swift motion, he raised his sword, and thrust into Zedov’s heart. With a faint breath, the soldier went still, and Vlasta gasped as she recoiled backwards. “There, problem solved. He’ll be rewarded in the Skies, and we’ll be joining him soon if you don’t keep your wits about you, Vlasta.” If the girl had been distracted before, now she was on the verge of a panic attack as she sucked in rapid breaths. Clicking his tongue irritably, Ratibor offered her a hand, and when she did not take it he grabbed her by the wrist to hoist her upright. “Are you having second thoughts about this squire business already?” “I … just wasn’t expecting …” “The blood? The bodies? The smell?” Ratibor flicked the blood off his sword as he looked back over his shoulder. Volleys of arrows fired freely overhead from Karovic ships further back in the fleet, keeping the artillerymen on the harbour’s walls pinned down. “Well, for what it’s worth, most people say the same thing. It’s what separates the weak from the strong. The weak let it rattle them too much -- they lose their nerve, they get sloppy, and they get killed. The strong find some way to take it in their stride, and they live to the battle where it gets a little easier, until they’ve seen enough battles where it doesn’t bother them at all.” “S-some way to take it in my stride, my lord? Like what?” she asked as she picked up her shield from beside Zedov’s body. Ratibor frowned as he watched the sail of a nearby ship catch fire. “Well, everyone has their own method.” He gave her a flat look. “It’s not too late for you to go back to the command ship, and I’m not saying that to discourage you -- it’s for your own sake. I’ve seen enough prissy children of nobles who don’t know what it really means to be a Bogatyr, and they die because of it. If I can spare you from that, I will. There’s a reason the songs don’t sing about the blood, the bodies, and the smell.” Instead of answering, Vlasta ran to the edge of the ship, and vomited overboard. “Well,” Ratibor grumbled, “I guess that’s that, then. I’ll help you find Stanislaw and get you out -” Vlasta turned back to him, and despite the fact her face was pale as snow, her eyes had a ragged, determined look as she fastened helmet back on. “J-just had to get that out of my system, my lord. I-I’m with you. I promise, I-I can do this.” For a moment, Ratibor only watched her. Maybe I misjudged her. He had seen that look in her eye in others before, and he knew that the girl was smart enough to know that real battle wasn’t like the stories. Hmph. I wonder if it’s like the others I’ve seen with that look. She’d rather risk enduring this than return to whatever life she had before. Well, I suppose I can’t say no to that. “Come on, then,” he said at last. “Our crew is dead and the ships nearby aren’t faring as well as us. Stick close, and try to stab something so you can get used to it.” Without waiting for her, Ratibor took off at a run. He kicked off from the gunnel of the ship, and leaped over the gap of rushing, bloody water to the neighbouring ship. Here, Karovic soldiers in chainmail vests and red-black colours clashed against Stagbreaker mercenaries in mismatched armour - except for their broken-antler pendants - and ranged from dark-skinned Tarcharmen to pale Waldenians. The fighting paused as the combatants looked to Ratibor in surprise at his sudden arrival. “If you do not believe in the one true God,” Ratibor began as he brandished his blade, “now would be an excellent opportunity to start before I send you to him.” One of the Stagbreakers spat through his helmet, and Ratibor leapt into action. He glided forward, snaking his sword past an axeman’s guard and into his forehead. The Karovic soldiers pressed the attack with him, but most of the Stagbreakers fell to his sword. His usual technique of striking vitals - the armpits, neck, and, if they were not heavily armoured, the heart - when a foe raised their heavier weapons to swing worked as well as ever, and it was not long before his sword was caked red once more. Everyone has their own method. His own words echoed in his head as his sword struck true time and time again. While the Stagbreakers may have been a mix of many different races, they all looked the same to Ratibor when he went for the kill. In his mind, their faces blurred, forming the broad and scarred face of the first man that Ratibor had ever killed -- the man on which his moniker, and his fame, was built. Each time he struck, he imagined the accursed face of Burgov Godsbane, and with that image came the raw reminder of that man’s evil. With that fixed in Ratibor’s mind, he never faltered. He finished off the last Stagbreaker with a kick that sent them reeling overboard, and the Karovic soldiers let out a cheer. Ratibor, inhaling sharply, turned to find Vlasta hunkered behind her shield with a dry sword, but he supposed that was to be expected. The girl will learn with time. Better she just survives for now. “Bless you, Skysent!” boomed a man with a bloodstained beard sticking out from the winged helmet that marked him as an officer. “We were getting a little overwhelmed just then!” Ratibor recognised the beard and the husky voice. “God will not let mere sellswords defeat us, Egriev,” he replied matter-of-factly as his eyes scanned the chaotic sprawl of Stagbreaker and Karovic ships congested side-by-side at the mouth of the walled harbour. “Have you received any orders from Stanislaw or the command ship? Things seem to have gotten out of hand.” “No, lord.” Egriev shook his head. “We -” The ship suddenly heaved violently, throwing Ratibor and the others to the deck, as wooden splinters shot out. When Ratibor looked up, he found the shaft of a six-foot ballista bolt skewered into the deck near the bow, and the ship began to tilt sideways. “A ballista?! Damn it, the archers were supposed to be keeping their artillery pinned!” As he grappled to his feet, he squinted up at the harbour walls where Stagbreakers rushed back and forth between. Those walls were fitted with scorpions and even ballistae that could sink a ship with just a few shots, but Karovic archers were meant to keep them under constant fire so that the ships could advance. The volleys had stopped, though, and now artillery crews were busy reloading the ballistae. “So much for that plan,” Ratibor grumbled. “One of the Stagbreaker ships must have reached our archers. If we don’t disengage soon, they’ll sink us all. Egriev, I - …” He trailed off as his eyes caught one figure on the walls who was not running about, but instead observing the battle with crossed-arms. Ratibor recognised the fellow with his thinning pale hair and the silver-worked breastplate. That’s the Stagbreaker captain! That’s Tideborn! Ratibor had vaguely heard that name before, but he had heard it a thousand times over since they had begun their siege of Dules. Josef Tideborn, the cunning behind the Stagbreaker mercenaries and one of the leaders of Dules’d defence. If I can reach him … “M-my lord?!” Egriv called over the sound of fighting as he grappled with the mast to stand. “Take my squire and fall back to the command ship, Egriev,” Ratibor said