Knight of Elken

THE DREAM OF THE ENDLESS STEPPE 5th of Grand Harvest, 116th Year of the Second Age Sir Milonir of Whitehall leads a Raevir warband of Weiss House Guards to hunt the Harbingers. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ “PRO MARIAAAAA! Dnes dosáhneš svého konce, ďáble! POMSTA ZA MARII!” The clattering of a warhammer, slamming into steel. The whinny of a steed. A clattering of blades. The muffled sound of a tackle to the ground. Steel clatters, and two warriors make ragged grunts. Groans of pure exasperation. Howls of pain. Slit. The setting of the mellow sun cast a rosy hue in those golden southern waves of Almaris, serving to illuminate the triumph in the gigantic northern warrior’s fat, beady brown eyes. Sir Milonir of Whitehall, the colossal beer-bellied Northman, arose from his kill. Below him lay the body of the the Harbinger of Fear, who was responsible for many heinous acts across the lands of Almaris alongside the other Harbingers. One such act was the foolish decision to take the arm of his Liege Lady Maria Weiss in the Red City of Karosgrad. House Weiss does not receive wounds unanswered. And now, that Harbinger knew this. The others would soon know, too. Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, the amber jeweled, black longsword burrowed its way out of the mess that remained of that Harbinger’s skull, and back to the gloves of that valiant Knight. Yet... The reward of triumph fled, as quickly as it set in. A throbbing, all-encompassing pain. Panic, terror replaced triumph. Crimson ichor oozed down his ginormous, mud-caked figure – painting his neck in a deep crimson. Adrenaline coursed through his veins no more. Reality set in. There was a hole in the side of his neck that would not stop flowing. The cost of his vengeance. It was to be determined he must pay this blood price - fluid he had never seen flowing so dramatically as it did now. Desperate, hysteric pants escaped hoggish lips, masked only by the sound of crashing waves. The abyss reached for Milonir. Bells tolled. He was cold. Pale as a ghost; pallid. Crows circled; they found their next feast. The night was coming. The Bogatyrs of Old called for another to fill their Great Hall in the Skies. His soul would soon be theirs. What a fitting end, it would be. Rewarded with the unending throng of battle with heroes of legend for all of time. And he saw them. Beckoning. Despite this warrior’s end, for the first time in years, he understood true fear. He was afraid. Afraid of what truly awaited him in death. Doubt cast through his mind of the abyss that surely awaited him. The Harbinger of Fear had succeeded, inducing fear, and terror which gripped the very fiber of his soul even in its death. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ He was spiraling. Spinning, growing dizzy. Milonir needed to find a way to clog this hole. Fast. Make it stop, he panicked. You're going to die! Mind racing a million miles a minute, his consciousness was polluted with waves of terror and hysteria which washed over him like the sea. He was losing a lot of blood. Milonir desperately spun, searching for any end to the pain. He had to think – and fast, before shock set in. Deep in the recesses of his mind he remembered the words of that medical prodigy, Haus Weiss – stuff it, apply pressure. Yes. This might just work. It is my only option. Vibrating, shaking hands gripped that ornate longsword Valkskej i Ghaestenwald, cutting a selection of cloth from his undershirt. And so entered that grubby cloth sleeve to the oozing hole in his neck. It was thick. Thick enough to absorb the blood like a sponge. The agonizing, hysteric cry of pain was heard for miles - like a dying animal's screech. In an act that saved his life, he applied pressure to his gaping wound, locking an x with his arms around his neck to prevent that wound from flowing. And so, with an oozing hole now plugged, and tremendous pressure applied, that river of blood turned to a dribble. Whether it was GODAN, the Spirits, the Father, the Bogatyrs of Old, or perhaps simply luck, none could say. But powers beyond the mortal realms saw it fit to keep this young Knight alive long enough to receive aid. Whoever it was sought more valorous deeds from this wretch of a Knight. They were not satisfied with his accomplishments yet. There was still work to be done before he was permitted entry to the Great Halls in the Skies. This would not be the end of the glorious song of that Champion of Whitehall. Those Skies would be left without Sir Milonir – for now. