Fishy

"LEMON HILL!" Screams Caius of Lemon Hill, beating a drum and playing a fife simultaneously, though rather poorly. A tear shed from his eye as his homeland was at last restored. His footsteps cut up the land of Saint Lorina's, for what had once been marsh was filled in by the Stassions long ago. Perhaps this would be but the first act in the mireland's restoration.

"May the House of Alstion be laid low. Naught but a den of snakes and vipers, grabbed in their own pretension. How can any descendant of Philip I e'er be trusted? Let them be destroyed, root and stem." Thus rants Caius of Lemon Hill, frothing with irredentism over the loss of his birthplace many years prior. Sadly this was the fate of Ser Morgan of Angren's last living child, taken by a bitterness that rivaled even the lemons of that old hill. He had only a slice of lemon wedged in his mouth, forcing a smile to the next passerby.

"Why would any deign to trust a compact with the Aaunish? The last charter to which they were bound with the Church, they discarded as easily a snake sheds its skin. You can see as much on their very sigil." Commented Caius of Lemon Hill, biting into a lemon wedge and offering a yellow smile to the nearest passerby.

"Mazal Tov" Says Caius of Lemon Hill, "Yippie!", he exclaims.

And so somewhere a Lemon Tree blooms. Though Ser Morgan of Angren was but ashes, the lineage of the graft was continued. That it might one day return to its cherished hill.

🐸

The Death of Ser Morgan of Angren 11th of Sun’s Smile, In the Year of Our Lord, 1985 Upon a distant land, the red haired boy awoke. In all directions spread the endless shore, veiled in the mists of morn. His eyes freely wept, from what he knew not. Before him lay his arm, still whole, though he knew it to be shattered and shorn. A dream, he thought knowing full well he lay dying in the bowels of the Arch-Lich’s fortress, but at least he’d made his peace with this one. Cannonshot had torn an arm and hand from his body, striking upon his shield. He held the bloody, splintered stump that had become his arm. Pain, agonizing pain, flickered before his mind, bringing him to a knee. In spite of it all, the old knight had survived this and a soft prayer emerged from his lips. “Lord Above, be you Angel or God… Give me strength… That this evil ne'er should survive me…” Morgan spoke and then replied a bolt. Puncturing him through the breastplate and skewering his heart, the light fleeing his eyes as Ser Morgan did fall. Truly, Morgan was no eager faithful despite his cloak of righteousness. A sinner through and through who had broken his oath and betrayed a vow, in yonder year when his spurs were only just blemished. A boy of fifteen when he’d won them, sixteen when he’d tarnished them in war. How he longed for those delicate days before, when Velec was but a camp. When he’d baked lemon sweets with Lorina, when they’d gone to graft a lemon tree with Callahan. When Alasdair had beaten him in their first spar, when Nimue had blown into their lives. When he’d danced with Briar at the ball. Such dreams they’d all shared then, upon those fragile things Morgan truly placed his faith. These halcyon days of yore did much to comfort a dying mind, a bittersweet though they were. Much he’d done wrong, much he’d taken for granted, still he wouldn’t have traded them for the world. Upon such a dream, born in the despair of the Mori War, Lemon Hill was built. A chance to get back those days so freshly felt and lost. Some joined, some left, Nikias and Lucien, Mother Frinna as well. Months turned to years and so Ser Morgan labored for it. Yet those days were dead and gone, never to be returned. The reality that crept in truly only felt with the departure of Lorina, his oldest and dearest friend. Lemon trees still bloomed by his hand, but ever did they remain tinged with a citrine sadness. Others lost to the years, to cruel Father Time and the world in which they dwelt. Eventually Morgan found a woman to share his burden, and Grim the name he gave her. The years he had with his wife, a kindred spirit, a sweetness returned even if his hand grew lax. So it is that surrounded by precious things a heart turns to stone, and thus Morgan fell away from the world until her death. Their children grew and gone and a war ravaged humanity once more. The knight found himself tethered to the fight, as many had. And for it Morgan had a spear put through his leg and a duel with the Captain-General. The graying knight found himself worse off from either encounter, forever after with a limp. Yet he still had his home for a time, Lemon Hill, where he might sit and reminisce whilst awaiting his death. The grounds of which grew ever more daunting for Morgan to manage alone. It would not be long before the crown of snakes came to claim what was not their own, and Morgan could not stop them. Bereft of home and hall, Morgan could only go on to seek his death in the West, far from the realms of greedy man. Under the banner of Koyo-Kuni, allies against darkling beings, people he could count on as friends, Morgan found shelter and so too took up their fight against the Arch-Lich. Against skeletons and flesh thralls, giant worms and demonic lizards, Morgan fought as best he could for a crippled man entering his eighties. Beside Shugo Oijin, Danzen, Atsuko, Monjaro, Takemura, Bata, and all the others he carved the ranks and flesh walls of Gashadokuro. Such bond is what brought Morgan to meet his fate that day, laying there now in a pool of his own blood. The final battle against the Arch-Lich raged all throughout the cavern, demonic flame spouted, bolts and arrows flew back and forth, cannons fired. In the den Morgan was left to perish, his remaining hand seeking the silver and garnet rosary that hung on his hip, upon it strapped a pair of golden wedding bands. A final wish for a dream is all he asked of the old trinket. Whether to be a hero of fables or the villain of someone else’s tale, Morgan found himself back on that beach where it all began. The sun drew high into the sky, parting the mists. The sobbing boy wiped away his tears, choosing the path he’d trod once before. Whether to Heaven or Hell, SER MORGAN CAIUS OF ANGREN 1900 - 1985

