wolfdwg

It was on the eve of darkness on the outskirts of ruins of Valdev, the host of Man, headed by The Grand Knight of the Imperium and himself, Chaptermaster of the Black Dragon, Sir Arnault Honeywine, met with the Mountain's forces. It was there that the scale of the Daemon's Awakening was witnessed, and the harkening sounds of chains resounding the end of days. It was there they were routed... Sometime later... "The descendants of Horen shall stand defiant against the apostate. It is in the almighty's light we shall rage against the darkness. And upon our spears shall a mountain be reduced to pebbles." Sir Arn Honeywine, Chaptermaster of the Black Dragon would comment before a hall of soldiers, "The Empire needs Heroes..."

Sir Honeywine would be seen running around the Midden with more letters to personally invite. There seemed more that the Sir had forgotten: After all amended invitations of personal invite had been issued, Arnault would finally begin to search for a seamstress to tailor him a worthy outfit for his soon to be wife’s eyes.

Amidst the lowlands of the Midden sat a Dragon Knight of the Chapter of the Night Terror, Gudour. Idly he sat using Lanolin Oil on his, deeply blue, axe that sat upon the desk in front of him. He lathered the layer of the weapon treatment finely along the bladed edge of the axehead. Courage that day for his men is what prevented any of them from falling, but he himself nearly perished to a cloud of deific miasma, his lungs still stung despite it all being a dream. Within his mind, one heroic moment alongside his Knight Commander, Sirius Mareno, played out. The Continent was teetering on the edge of cataclysm, The Empire called for Heroes.

@KidKrinklesAre we the baddies?

Ser Honeywine, the Kingsguard, would stand atop the dias amidst the announcement of the restoration of his ancestors Empire. "At long last, we stand as one, Highlander, Heartlander, Southron." He'd look to the crowd, "Ave Imperium."

Ser Honeywine would isolate himself to his room for a few days, his grey eyes would scan to the framed drawing of him and Calias, before facing it down. "Remember not his death, but the good times. Rest well my friend, I shall holdfast." In silence, Arnault Honeywine wept.

Name: Ser Honeywine Affiliation: Burgundian Kingsguard Relevant Titles or Aliases: N/A

Amidst the fresh snowfall that had layered the northern forests of Solgaard did a lone tent harbor a lone sleeping norn. With a violent shake did he awake, the vision and the prophetic voice still ringing in his head. His body shivered even more so as the dream had sapped the warmth from his bones. His gaze fell to the mark that tainted his pale skin, and it lingered there as it slowly faded beneath returning color. Something had shaken the norn deeply. Anticipation? Excitement? Worry? The Norn would go to retrieve his arms and armaments, slowly fixing them into place as another restless night robbed him of peace. Before pulling his gloves over his hands, his gaze lingered again. The discoloration of his digits, black and frostbitten, drew his solid green irises void of their whites. A shaky exhale of grey mist escaped his cracked lips, before the Fateweaver spoke to himself, "I'll see to these emissaries, dreamstalker." Faenor af Isklandt, Fateweaver, would exit his tent to venture out into the fresh snow amidst a black starry night.

The young kingsguard Ser Arn Honeywine would stand outside the Queen's bedchambers as she tended to her twins. Unable to express his joy due to his vow, he simply stared at a now outdated family tapestry. A thought came to his mind as it spoke internally, "I suppose someone will need to teach the princelings to ride a horse, when the time comes." Beneath the winged helm of the Kingsguard a small smirk cornered his lips, "Grow strong your Highnesses," came an internal sentence.

“They shall be corpses upon mounds of paper. The southrons only know how to wage a war of pen, not steel it seems.” Faenor would comment as he readied longships with his Nord and Norn brethren. Balian will burn.

Will Trinn ever let me comm her for art

Think first path for authenticity of what occurred, but as wowj said earlier maybe a splash of path 2? Maybe present it from a IC Historian presenting the tale or something. Also I never got an interview >:(

can I draw lines on maps

Mordor is mine

Cladden in maille and wyvernscale, Faenor, would ride alongside Dragomir in the northern woods of Numenost. He remembers the day in which the Godhammer smitten Lumbridge from the face of Aevos, leaving naught but ruin and destruction in its wake. Gazing to his uncovered hand he noticed the darkness that had grown from his finger tips to nearly engulf his palm and overhand in inky black tendrils. "Faenor, your eyes broedr, they seem changed?" came the voice of Aethelwulf, the time around his warped and he was in the Nordengrad capital's Flaming Tankard. It was true, his irsis and sclera in both had faded into a forest green, occasionally wafting in ink splotches flickering in and out with blinks. Then the scene played again how he stood on the walls of the siege camp outside of Lumbridge, feathers and mist surrounding his form. The fateweaver that day saved man from the clutches of Mordrings minions, but something had changed. "There's always a cost."

"BAARKABARAKBARAK BARK!" Faenor rides his horse around the besieged Haense castle, baying like a hound from Hel. The Norn rides to war.

Faenor would ride away from the armageddon levels of destruction that wrought the sight of their camp and Lumbridge. Ever so often, he'd begin invoking the weaves of fate to spur on his stead, exerting the limits of his stallion to double the normal speed. The norn was spattered with dirt and falling snow as debris pelted his back as effectively the 'godhammer' fell onto the lair of mystics. Many were spared certain death in the fighting against Mordring's Legions, due to his invocations of fate, but had any survived that blast? He had not known. He continued his path brewing on the words of his unseen benefactor on a prophecy that was bestowed onto him before this endeavor. Alone and with no-one else to hear him in his journey back to Solgaard, he uttered a phrase. "Thalandir could've killed us all..."

"Classic." Faenor commented. He reads more palms.