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The way to Talon’s Port. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ There was only one town close by: Talon's Port. The forested town of shamans who had healed his Liege not one day before. It was not far now. Under cover of moonlight did dogged, crimson painted warrior be pulled towards that mystic town of Talon’s Port atop a horse black as night called Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed. Rider and steed shared a bond that surpassed words, and that steed galloped as fast as her legs would take her. It was a miracle he hadn’t fallen off of that midnight steed on the thickly wooded path there. He fought the haze of unconsciousness long enough to make it to that town of farseers. Milonir was now with the dark elf shamans in that opulent, mystic town of brick. The shamans were met with a rider who appeared on the verge of sliding right off of that steed, crumpled against her mane. He successfully clung to the little life he had left. A truly mysterious elfess of ebony named Lenora flanked by another named Gusiam were unflinching in their duty. Lenora the guide did not hesitate to lead the Northman and steed through those streets of Talon's Port. Gusiam retrieved an offering to the Spirit of Akezo. A ritual to save his life was to take place. Through delusion, and near unconsciousness, Milonir mistook Lenora as his mother. With breath practically a whisper, he asked, “mamej... did ea... become...” “...Bogatyr... mamej?” “...Yes, my son,” resounded within his head. His life was now in the hands of those shamans. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ 360 pounds of highlander and steel collapsed to that poor white medical cot that dutifully supported his tremendous weight. No hesitation was made, as that hideous wretch Milonir became surrounded by the mystical silver and peach mists of the farseers Lenora and Gusiam, engulfed in their ritual. Chanting surrounded him, in a language he was not conscious to listen to. The duo invoked the Spirit of Akezo, who deemed fit to bestow upon to Milonir the gift of life. Blood flowed from him no more. He was truly safe now. Sealed. Whole. Stable. Delirious days of healing, Blood Lotus soup and broth awaited him. He was unconscious for an entire week. And in that time, he was in the land of dreams. Dreams. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The holy, endless steppe of dreams. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ Milonir was lost in the endless steppe. He wandered for days. He saw Bodbmakos, Koeng Georg. Lord Felix, Audo, Haus, Sir Onon, Sangilak, Ikumak, Veronica, Via, Sierra. All joined him on this journey. After what felt to be years of wandering, he saw the Bogatyrs of Old. They were in two columns, stretched to the horizon over endless hills. Thousands of blades were raised, forming a tunnel endlessly long to a destination unknown. Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike welcomed him to traverse the tunnel of swords. For the path of blades led to an ocean of golden grass. It was familiar. He knew this place. Somewhere he had not seen in many, many years. It was the grass of his homeland. His home was right over the horizon: Whitehall. He knew what awaited him in Whitehall; his mother. Milonir, atop that steed of midnight, galloped with might towards Whitehall, towards mother. Blades retreated with thundering hooves, as he cantered past those Heroes of Old. They who roared, relishing his name endlessly: Milonir, Champion of Whitehall. The road home was not to be made without a fight. For past the hills of heroes swarmed an army of one million enemies as black as death. Banners as black as their armor were raised, and in unison, chanted a dark, evil language. Sir Milonir faced the army utterly alone. Or so he thought. On his sides an army of one million did appear, all atop horseback. All manner of warriors from his homeland were present. Glorious Haeseni Hussars, their armor gleaming like gold. Grim, unflinching Raevir knights remained true, composed. Men and women adorned in the colors of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl and even Czevuskoving warriors and shieldmaidens