through a grin. “I’m going to go take a trophy.” Ratibor Skysent “A clean hit, boss!” “Good!” Josef Tideborn called over the sound of battle as he stood atop the harbour walls of Dules, watching the ships clash in the water below. “Free-fire at any Karovic ship until it sinks! Utwulf, have the scorpions crewed! Andolf, send out the reserve ship!” “Yes, boss!” Grunts of assent echoed as his Stagbreakers on the wall carried ammunition and cranked the steel limbs of the ballistae back to reload. Until a few minutes ago, the Karovic archers had kept them pinned, but now that Josef’s sailors had boarded their ships, he was free to rain death from the walls. Same as the other three times. Like clockwork. This was the fourth Karovic attack Josef had repelled from the harbour since the Princes had made their little agreement with the Nzechovich a week ago, but it was getting more taxing with each assault. We’ve been doing well in the circumstances, but we won’t hold out for more than a few weeks with this rate of attacks, he thought wistfully as someone yelled ‘FIRE!’ and a ballista bolt sundered another Karovic ship. It’s just a question of how long the Karovic and Nzechovich can stay friends. When Josef and his Stagbreaker Company had been hired to defend Dules, he had hoped the civil war between the Karovic and Nzechovich would weaken whichever side eventually attacked the city. Given their bad blood, he had assumed any kind of cooperation between them was impossible, and now he was paying dearly for that mistake: while the Karovic fleet attacked the harbour, his co-captain of the Stagbreakers - Dragan Skullsplitter - fought off Vladrik Nzechovich’s enormous army land assault on the city gates. What to do, what to do … He had hoped this would be his last war, and the treasures the Electors of Dules paid him with would be enough for him to retire into luxury, but now the alliance between the Karovic and Nzechovich was really making him work for his pay. Maybe it will still be my last war, just not in the good way. As another volley of ballistae bolts fired, Josef spotted a Karovic soldier in a feathered helmet leap from one sinking ship to another, cutting down two Stagbreakers without barely breaking his stride, before jumping to yet another ship. What do we have here? The warrior vaulted onto the ship closest to the harbour wall, nearly directly beneath Josef, and began to climb the rigging to the crow’s nest at the top of the mast. What on earth is he doing? His impressed smile widened as the soldier, ignorant to the bolts flying, reached the crow’s nest that placed him nearly on the same height as the harbour ramparts, and the fellow locked eyes directly with Josef. A second later, the Karovic swung himself over the crow’s nest, and began to run along the beam of the sails before he jumped. The Stagbreakers operating the ballistae and scorpions stopped their reloading in surprise as the Karovic landed with a roll atop the walls, a mere dozen feet from Josef. Josef whistled as the man came to his feet with his sword at the ready. His Stagbreakers had drawn their weapons, too, and began to slowly surround the Ruskan before Josef raised a forestalling hand. “That was quite remarkable, friend. Did you come all this way to see me?” The fellow grinned under his faceguard, and levelled his bloody sword towards Josef. “It’s Tideborn, right?” Josef smiled and spread his arms. “The one and only! What is your name, warrior?” Despite his smile, his mind raced. He jumped right into the middle of a dozen Stagbreakers on his own… While hundreds of Josef’s mercenaries fought on the water below, he kept only a mere handful with him on the wall - he had not exactly anticipated an attack like this. Blood dripped from the other man’s sword. “I am Ratibor Skysent, warrior of God, and blade of Prince Barbov! Surrender this harbour to me, Josef Tideborn, or I will kill you and give your next-in-command the same options!” “Skysent, eh? I’ve heard of you. You’re the holy warrior that killed Burgov Godsbane all those years ago, right? Canonist priests never shut up about you.” That was nothing to scoff at -- Burgov Godsbane had been one of the most terrifying and cruel raiders of his day. Even Dragan had wanted to stay clear of that man’s territory. Hm. He must be good, then. “But you might need a hand from God for this one. You’re alone, surrounded by twelve of my men.” “That just evens the odds a bit for you, Tideborn. Besides, every minute your men spend away from the ballistae is another minute our ships will push into the harbour.” Josef’s eyes slid back to the water, where ships continued to sink and burn as his Stagbreakers clashed with the Karovic attackers. “Hm. You’re not wrong about that.” His ballistae had already sunk a few Karovic carves, but if he did not keep supporting his own ship from the walls, there was a good chance the Karovic would breach the harbour’s mouth. “You’re strong, famous, and sharp, Skysent! You must be a real catch.” The Bogatyr’s smirk widened. “I have my vices. Are you prepared to fight, Tideborn?” “I am. Utwulf, continue firing on the ships. Leave Skysent here to me.” His troops nodded hesitantly and resumed their posts as Josef drew his own sword, clean and polished. I only need to hold him off for a minute or two. With the ballistae firing, the Karovic will have no choice but to retreat. Skysent here will either have to jump back to his ship, and get left behind and surrounded. Like Ratibor, he levelled his sword at his opponent, and the midday light shimmered on its edge. In his decades as a mercenary, Josef was an adept fighter himself, but he suspected that might count for little against a Bogatyr as renowned as Ratibor Skysent. With that, Ratibor advanced at full charge. Josef caught the Bogatyr’s swing on his own blade, but the sheer impact sent him five steps backwards. Ratibor followed-up immediately, and Josef’s arms ached from the vibrations as he barely managed to turn the follow-up thrust at his neck aside before hopping backwards again. A minute or two?! Damnit, I’ll be lucky if I hold out thirty seconds! Ratibor still grinned under his faceguard as he began to close the distance at a slow walk. “I think you might be a little too old to still be on the battlefield, Tideborn.” Josef managed a smile of his own through clenched teeth. “I think you may be right.” They clashed again in a shower of steel sparks. Josef’s sword creaked as he parried one, then two, then three successive strikes at his shoulder. Wait - he’s only going for my vitals. He’s not trying to wear me down or bleed me. He stepped back a split second before the tip of Ratibor’s sword almost scored his throat. He’s so confident in his ability that he just goes straight for the kill. Maybe I can use that. “Tell me, Skysent,” Josef began as he heaved for breath. “What was it like to fight Burgov Godsbane?” “That was a long time ago.” Ratibor’s voice abruptly lost the amusement it held just moments ago as the Bogatyr shifted into an attack stance. “I’ve sent plenty of others to the Skies since then.” Not much longer. The ballistae fired again, sending wood flying into the air as they