Chants of BLOOD FEUD BLOOD FEUD BLOOD FEUD flood an old knight's mind, eclipsing all as he battled the mighty T-Rex of Gashadakuro. Recovering in the clinic waters, he blurts out "BEHEAD ALL PHILIPS!" to a crowd of Oyamen, the meaning perhaps lost on the Easterlings.

who cares this is like the 5th time this has happened IRP

mossy variants of stone, flowers

"At last... We have entered the Dragon Age (tm)... Origins!"

2 Emotes for Bows (Non Armor-Piercing Ranged Weapons, including hand crossbows) 16 block range or roll. 3 Emotes for Crossbows (Armor-Piercing Ranged Weapons, including longbows) 16 block range or roll. There, I fixed it, I fixed Lord of the Craft. Plate armor ubiquitous part of the setting, people want to roll with it as apart of the server's fantasy. Think there should be a crack down on only being able to RP what you have in your inventory. Players must have the item to represent the armor they wear on their skins if they want to it function in combat, no different from enchanted or ST signed items. ALTERNATIVELY: I think an Equip Load system would be the best way to move people away from platemail, limit how many weapons you can be carrying while in armor so combat roles are more clearly defined. Only problem is this would likely create overhead for moderation and rulelawyering so not sure how viable it is.

#000000

For an informed voterbase

Ser Morgan of Angren spits on the parchment he had signed.

"I'm getting too old to be able to read this..." Morgan groaned, soaking his skewered knee. He could only decipher the missive through squinted eyes, ever impermeable was its meaning even then. Such as it always was with his old friend, Callahan.

The Banner of Lemon Hill flies proudly in its procession to Sakuragakure, 12th of Harren's Folly, 1965 "Through the destruction of His enemies' do we gain our salvation." Ser Morgan of Angren intoned, hitching the chest of cannonshot to his cart and making for the Cherry Blossoms.

"A clear horizon," Morgan rested from his labors, sipping a concoction derived from lemons to help manage the pain of his skewered leg.

Morgan lit another candle for his windowsill. Another friend gone in so horrible a way, it brought only melancholy to the old crippled man, that Elena could not live in the new age she helped forge.

Old and gray, broken and crippled, Ser Morgan of Angren lit a candle upon the war's conclusion. An age of strife that had long existed since he himself had only just become a man finally concluded. He hobbled through his hollow hall to place the burning wick on a windowsill, a candle lit for all those he'd known who had perished in that half-century. Stalactites of wax had overtaken the sill, thick as the icicles that had once grown from the eaves of Lemon Hill during its deep freeze. Perhaps the world might thaw with this peace, perhaps it might remain the same. There was some hope, at the very least, for a gate without a gate.

Ser Morgan of Angren begins the arduous work of tearing down Stassion brick by brick, but only after a day of rest as the assault saw him wounded. "LEMON HILL." Soon the floaters shall fall to earth.

"LEMON HILL." Intones Ser Morgan of Angren from the top of Lemon Hill, making sure all was prepared to crush the regicides to his South.

Ser Morgan of Angren crawled out from under the day's slaughter. Blood, viscera; his own and other's caked over his armor. Sitting stop a pile of the carnage, splinting his broken left arm, he spied the corpse of Tonito as it was pulled from the field. Morgan mustered the strength to sign the Lorraine to the fallen Cardinal, a man who had saved him a lifetime ago.