Pureimp10

Username: Pureimp10 Character Name: Ser Otis Affiliation: Empire of Man Desired Rank: Any Which games will you be attending?: Siege of Totenpfalz

Ser Otis had been among the first to climb over the Urguani defenses with Jerry (the Noob) when the Imperial army breached the city. He was damn proud of the work he'd done today.

A GOOD DAY “Good day to die.” The southern wind gently caressed Duncan’s face as he turned to his side. “What?” “Good weather, clear sky, fertile land, this,” the sergeant coolly continued. The man seemed like a veteran; his armor did not appear new and dappled across it were dents where steel had struck it. “If I had to pick a spot, this’d be it. Perhaps a tree would sprout from me.” Duncan could do little more than blink at the man’s words as he reached down to pat and calm his horse beneath him. “Ye should know better than tha’, lad. It’s bad luck to speak o’ death before a battle. Scares the horses, ‘n a scared horse brings death to its rider.” “You northerners and your superstitions,” the man scoffed as he urged his own horse forward. “You could do with a bit of humor, old man. Not every old wives’ tale has a lesson.” The Baruch did not respond, watching silently as the sergeant rode away. He was superstitious - he couldn’t deny that. He’d made sure to pin white heather to his chest for good luck, and whenever he walked past the hospital tent he scratched his jewels to pass a little fortune to those being treated inside. He never taunted Death, remembering well how his friend Dmitry once claimed no “enemy” could kill him, only to be found stabbed in the back by a “friend”. He was old too; there was no hiding the toll time had taken on his body. His once-thick brown hair had grown thin and white, his forehead broader than it had been in his youth. His hearing had dulled, and his fingers ached when he held a sword too long. Sigismund’s mark - crow’s feet as the southerners called it - spread from the corners of his eyes, joining the many other wrinkles that lined his face. Eighty years, he thought to himself as the wind dandled his few remaining hairs. Nearly three times what Karl got. I wonder what he’d have looked like if he got to this age. His thoughts of his old king were quickly cut short as the war horns sounded through the Imperial lines, men shouted orders and boots thundered across the grass below. Darren - his oldest comrade and captain of his guard - pointed with an armored gauntlet out to the golden field before them. “There, yer grace. Th’ dwarves are advancin’. Seems th’ time has come.” Duncan nodded; there was little use for words at this point. He glanced at the faces of his men - cold, unamused, veterans of many battles and sieges - and to his son, Duncan ‘the Younger’. He had not been the father the boy deserved in his youth, yet he quietly hoped the years ahead would grant him a chance for atonement. In silence he slipped his helmet upon his head and brought his visor down. The wind rose suddenly, pushing back against him and through the slit in his helmet as it cut across the field, tugging faintly at his armor. “Best get to it, then.” The battle was quick. An imperial victory was never in doubt - the dwarves had neither the manpower nor the equipment for a winning defense - but the proximity to their capital made them fight all the harder. An unexpected rain had turned the field to mud, softening the imperial charge and drawing out the melee. The mire did little to change the day’s outcome however, and the imperials still took the ground. Engineers set to work near instantly, ordering nearby trees felled for trebuchets and battleworks dug for the cannons. Distants blasts echoed through the camp as Darren guided a limping Duncan back to his tent, but the old man’s thoughts were not on the bombardment. “Ah loved tha’ damn horse, Darren.” Duncan grunted with each word, his boot sloshing with each step in the mud that the pair took. “Sigismund curse the dwarf tha’ killed ‘er.” “They had t’ kill it, yer grace. Bringin’ ye down t’ their height was the only way the bastards could try t’ kill ye.” The old man chuckled softly at that, as much as his aching ribs would allow. A lucky pikeman had stuck his horse in the muddy brawl and brought the Duke low, the weight of his armor and the force of the fall bruising his chest and arms and trapping him in the mud. He shuddered as he remembered how close he’d come to death and tried to push the memory aside. “‘ere we are, yer grace.” Darren lowered his voice as they reached the tent, where a servant stood ready to doff the Baruch’s armor. “Ah’ll go check on the other men, but ah didnae see any o’ them fall.” He lingered near the entrance as the servant struggled with the buckles on Duncan’s armor. “Dinnae be so rough lad, er ye’ll rip the lord’s arm off,” Darren snapped. Startled, the servant jerked his hands away and abruptly removed Duncan’s pauldron from his shoulder. A grunt escaped Duncan’s lips as a small steel-tipped shaft struck the floor with a dull thump. The servant picked up it then - a half-broken quarrel, most of its wooden length snapped off, leaving only the sharp head that had lodged itself in Duncan. Of course the halfmen use half a bolt. There was little time to inspect the projectile. Blood began to flow from the hole in his underarm and stained the grass below. The calm of the tent shattered at once. “Yer grace! Ah’ll fetch a physician, ye run ‘n fetch Lord Duncan - the younger!” Darren and the servant shouted over one another as they rushed out of the tent, nearly slipping in the mud outside in their haste. Duncan, meanwhile, brought his hand against the wound as best he could, though his breastplate made the motion awkward, and he could not remove it alone. He sank slowly onto his straw mattress with quiet acceptance, keeping his hand clamped over the wound in a vain attempt to hold in his life's blood. You old fool. He hadn’t felt the bolt when it struck him, and the pain had now dulled to something distant. Outside, the boom of the cannons rolled across the fields like thunder, reminding him of the rainy hills of his home. His blood quenched the thirst of the grass beneath him, spared the rain until now by the shelter of the tent. His mind wandered, as though it knew the path ahead better than he did. He thought first of his sons, Amos and Hamish, how happy he’d been at their birth. Hamish was the first, with his fiery red hair; then came Amos with his dark spruce-brown locks. Duncan remembered how he held them, one babe in each arm, how he sang to them in their youth when thunder frightened them in the night. He thought of the last time he had seen them before coming south, and how he would not see them again. Next came his namesake and heir, Duncan. He thought of his son’s birth and how near it had come to killing his mother. He thought of the lad’s wedding day, nearly ruined by his arriving drunk. A faint chuckle escaped his pallid lips then, costing him a trickle of blood. He’d seen the boy become a man and, more recently, a father. He thought of his daughter-in-law Constantina, whom he had come to see as his own daughter. The poor woman carried many burdens; he hoped he had done something, at least once, to ease them. His thoughts drifted to his grandchildren - Garen the beast, Henry the gentleman, and Duncan the glutton, third of his name. Then to the youngest, little Brianna, whose golden hair he’d grown to love. With the last of his breath, he whispered a quiet prayer for their wellbeing. His vision dimmed. His breaths grew shallow and close together. His hands and legs felt numb. Somewhere outside the tent, he could faintly hear the sound of a lute being played, and of soldiers laughing and dancing to celebrate their victory. A good day after all. REQUIESCAT IN PACE Duke Duncan Eirik Baruch 1992 - 2072