drilled into the ships below. Any second now, and the Karovic will be forced to retreat. “Bugrov was one of the greatest warriors of his day,” Josef went on. Maybe I can indulge him. Get him to gloat. Something to buy time. “You must have been barely past boyhood when you slew him, right? How -” His plan had the opposite effect. With a suddenly straight face, Ratibor shot forward and swung horizontally at his neck. The blade shaved off some of Josef’s hair as he ducked under the blow, and sent Ratibor back with a kick. “Woah, woah!” Josef called. “What, you don’t like talking about it or something? I thought that’s the reason you were famous! Ratibor Skysent, blessed by God to strike down the pagan warlord Burgov Godsbane, terror of western Ruska!” Ratibor’s expression had gone still. What’s up with him? He was all guts and bravado just a minute ago. Instead of answering, he shifted his footing to prepare to charge again, and Josef braced himself. Whatever about the man’s reaction to Burgov Godsbane’s name, Josef would not last more than a few more clinches with the Bogatyr. Before Ratibor attacked again, though, a warhorn peeled out from the ships below, and Josef almost laughed with relief. Frantic shouts fellowed as Karovic soldiers tried to secure their ships and row backwards, out of the blockade and back to safety. “You going to join them, Skysent? You could stay to try kill me, but you’ll get left behind.” Ratibor’s smile returned, though weary and begrudging. “I was a little too slow, it seems. Let’s finish this next time, Tideborn, ai?” “Next time.” Next time, I’ll make sure I have fifty reserves at my back so you can’t come near me, you madman. “It’s a date, Skysent.” For a moment, it looked like Ratibor might try get one last blow it, but as the echo of a drumbeat sounded on the ships - meant to coordinate rowers - he grit his teeth. The Bogatyr turned, and leapt from the wall back onto the beam of the ship he had jumped off. He almost lost his balance, before he jumped from the beam to the rigging, and then slid back down the ship as if it were nothing. “**** me,” Josef glowered. “Five pounds of silver if anyone can hit that man!” His crew took the challenge eagerly; they hounded Ratibor with bolts from scorpions and ballistae alike, but none caught him. Leaving a trail of sundered and sinking ships in his wake, Ratibor disappeared into the mass of retreating Karovic, and just minutes later, all their ships had pulled back out of range. Laughter and a chant of victory from his Stagbreakers followed, but Josef dropped his sword and leaned against his knee with a deep breath. “Now that,” he said to himself under his breath, “was a little too close for my liking.” Josef Tideborn Thirty-four. Dragan Skullsplitter stared down at his open palm, at the chips and scars accumulated from years of battle. Thirty-four more dead today alone. Dead at my hands. The sun had begun to set over Dules, and so the Trade City was bathed in a burnt orange light as Dragan and Josef trudged through the courtyard of the Elector’s Palace in the heart of the city, surrounded by pale walls and onion-domed towers with tiles of every colour of the rainbow. Members of the Dulen Guard, in their blue-gold jackets and breastplates, clutched their halberds with visible tension as they watched Dragan and Josef move across the massive mosaic of blue and gold tiles in the middle of the courtyard, and no courtiers had ventured far from their apartments since the start of the siege. As if the Nzech or the Karovic will be skulking around the courtyard while the wall still stands. Pfft. These people know nothing about war. Dragan, on the other hand, knew too much. His eyes drifted back to his hand again, which he had scrubbed clean after defeating the Nzechovich assault on the city gates earlier that day. I killed thirty-four Nzechovich today. That adds on to the total of seventy-eight from the past three days, so … “Hey, Josef,” he rumbled as the two of them neared the steps of the Palace proper. “What’s thirty-four plus seventy eight?” “What?” grunted a distracted Josef, before he knit his brow. “Uh, one-hundred-and-twelve. Why?” “... No reason.” Dragan’s frown deepened as he stared at his palm. I’ve had to kill one-hundred-and-twelve of the little Nzech’s warriors in just four days. How many more days to go? As they started up the steps, he glanced back to Josef, who kept scratching his neck under his cloak. “Something bothering you?” “A couple of things,” Josef grumbled. His eyes were narrowed in that way they always were when his mind had hit a brick wall. That seldom boded well. “Some damn Bogatyr near took my head off today at the harbour, for one. Ratibor Skysent -- you heard of him?” “Rings a bell. Can’t remember where I heard it.” “Ah, he’s some holy warrior. Canonists adore him, they say he performed a miracle by killing Burgov Godsbane with nothing but a knife.” Dragan blinked. “He’s the one who killed Godsbane?” That was no meagre feat -- ten or fifteen years ago, Burgov Godsbane had been a pagan raider that had terrified western Ruska. From all Dragan knew, he was a daemon in battle, and a daemon in actions. “And he killed him with a knife?” Josef shrugged. “So they say, only he went all cagey when I brought it up. Either way, point is that the attacks on the harbour are getting dicey. Our artillery is whittling down their ships, but they still almost got in today. It’s becoming a battle of attrition.” The pair of them stepped through the massive arched doorways into the Palace’s grandiose entry hall, all sparkling white marble with gilt and silverwork on nearly every object. A fountain sat in the hall’s centre - an indoor fountain! - mounted with the marble likeliness of some long-dead Elector, while, from every inch of wallspace, the portraits of other rich, pompous Ruskans stared down at Dragan. As a sellsword, he appreciated wealth more than most men, but this … it was all too much. “Master Dragan! Master Josef!” piped up an officer of the Dulen Guard, marked with a feathered helmet as if he was a real soldier, who stood waiting in the entry hall with an escort of halberdiers. “Welcome, sirs. Please, the Electors are --” “Well, the gate’s held up fine so far,” Dragan went on. The officer almost threw himself aside with a yelp to make way for Dragan as he continued without pause. “I can send Cardolf and Voli’s units to reinforce you at the harbour.” Josef pursed his lips, then shook his head. “No -- I suspect Vladrik is holding back in his attacks. He’s hoping the Karovic will put in the leg-work at the harbour, and we’ll send reinforcements there just as you’re suggesting. Once the gate’s defences are lowered, he’ll hit us with everything he has.” “It’s … possible.” Dragan had held the city gates for four days now with relative ease -- for an army of thirty-thousand, Vladrik Nzechovich had not put up much of a fight. With the Dulen Guard awkwardly trailing behind them, the two of them continued down the lavish hallway, at the end of which stood the imposing doorway to the Elector’s Chambers. “So … we can’t win a battle of attrition, and we can’t win an open confrontation against