of Whitehall joined the army, with shields as wide and thick as oak. And his Friends, Lieges, and Bogatyr alike did accompany him. Warriors unflinching prepared to charge, atop eager steeds. In his quiver lay a million arrows. In his hands a lance made of unbreakable gold. And under him, that horse as black as night; Stargazer. The golden sun of the endless steppe penetrated the eyes of the enemy, dousing the glorious army led by Sir Milonir in divine rays. Days of battle ensued. The battle of Whitehall. The battle of dreams. Sir Milonir was invincible, indomitable. Victorious in endless battle, a reward was due. Entry to that nostalgic village of Whitehall. Yet, in dreams, victory in battle was to be the only reward. For he was not met with Whitehall, nor his mother he so desperately wished to see. He was met with a smoldering ruin. And silence. Heroes and his immortal army vanished to dust. His friends and followers were gone. He was alone. And he looked to his hands. He was a kid once again. Stood before him was his father. He was flanked by two Harbingers on each side. Father’s face, as still as death, donned a mask as black as night and took lead of the Harbingers. All charged with blade in hand. Milonir, no longer Sir, was defenseless. Those blades of both his father and the Harbingers plunged into the chest of that screaming, fat kid. The child was dead. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ He awoke screaming cries of agony, tears streaming down his portly cheeks. Milonir was covered in beads of salty sweat as the pale, crescent moonlight shone like a silvery claw through silk purple curtains. He was alone. Just like in his dream. Brown orbs gazed to his shaking hands. It was just a dream. A nightmare. The Harbinger of Fear’s reach gripped his psyche. With the guidance of the farseers, many offerings to Akezo were made by Milonir in the following weeks. The Spirits had won a new follower. After weeks of ritualistic healing chants, visits from his friends of House Weiss and his personal Raevir guard, as well as many discussions on how best to venerate the Spirits, Sir Milonir found himself atop Stargazer, the Wonder-Steed. He bid farewell to those dark elven shamans who had saved his life. This debt would never be forgotten, and he would find a way to repay their kindness and venerate Akezo and the Spirits. He was a new man, who possessed new convictions and beliefs. For now he too counted himself amongst the believers of those Spirits. Gone was that stupid, oafish kid. Killed in dreams. Yet gloom followed him like the plague. Fear cast through his mind. Where there was unending confidence before, doubt, weakness rooted themselves in his being. He could be killed. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ Yet, he remembered why he had started this path. His love for House Weiss. The defense of his friends. His conviction. His pride. The unending, soul-burning desire for vengeance against the careless enemies of House Weiss. This all-encompassing vortex of emotion controlled every part of him. Suffer not the Unworthy. Stand against the Long Dark. Venerate the Spirits. Hold GODAN above all else. These tenets gripped every fiber of his being. Sir Milonir was not allowed to fail. He must be unflinching. He was on a righteous path toward becoming a true Bogatyr and he knew it. Conviction restored; every wound received to Lady Maria and House Weiss would be returned with limitless fury. There would be more blood spilled. Sir Milonir, Hero of Whitehall was prepared to lose every drop of blood in his body to this end. But it was time to return to Zvaervauld. North. Northman and steed began the long path home. Yet, reaching jungle's end, they paused. They observed endless golden grass beyond the cover of that humid forest. This land was known. Milonir and Stargazer were in the endless steppe from dreams. The Stargazer and Knight stared skyward at the blanket of stars that stretched to infinity for hours. He knew peace unending. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The infinity of stars. _________________________________________________________________________________________________ The Harbingers thought it would be they to assume the role of hunter. Not so. They would soon learn they were the prey. Woe unto them. And woe to the enemies of House Weiss. There would be Vengeance for Maria.