Duncan the Elder played with his new granddaughter, giving her his finger to hold as he admired the latest addition to his family. "Come on Aileen," he started, choosing to call her by her middle name, "did ye have tae be blonde?"

"Ah won at the last Imperial weddin', perhaps ah'll have similar luck 'ere?" Duncan asked, to no one in particular. The old man was now into his late 70s, and his mind had begun to go.

Duncan Baruch smoked another cigar after finishing his first, laughing out puffs of smoke as he did so.

Duncan the Elder smoked on a cigar from the comfort of his Jorenic castle of Barden.

Duncan Baruch, Father Zeno's patron, laughed.

thought maybe there was a hidden message in here for me but i guess not

Duncan Baruch was struck fiercely across the face, as any observer would note with how fast his head was turned after the slap. He was glad at least that his son's marriage was no longer in jeopardy thanks to Hadrian's swift justice. God save the Emperor.

Duncan Baruch remembers seeing dwarves invade the Midlands. Duncan Baruch laughs.

BALLOT ✠ Legal Name: Duncan Baruch ✠ Age: 60 ✠ Residence in Tarnavon: Castle Barden ✠ I cast my vote in favor of…: ✠ William Valdevar

Issued by the DUCHY OF VALWYCK On the 17th day of Owyn’s Flame of 2052 A.H. TO THE PEOPLE OF THE MOUNTAINS AND THE LAKES, Godan has blessed us with a new continent, this great land of Azuras, to call home. The village of Tarnavon, though settled only a year ago, has flourished beyond all expectation, its markets bustling with trade and its fields rich with harvest. In celebration of the resolve of the Ayrikiv and Highlander peoples, and to officially inaugurate the village of Tarnavon, the Duchy of Valwyck invites all men and women who have seen at least sixteen (16) winters to partake in a grand melee tournament - a contest of strength, honor, and skill to mark our triumphant first year upon these new shores. The melee will be single elimination and fought with fists, and will take place in the fighting arena beneath the Bear Trap tavern. No sign up is required; anyone wishing to compete need only arrive on the day of the tournament. No eating will be permitted once the bout has begun, but food and medical attention will be supplied as needed to all participants. The victor of the tournament shall be dubbed “the Tarnavon Terror” and receive a 100 mina prize. OOC: The tournament will take place Saturday, the 25th of October at 3 PM EST. To get to Tarnavon, head south from the Northeast Passage SS pillar at CT, or head northwest from the Imperial capital. Coords: [-766, 27, -1291] ENDURE AND PREVAIL, HIS GRACE, Duncan Baruch, Duke of Valwyck, Count of Ayr, Viscount of Voron, Baron of Laval, Riveryn, and Gant, Lord of Jorenstadt, Guardian of the Hanseti Coast and the Westerwald