their numbers. What’s the plan, then, Josef? How do we win?” Josef’s face was a thundercloud as they reached the doors. “I’m working on it.” More Dulen Guard - only this lot had the rims and edges of their mail gilded - stood by the doors with their salets lowered. After sharing a look, and glancing behind Dragan and Josef to their defunct escort, each pressed a hand to the huge doors, and began to push them open. The burnt light of the sunset, admitted through massive windows from the Chamber, accompanied the sound of arguing voices in the room beyond. Still pointedly ignoring the Dulen Guard, Dragan sucked in a bracing breath. He truly wished that Josef would handle all the talking with the Electors, but Josef insisted that Dragan always come along. He did not need to elaborate -- people always behaved differently when there was a seven-foot tall Waldenian warrior in the room. That point was well proven as the two Stagbreakers stepped past the door, and the voices grew quiet. The Elector’s Chamber was a round room of mostly gold-and-white colours, with a domed ceiling that stretched dozens of feet overhead. Vistas had been painted on the ceiling tiles, and so a scene of a sprawling and bloody battle around a golden-walled city stared down at Dragan. Although the most impressive painting, it was but one of many that coloured the walls with their enormous windows. The evening set flooded the marble floor, on which sat the polished semi-circular tables around which the Electors gathered. Dragan made no secret for his disdain for the Electors - or most of them, at least. From his own minimal understanding, and what Josef had explained, historically Dules had been ruled by a Prince, but not a hereditary one; the heads of the city’s wealthiest families held the esteemed office of Electors, who voted on who would ascend to become the Prince of Dules. For generations, the Electors had competed and plotted among themselves to place their favoured puppet on the throne, but that had all ended when some Nzehcovich king - one of the Nestors, Dragan thought - finally brought Dules under the Ruskan crown. Since then, it had been unbroken tradition that the Electors elected each Ruskan king to the title of Prince of Dules, while governance of the city was left to the Electors themselves. Unbroken tradition, until now. Now, as the Electors have endured several succession wars that had impacted their precious trade, they were trying to break away from the control of the Ruskan Crown by taking advantage of the chaos in the realm. Only, none of them have actually agreed who should be Prince. That was the least of their worries, anyway -- their carefully-hedged bets and exorbitant spending on mercenaries were now crumbling in front of them. Reluctantly, Dragan followed Josef’s lead as he bowed his head to the eight people spread around the table, some standing, some sitting; some young, some old; some calm, some agitated. None of their eyes regarded Dragan or Josef with much fondness, though Dragan did not quite understand - on one hand, the Dulen seemed to lavish in the fact they could pay an army of mercenaries to do their fighting from then, but then other times they seemed unhappy with their dependency on them. “My lords, ladies,” Josef drawled smoothly, and his voice carried through the massive room. “Pardon our interruption. We were told to come straight in to give our daily report.” “ … Yes, well,” an aged Elector in a puffy navy coat who somehow managed to make his wispy patch of silver hair look regal broke the silence as he eased back into his seat, “has anything much changed?” “The trajectory of the siege remains the same,” Josef went on in that same unflappable voice. “We -” “Save predictions and ‘trajectories’ for now, Tideborn,” cut in a slender woman with glossy black hair who Dragan thought was far too young for her cold, authoritative voice. “Facts will suffice.” “Facts,” Josef repeated, just a touch tightly. “As my lady wishes, then. We currently have fourteen of our squadrons defending the south and eastern gates, under the command of our co-captain Dragan. The steeper terrain has deterred any attacks on the north gate so far, and in any case, we’d see one coming well in advance, so we have two reserve squadrons …” Dragan tuned out as Josef bleated out the same numbers of soldiers, of garrison placements, and enemy attack patterns as he had every evening since the siege began. The Electors wanted to hear the same things every time, and thus far, they had done nothing about Josef’s warnings, which he, as usual, tacked on at the end of his report. “I know you did not ask for conjecture, my lords, but as your military advisor, I must once again stress that at the current rate of attacks, the combined Nzechovich and Karovic attacks will break through sooner or later.” Mouths opened and eyes hardened around the table, but it was another young woman - this one with short brown curls and cheeks that still looked like they held a trace of baby fat - who spoke. “I think it is high-time we listened and acted on that part, my lords.” Dragan was not much for names, and he had little regard for these pompous merchant lords, but he had a begrudging respect for that young woman -- Yaina, if he recalled. Even at their earlier meetings, before the Nzech-Karovic assault began, she had always exhibited the most sense out of her lordly counterparts. Granted, the bar is not set very high. She had been the one to help give Josef and Dragan complete control of the outer defences, and she had unsuccessfully petitioned her fellows to send the Dulen Guard to reinforce those defences. “Hmph. Are you going to propose we place the Dulen Guard under the authority of sellswords again, Lady Yaina?” sniffed Wispy-Hair. “It’s about time we did something with them,” Yaina quipped back. “We’re under siege, and we just keep them standing around the inner city doing nothing.” “They are on standby in case the city itself is breached!” retorted Wispy, and some of the other Electors rumbled their agreement. As if they would make any difference in that case, Dragan groaned silently. If the walls are breached, then it’s over for these fools anyway. As it had at every other meeting, the disagreement spread into a chaotic argument among the Electors, leaving Josef and Dragan simply standing there. “I’m not sure how much more of this I can take, Josef,” he sighed quietly to his partner. “If this is our last war, it’s not nearly as much fun as I hoped.” A part of that was a lie -- Dragan no longer found any war fun. Yet still, he wanted to leave the legacy of the Stagbreakers on a high note, not the doomed defence of Dules at the whim of merchants playing at kings. “Me neither, old friend. But I think I might be coming close to an answer,” Josef whispered back. “An answer?” “To your question before we arrived. How are we going to win?” “That so?” his eyes trailed across the room, across the arguing Electors, as the light of sunset began to grow dimmer and dimmer. “What are you thinking?” “Nothing particular,” Josef murmured innocently, “only that a good mercenary has a tendency to end up on the winning side.”

what do you get out of being a mod these days

SONG OF THE BLACK CHAPTER VII: A PACT OF GLASS A Lord of the Craft novella set in ancient Ruskan lore. Previous Chapters: Chapter I: Osyenia Chapter II: Lahy Chapter III: Mejen Chapter IV: Soul & Sword Chapter V: The Eyes of Ruska Chapter VI: The Shadow of Dules With a daring plan crafted by the cunning Prince Kosav, the Karovic rebels, on the foot of their victory at the Battle of Mejen, march into the belly of the beast -- they sail north to the Trade City of Dules, where Vladrik Nzechovich has the Trade City under siege with an army three-times larger than the Karovic. After learning that the Electors of Dules want independence, and will submit to neither Karovic nor Nzechovich kings, the Princes meet with Vladrik Nzechovich, and strike a very dangerous agreement that neither side wants, but knows is essential if they hope to win the throne of Ruska. Music - Play & Loop All So many people in one place and yet there was silence. Of course, there was not complete silence: overhead, tides of black-red Karovic and green-red Nzechovich banners flapped ceaselessly in the westward wind; the nearby waters of the Lower Huns River lapped noisily against the creaking hulls of the fleet of Karovic carves moored near the bank; and creaking leather and clinking metal marked the anxious shifting of warriors. And yet, to Stanislaw Horselegs, the oppressive, heavy tension in the air could only be described as silence, as if the thousands gathered here held back shouts, screams, and the drawing of weapons. Stanislaw shared their anxiety. He did not like this plan one bit. He stood astride his fellow Bogatyr, Ratibor and Slavomir, in a pavilion atop a small bluff some three miles south of the Trade City of Dules, besieged by Nzechovich forces. The pavilion had been erected halfway between the Nzechovich encirclement of the city, and the hastily-erected fortifications on the riverbank where the Karovic had moored their modest fleet. Stanislaw glared under his helmet at the Nzechovich elites on the opposite side of the pavilion, who glared right back through their silver-winged faceguards. “This is madness,” Ratibor Skysent hissed at Stanislaw’s side. Though absent any signs of nerves, the holy Bogatyr looked irate with that fiery look in his eye, one hand tapping the pommel of his sheathed sword impatiently, and the other gripping the Hussariyan Cross around his neck. “We should have just crossed the Huns and carved a bloody path to Lahy.” Stanislaw did not disagree -- with thirty-thousand Nzechovich busy besieging Dules, it made perfect sense for the smaller Karovic army to attack the undefended royal court at Lahy. And yet … after hearing Prince Kosav analyse the situation at the war council in Mejen, he could bring himself to agree with Ratibor’s assessment either. “It’s … like what the Younger Prince said, Ratibor,” he whispered back. “If we let the Nzechovich take Dules, it’ll give them enough wealth and resources to eventually overwhelm us, even if we did retake Lahy.” Ratibor’s grip tightened around his Cross. “I am not breaking bread with Nzech pagans.” “You will if the Prince orders you to,” came a nearby mutter, and both Stanislaw and Ratibor’s narrowed eyes snapped to the rugged-faced man on Stanislaw’s right. Slavomir the Drowned seemed to be one of the few people present who showed no outward signs of nerves or disdain. Instead, the weathered face of the serf-turned-Bogatyr wore the same idle nonchalance as always. Stanislaw had always found that infuriating. “Was that a threat, Mutt?” Ratibor hissed. While Stanislaw held Slavomir in equal disdain for his low birth, at that moment, a small voice in his head had to admit he envied the other Bogatyr his unwavering calm at moments like this. While Slavomir was aloof and Ratibor agitated, Stansilaw was nervous - though he was a Bogatyr who had seen his fair share of battles and blood, this was not a battle. They had sailed from Mejen to Dules to make a gamble, a gamble that had to be made if the Karovic Princes were to retain any chance at reclaiming Ruska. Stanislaw saw the need for the gamble, but it did not make him feel any better about it. “Of course not,” Slavomir answered indifferently. “Just an affirmation of my loyalty to the Princes.” Ratibor clenched his jaw, and he opened his mouth to retort, but cut off when Stanislaw laid a hand on his shoulder. “Not now, Ratibor. Not here.” Ratibor looked between Stanislaw and Slavomir, and then shut his mouth with an audible click of teeth. Stanislaw released a shaky sigh -- Ratibor was far from the only one with frayed nerves. Behind them, rows of Karovic soldiers stood in formation outside the Karovic side of the pavilion, nervously waiting under black-red standards for any sign of trouble. On the other side of the pavilion, a much larger force of Nzech soldiers were arrayed in waiting lines. They haven’t attacked yet, though. The gamble is working so far. We just need a little more luck. With that, he steeled his resolve, and turned his eyes back to those in the middle of the pavilion. Sat on a plain stool on the Karovic side, the Elder Prince Barbov’s black curls whipped around his broad shoulders in the wind, and the rightful King of Ruska’s face was set in an icy scowl. The Younger Prince Kosav stood beside the stool, and shared his brother’s hair and hawk-like eyes, but he was far gaunter than his broad-built brother. It was Prince Kosav’s plan that had brought their small army to Dules to confront the much-larger Nzechovich army -- Kosav was Stanislaw’s milk-brother and oldest friend, and while Stanislaw could not comprehend what the Younger Prince was thinking with this plan, he was prepared to trust him. Until the very end … which may be rather soon. The two Karovic Princes had their eyes coldly set on a man with a neat crop of hair on an otherwise-shaved head slouched on a high-backed chair, with one leg crossed on the other. Every ounce of Vladrik Nzechovich oozed confidence and comfort, with his chainmail vest unlaced at the neck, the way he waved about his silver winecup that was kept periodically refilled by a comely young woman at his side whose dress was fine enough for a Bogatyr’s daughter, and the constant wry smirk he wore on his chiselled face. Like Barbov, he too had an advisor at his side -- a young man who looked a good deal like Vladrik, except his jaw was squarer, his head was completely shaved, and he wore a scowl darker than even Ratibor. Stanislaw did not know that one’s name, but he certainly recognized him. He was one of the Nzechovich at the Battle of