DUCHY OF VALWYCK: THE VILLAGE OF TARNAVON Issued by: THE DUCHY OF VALWYCK Under the watchful eye of Duke Duncan Baruch, the Duchy of Valwyck has been built anew upon the shores of Azuras. Within its demesne, highlanders have gathered, uniting the remnants of their own folk with the Haeseni who sought refuge within its borders. The Duchy of Valwyck on Azuras. At the heart of the Empire’s northern highland forests stands the village of Tarnavon, meaning “haven of the woods”. Here, surrounded by nature, tradition and honor are the cornerstones of daily life. An aerial view of the village of Tarnavon. Gathered around the village center, the bustling heart of Tarnavon, lie the village hall, a blacksmith’s forge, an alchemy shop, the Canonist church and the Priory of St. Otto, and the lively Bear Trap tavern. All roads lead to opportunity in this center of commerce and community, where all men from every walk of life can find their purpose. The Bear Trap Tavern, nestled on the edge of the village center. The newly established Castle of Barden, meaning “Bear’s Den”, watches over the village from its highland perch. Built atop a low mountain, the castle stands as a testament to Highlander perseverance and serves as both the seat and home of House Baruch. Castle Barden as seen from the Tarnavon jousting grounds. The front gate of Castle Barden. All who seek brotherhood, community, and a purpose greater than oneself are invited to the Duchy of Valwyck! The black bear of Baruch. OOC: This build was unfortunately not shown in the Burgundy showcase but can be found northwest of the Imperial capital! To get here, walk out of the western gate of the capital then turn north and follow the road through the arch with a statue on top. Big thanks to the build team, particularly @Rudi, @Drew2_dude, @Crusteh, @Piov, @Quinn275, and @importanthippo for the build and screenshots! Check out the Burgundy showcase here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l2RXQ4QPHwE See you all on Azuras!

CHARTER FOR THE TERRENCE MAY SOCIETY OF FELLOWS Established 592 E.S. | 2038 I.S.T PREAMBLE The Terrence May Society of Fellows, or the May Society for short, is a scholarly organization dedicated to advancing the arts and humanities in the Duchy of Valwyck, and more broadly across the Imperial domain. Founded in 592 ES, the organization was formalized following a series of informal commissions from the Duke of Valwyck in collaboration with a growing cohort of scholars in Braevier. Named after Terrence May, an acclaimed jurist and politician from Valwyck who advocated for the arts and patronized numerous public projects that recuperated esoteric Highlander histories, encouraged joint partnerships with universities across the former Orenian Empire, and sponsored educational exchanges across institutions during his tenure in public office. Likewise, the Society’s mission remains consistent to the spirit of its namesake by promoting a more cosmopolitan world through knowledge, creativity, and intellectual partnership. ARTICLE I: MISSION AND MANDATE In its pursuit of knowledge, the society has established three goals through which it will fulfill its mission: I - Form a community of inquisitive individuals with a common passion for the output of literature, poetry, art, and research in Ayrikiv and broader Descendant culture. II - Encourage and sponsor the production of literature, poetry, and art across the all of descendant-kind. III - Safeguard artistic and academic expression of truth by protecting it from political or factional interference. ARTICLE II: SOCIETAL STRUCTURE The Society shall be led by the dual leadership of the Chancellor and Vice Chancellor. The former shall be inherited with the Ducal Coronet of Valwyck and the latter appointed by the Duke or Duchess of Valwyck. The Chancellery shall be held by the Duke or Duchess of Valwyck, who serves in a titular role of leadership as patron and sponsor of the Society. The Chancellor will have the authority to allocate funding for the Society’s researchers, offer protection from outside political interference, in addition to all powers granted to the Vice Chancellor (Vizkanzeler). As of the writing of this Charter, the current Chancellor is Duke Duncan Baruch. The Vice Chancellor shall be appointed by the Chancellor, and serve as chief coordinator and organizer of the Society. The Vice Chancellor shall have the authority to induct new members into the Society, propose assessments and awards of merit as they deem necessary for the function of the guild, and conduct the general business of the Society. As of the writing of this Charter, the Vice Chancellor is Elijah Nastoria. The common Members of the Society shall be known as Fellows. Fellows will have the authority to conduct research and publish writings in the name of the Society. Fellows shall take the following oath of honor upon induction to the Society: “I resolutely affirm to uphold the conventions of proper scholarship, to abide by the pursuit of knowledge for the betterment of society, and to safeguard the truth without reservation or intent of subversion.” ARTICLE III: ON MAINTAINING THE AYR COLLECTION Members of the Society shall be tasked with maintaining the Ayr Collection, the Duchy’s official repository of scholarly works, including but not limited to books concerning literature, science, history, poetry, philosophy, and theology. Additionally, the Ayr Collection shall encompass notable relics, their preservation, and exhibition. Fellows shall designate among themselves, and with consultation with the Vice Chancellor, their respective projects to contribute to the Ayr Collection. Fellows shall be tasked with presenting their works to the Vice Chancellor of the Society before receiving formal inclusion to the Ayr Collection. ARTICLE IV: RESERVE CLAUSE The Chancellor of the Society shall hold reserve power to amend specific statutory provisions herein vested in the charter. All actions undertaken by Fellows must abide by conventions established by Imperial law governing conduct, ethics in research, magical regulation, and crimes against the state. SIGNED, HIS GRACE, Duncan Baruch, Duke of Valwyck, Count of Ayr, Viscount of Voron, Baron of Laval, Riveryn, and Gant, Lord of Jorenstadt, Guardian of the Westerwald, Chancellor of the Terrence May Society of Fellows THE HONORABLE, Elijah Nastoria, Vice Chancellor of the Terrence May Society of Fellows