Mejen. Their commander, I think. “You’re really serious about this?” Vladrik looked as if he was holding back a laugh. “You want a truce?” Stanislaw could not help but glare as the Nzechovich spoke. He had not really known Vladrik outside of polite greetings at feasts and tourneys before the Nzechovich Coup of Lahy, but the young man was well-known and respected for his performance at jousts and as a warrior for fighting raiders on the Carnatian border. Stanislaw had never had cause to hate the man, until now, and even in spite of his family’s betrayal at the Coup, something about his demeanour made Stanislaw want to stab him every time he spoke. “A temporary truce,” Barbov corrected through a tight jaw. The Elder Prince had not been enthusiastic about his younger brother’s plan either, but like the rest of them, he could see no other option that would not lead to their eventual defeat. “Oh, come on, Barbov. You can’t be serious!” Vladrik’s sly smile blossomed into a brazen grin. “You roll up to my army, outnumbered three-to-one, and say you want to be friends? You’ve just put the apple in your mouth and climbed onto the platter like a hog at a feast! And you even have the right physique for that role, too.” Laughter rippled through the Nzechovich soldiers, but it lasted only a second before the hiss of Karovic blades leaving their sheaths echoed through the tent at the insult, Stanislaw’s included, and the Nzech were quick to bare their weapons in return. Before anyone moved, though, Prince Kosav raised a forestalling hand and called, “Stop! Weapons away! We are here to talk of peace, not spill blood!” Gritting his teeth, Stanislaw obliged, and gave Ratibor an urgent look to prompt him to do the same. Prince Barbov sat perfectly still on his stool, as if any movement would cause him to draw his own weapon. “Easy, easy!” Vladrik cooed. “I didn’t know the Karovic hated jokes so much. Though, then again, I do think this peace of yours is a joke.” “Temporary peace,” Barbov growled through grit teeth. “Yes, well, as much as I can admire a last-ditch act of desperation to save your hides,” Vladrik began as he held out his cup from the woman to refill, “it lacks a certain … symbiosis. To be honest, I thought you came up here to die fighting at the hands of a great warrior.” He flashed his smile. Kosav and Barbov exchanged looks, and then nodded as if communicating silently. It was Kosav who answered. “It’s true that you have the advantage by far, Lord Vladrik. You have thirty-thousand troops, and we have just under ten thousand. It would be an overwhelming victory if you attacked us here. But we’re not here to die.” “Really, now?” Vladrik arched an eyebrow. “Because I might -” “If you choose to fight us now,” Kosav cut him off hastily, “you’ll never take Dules.” The smile slid off Vladrik’s face. For all his posturing, it was obvious to Stanislaw that the Nzechovich general was well aware of that fact. So, he’s not too stupid to see it. Good. Kosav’s plan hinged on Vladrik not being too arrogant or ignorant to prioritise his objectives, and Stanislaw had not been the only person who doubted him. Vladrik reclined in his chair with a more sombre expression now. “And what makes you say that, little Prince?” Kosav visibly swallowed a lump in his throat and answered, “the situation in Dules is plain to see now. The Electors won’t open the gates for either you or us. The city is seizing this chance to establish independence from the throne of Ruska, and they’ve hired many mercenaries to bolster the Dulen Guard. Without the wealth, resources, and influence of Dules, many other lords and holdings in Ruska will defy the rule of Nzechovich and Karovic alike.” “Be that as it may,” Vladrik said with a distasteful twist of his lips, “I can still win this siege with -” “With your current force, yes.” It was Barbov who interrupted this time, and Vladrik glowered. “If you fight us here, though, we will bleed you, Vladrik. You’ll win, but at the cost of some of your force -- enough to cripple you in any attack against Dules. You can defeat the Karovic here, but it will cost you Dules, and that will cost you control of Ruska.” The first throw of the dice. The tense silence returned as Vladrik pondered the equation, and the Nzech behind him shared doubtful looks. Although the Karovic were in open rebellion against the Nzechovich puppet who had been placed on Barbov’s rightful throne during the Coup of Lahy, their current army was only a thorn in the side of the Nzechovich. Everyone with an ounce of sense knew that the wealth of Dules was key to winning an actual war. Stanislaw sucked in a calming breath as he waited for the dice to stop spinning. The silence shattered as Vladrik abruptly laughed and slapped a knee, but there was a darkness to his eyes now. This arrogance is all an act. He sees the situation clearly. That’s good, at least. “You have a funny way of seeing things through those funny eyes, Princes. Humour me, then -- if I agreed to stay your execution until Dules’ treachery is dealt with, what will you do? Stand back and cheer for me? Run away and hide?” “Neither,” retorted Barbov. “We’ll attack the city, too. Help you, even.” The Elder Prince looked physically pained to say those words, but it was all part of the gamble, and so Stanislaw was grateful he was keeping a level head. “We’ll leave you to continue your assault on the walls, and my fleet will assault the harbour.” “Help me?” “Perhaps ‘help’ is a little strong,” Kosav intoned. “The reality is that we both want the Trade City, and it’s in neither of our interests to fight each other before that happens. So, we’ll both attack the city and stay out of each other’s way until Dules has fallen.” Surprised murmurs rippled through the onlookers. “And then what? We’ll remain friends? Forget about the Coup of Lahy? We’ll split Dules between us? Share Ruska?” His smile was mirthless now. “Then we can fight,” said Barbov. “ … You are joking, now, right?” There followed another rich laugh as Vladrik leaned on his knees, splashing wine over the rim of his cup. “Okay, okay -- let me get this straight. You want to call a truce so that both of us can attack Dules, and once the city falls, then we’ll fight for control of the city between us?” “Something you don’t understand about that, Nzech?” Barbov grunted. “I just … I don’t …” he said between bursts of snickers. “My force still outnumbers three-to-one. How do you …?” he trailed off, and the shaved-headed Nzech beside him whispered something inaudible, to which Vladrik gave a dismissive wave and seemed to murmur ‘I know’. His eyes flit back to Barbov. “What is it, then?” “What is what?” “Your plan. Why else would you agree to something so disadvantageous and that seems to benefit only me?” Barbov’s sudden smile was as cold as his eyes. “Canonism teaches us to help all those in need.” Vladrik barked another hearty laugh. “Well, if your false god is so inclined to help me, then it’d be rude to decline. I think we might have a deal, Karovic.” The man with the shaved head at Vladrik’s side coughed for attention, and shared a look with Vladrik, who rolled his eyes. “Oh, that’s right. One more thing, Princes. My cousin, Mylah … she fought in that disaster at Mejen,” he shot a sidelong look at the man with the shaved head again, who clenched his jaw. “Did you capture her? Is she still alive?” “Not for lack of trying …” Ratibor whispered under his breath to Stanislaw. The Nzechovich girl that had very nearly ruined them at the Battle of Mejen had kept her tongue still in most attempts to interrogate her, and when they left Mejen Kosav ordered her to be kept chained in one of the cargo ships to be used as a hostage, despite Barbov’s insistence she be hanged, or worse. “She’ll definitely stay alive now,” Stanislaw muttered back. “The fact that they brought her up first means she’s valuable to them.” Only, it didn’t seem like Mylah was valuable to Vladrik - he seemed to ask out of some begrudged obligation rather than genuine concern. The same did not seem to be true for the man with the shaved head, though; as soon as Mylah was brought up, intent and anxiety were etched into his face. He wants her rescued. Not Vladrik. There had been silence for a moment as the Princes considered the question, before Kosav answered, “She is. Would you like her released?” Instant relief flooded the standing man’s voice, but Vladrik only tapped the armrest of his chair impatiently. “Get on with it. What do you want for her?” Kosav pursed his lips, as if to make it look like he was thinking it over and he had not rehearsed this interaction a dozen times. “Your faith will suffice. If you abide by our truce, we will release her once Dules has fallen -- before our battle.” “You’re leveraging her to make sure I keep my word? ” Vladrik snorted. “Insulting my honour, now, are you?” Kosav opened his mouth, but Barbov beat him to it. “Your honour?” A cold fire roiled in the Elder Prince’s voice. “After what the Nzechovich did at Lahy … less than a day after the death of my father, after you killed us in our sleep and drove us out of our home, you dare to even use that word?” Vladrik pushed off his seat, throwing his wine cup to the floor. He was not smiling this time. “And what if I do, Barbov? Hm? What if I say it was an honour to cut down your swines? What would you do about it?” Barbov leapt up from his stool, and within the blink of an eye, both Vladrik and the Elder Prince were squared up with each other with their hands on their weapons, and the rest of the pavilion reaching for theirs, too. Stanislaw blinked in disbelief. What caused Vladrik to snap like that? The man was not teasing or mocking with that smirk like he had before -- he seemed rattled. “Barbov,” Kosav hissed as he pulled at his brother’s shoulders to no avail. “Barbov.” Vladrik’s taunts did not stop, though. “Go ahead, Barbov. Let your little brother do the talking. Better bow down and listen.” “Barbov, we can’t,” Kosav insisted, and Stanislaw only watched as every soldier gathered waited for the signal to act. Barbov’s fist was clenched around the hilt of his sword, and the metal rattled in its sheath. Come on, your Highness, he urged silently. Back down, just this once. We bide our time, and we’ll kill them later. Please, Highness. He sighed in relief, and Ratibor seemed to grunt in disappointment, when Barbov turned, kicked over the stool, and stormed out of the pavilion. Immediately, a crowd of footmen - Slavomir included - folded around him as he began to march back to the Karovic encampments on the banks of the Lower Huns. Left in the pavilion, a pale-faced Kosav panned back to Vladrik, who watched Barbov retreat bitterly. “You know, Kosav, you really should have been the one to be King,” Vladrik snorted. “We might never have been in this situation.” Kosav only firmed his jaw and asked, “Does our agreement stand?” “Oh, it does.” Vladrik seemed to regress into his composure as he turned back towards his own troops. “But once Dules has fallen, every last one of you who remain here will be cut down. I don’t care whatever clever plan you think have it -- it won’t save you.” He made a gesture to the shaved-headed man, who looked anxiously out towards the Karovic ships before falling in behind Vladrik. The rest of the Nzechovich lines followed suit behind them, leaving Kosav and the remainder of the Karovic forces standing in the pavilion as the wind flapped the canvas. “Well … we won the first roll of the dice, at least,” Kosav sighed. Suddenly, his composure and calmness deflated out of him, and he leaned forward on his knees, as if exhausted. “We have our pact.” “We do, Highness,” Stanislaw answered cautiously as he watched the retreating backs of the Nzechovich. “But it’s a pact of glass.” “If your hands are all you have, your hands are all you have,” Kosav muttered the old Ruskan phrase, and Stanislaw smiled weakly. Whatever else happens, we’re alive for now. That brought little comfort, though. They had won the first roll of the dice, but the second phase of Kosav’s plan was the hard part. Kosav Karovic ___________ Szitibor spared one last glance for the pavilion on the hill, and then mounted his horse behind Vladrik. They had picketed their mounts on a copse of trees near the bluff, and a war trumpet cried out the signal for the Nzechovich warriors that had escorted Vladrik to the negotiation to return to their encampment. As he trot just behind Vladrik with the rest of his immediate retinue - which entirely consisted of sycophantic nobles whose company he kept for prestige - he could not help but frown at his cousin’s back. Mylah is alive. They said so. She’s alive. The question of whether his sister was alive after the Battle of Mejen had kept him awake nearly every night since he arrived at Vladrik’s camp, but now that he knew she was not dead and waiting to be rescued, he barely felt any different at all. I’m not done yet. I still have to actually save her. To hear the Karovic say it back in the pavilion, though, he had nothing to worry about -- once the Trade City had been taken, they would release her, so long as the Nzechovich observed the truce. But … why? Vladrik had pointed out what everyone had been thinking -- this truce the Karovic offered was simply too good to be true. They’re not going to fight us, help us attack the city, release Mylah, and agree to fight us with far fewer numbers after Dules has fallen? It doesn’t make any sense. It was an unsettling analysis. Something important was missing. He urged his horse to ride at Vladrik’s side. “This plan of theirs -- do you have any idea of what it might be?” he asked in a quiet voice over the sound of marching soldiers. Vladrik wore an unusual pensive expression as his eyes stared at nothing, lost in thought. “A few,” he murmured after a moment. “Nothing solid, though. The most likely seems to be that they’ll try to ally with Dules behind our backs, but that doesn’t make a lot of sense either if Dules wants to be independent.” “Maybe Dules intends to use them to defeat us, and then turn on them to secure their independence.” “Maybe … but then why didn’t Dules open the harbour and let the Karovic in from the start?” Szitibor opened his mouth, but no answer came to mind, and he closed it again with a frown. They rode in silence for a few moments, and the knot in Szitibor’s stomach that he thought would undo itself once he learned Mylah was safe seemed to only grow tighter. “Are … you alright, cousin?” he found himself asking. “What? What do you mean?” “Just … at the end of that meeting, you seemed … different when Barbov brought up honour.” “Did I? Hmph. Didn’t notice.” “Vladrik -” “Just drop it, Szitty. We have a lot of work to do back at camp.” Szitibor watched his cousin’s stiff expression, absent the usual wry and lazy smile it normally wore, before he acquiesced. The din of the siege encampment grew louder as they approached the ocean of tents, beyond which the pale walls of Dules dominated the horizon. They did not get much further, however, before Vladrik suddenly spoke up again. “I know all you care about is saving Mylah, Szitty … but you know what we’re doing is best for Ruska too, don’t you?” Szitibor blinked at the question. It was not at all unlike what Mylah had said to him back in Mejen, before the battle had gone so horribly wrong. For Ruska. “... I do. Barbov would make a terrible king, and Kosav is too subservient to his brother to do what needs to be done.” “Exactly. I … know that, too. We all have our own ambitions, but they’re unified in creating a prosperous Ruska under the Nzechovich. It’s just …” He closed his eyes, and sighed. “I wish there had been a better way.” Szitibor furrowed his brow. For as long as he had known him, his cousin had been all flash and pomp without any ounce of self-reflection, so this Vladrik was new to him. “Better how?” “Barbov was right. We don’t have any honour for what we did at the Coup of Lahy.” The glazing of his eyes seemed to behold something unseen and unpleasant. Szitibor had not been present for the Coup - he and Mylah had been among the Nzechovich nobles called to the capital after the takeover - but he knew Vladrik had fought there. “We … had to kill people in their sleep, people without weapons, people … people who begged for mercy.” He coughed to clear his hoarse throat. “I … still believe it’s what had to be done to stop the Karovic from destroying Ruska, I just … wish there had been a better way. That’s all.” It took Szitibor a moment to realise that Vladrik was not asking him something, but confiding in him for his own sake. How … long has had this bottled up? Before Szitibor arrived at Dules, Vladrik had already been besieging the city for weeks, and he had had no shortage of company, from Nzechovich Bogatyr, to Boyars, to their noble children. And yet, when Szitibor had arrived, it was he that Vladrik wanted to take on as an advisor, and now it was him that Vladrik seemed to share his trauma with. He … doesn’t have anyone to talk to. But why choose me? Szitibor knew he was not likely to get an answer for that, but it at least bode well. He had only come to Dules to beg for Vladrik’s help to save Mylah, but now he might really be able to help his cousin - and the Nzechovich - in return. Since the defeat at Mejen, Szitibor had scorned any notion that he might be able to help make Ruska a better place … but now, he was not so sure. From atop the walls of Dules, the wind beat at Josef Tideborn’s cloak and thinning hair. Through his eyeglass, he had watched the Nzech and the Karovic convene on a hill in the southern hills, where they seemed to have spoken for the better part of an hour before parting. Parting, with no signs of bloodshed. Clicking his tongue irritably, he lowered the spyglass, and handed it to the much taller, and broader, man at his side. “Seems our job just got a little harder, old friend.” Dragan Skullsplitter sighed, and twisted the haft of the axe resting on his shoulder.

CT should not be a spot for RP, it should be a place that sets the scene for the map in terms of lore and story and serve to captivate players as their literal first step into the world and in some cases first glimpse of the server. See the CT section of my post for more: https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/216732-asharren-fan-made-map-design/?tab=comments#comment-1936990

who's the painter

a. epic b. why did 4 people write 1 paragraph

@The60th @Llir Cheers for leaving your thoughts, really appreciate the engagement. The nutshell and main thing I wanted to push for was improvements to our server in a lot of different ways. As I said in the post and Kowa seems to affirm, the server, as is, doesn't seem to make enough money to fund all the improvements that could really push LotC's quality (like lore/history video series, promotional art, etc.), so a Patreon seems like the natural solution. Then, since we have a lot of people on the server capable of producing high-quality content (again, namely art and code), it makes sense that we should invest and utilise our own while also improving the server. And yeah I get the whole thing of keeping LotC a volunteer passion project. I'm not proposing that we try to become for-profit or anything, but I, like everyone, would love to see our server improve with things like a better media presence. That, however, means acknowledging that pure volunteerism won't always take us the distance. It's great that we do have people who make us free videos and plugins, but there's a reason so much of our content is inconsistent and infrequent. LotC, through it's ten years of history, has so much potential for stuff like art and video series that would undoubtedly promote the server and increase recruitment, but I think some kind of Patreon initiative is necessary to get us there.