Sir Milonir of Chadhall, the Greaseheart, Hero of the Petra, Devourer of Kitchens, Slayer of Beer Cans, and Generally Large, Heavy Man, looks to his tremendous storage of garlic bread in Zvaervauld. Ravenously.

together, we shall fight mineman wars again some day, brother. until then, I shall keep the fire going 🔥🕯️🔥

Lore like this is so fun to me, and provides a unique ritualistic alternative to FTB. And some options for The Gays TM. We're in a fantasy world, and stuff like this makes it feel like it. I love this so much +1,000,000

Sir Milonir of Whitehall, Hero of the Petra, prepared to watch his Prince slay this dejected shadow of an archduke.

The Zvaervauld Lilac Honey Boys ® send in their registry form. Sir Milonir of Whitehall, Hero of the Petra Lord Audo Weiss, Slayer of 100 Rozanians @Frostdrop1 Lord Marshal, Lord Felix Weiss, Heroic Inferi Demonslayer @SethWolf The Legendary Sir Paul Montalt, Hero of the Petra @excited

The now Ser Milonir of Whitehall is rumored to have slain 25 rebels that day without a scratch, along with his knight-elf friend, Ser Onon the Fearless who is rumored to have slain 30. They accompanied their Prince Marius Audemar back to Karosgrad, ensuring safe passage on Star-Gazer, the Wonder-Steed. Jokes and delightful banter were heard all along the roads back to Karosgrad.

Shadow and darkness controlled Milonir of Whitehall's visage. Night set on the BSK keep in Karosgrad. Candlelight danced off of the lad's acne-ridden cheeks, as the news of these RIDICULOUS summons were told all throughout the BSK barracks. A comrade, who had just returned from saving the entire world, was being summoned to answer ridiculous charges. The fire served to illuminate the white-hot rage that burned in the young armsman's eyes. Anger radiating from every pore of his body, the portly young guard set out to collect his allies and closest friends to make sure this was made right. "Is outrage. Audo iz hero of entire realm, agree many. Vould never harm eny vithout reason, and risk position. Ser Bishop gone too far." The 15 year old Brother Armsman of Saint Karl prepares to stand with his friends in House Weiss.

Milonir of Whitehall, one of the guards who kicked the children out, would tremble in his boots. He knew full well the cruelty and merciless, wanton violence children were capable of producing. And he was in their sights.

A chubby, overweight teen adorned in the familiar yellow and black stripes of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl armor clatters on the sight in the skies, terrified of the onslaught surely to come. Heart pounding, and duty-bound, "Zhere iz no courage without fear. GOD zave us poor souls."

Milonir of Whitehall, an untested Aspirant in the BSK, grew ever eager to perhaps prove his mettle on the field of battle-- and become a true bogatyr.

The BSK lad Milonir, an untrained 13 year old fat lad, waddled up to Elia, and submitted his request to participate in the tournament in a neatly folded parchment. His submitted parchment was clearly written by somebody else, perhaps suggesting his illiteracy.

Milonir felt immense pride upon hearing these poems told in the square of Haense. The fat, chubby young lad especially resonated with the guard poem, seeing a lot of himself in it. Adjusting the poorly fitted sallet that kept sliding down over his eyes, he returned to his post, standing as a silent sentry of time.

____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ THE BURNING OF WHITEHALL ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ I: THE GLUTTONY IN DARK One hundred minas. Seax. Father’s old gambeson. Scarf. Favorite fur hat, woven by mother. Silent as a fox, the pig-nosed, chubby young lad prepared this bundle of small possessions in the dim light of the slowly dying hearth fire set by mother. Enough was enough, and Milonir of Whitehall could tolerate no more. Tomorrow was going to be the biggest day of little Milonir’s life. He would prove to his father and everyone who laughed at him that he was a real man, and a true warrior. Papa would see, they’d all see. But now was the time rest. Not without second supper, of course. See, it had been a habit of Milonir’s for the last few years to collect a second serving of supper after mother and father had fallen asleep. They certainly knew, on account of young Milonir’s drastic weight gain. Mother, at least, said little about it. Father on the other hand, was not so silent about his disdain for Milonir’s weight, and often made sport of the subject. Vegetable soup again. He had done this a million times; harking the leftovers and cleaning plates when no one was looking. Perhaps it was because it was late, or perhaps he was too comfortable with his habit. Milonir, careless as he was, had managed to knock over the pot of soup. While this alone would be cause for some small concern, the loss of second dinner was not what caused the horrified expression overtaking his visage. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ II: THE FOOL OF FLAME He had not only managed to spill his second dinner, but a number of coals too at the base of father’s clan tapestry. And to punish him for his gluttony, gods beyond his control saw it fit that the tapestry was to be set ablaze before he could act. Milonir could only stare in panicked horror as the tapestry that had been in his father’s clan for generations was devoured by intense, contagious flames. What could he do against such an enraged flame? The blaze would claim not only this prized tapestry, but now soared to the thatching of their home. The thatch house began to cough sparks in all directions like an angry blacksmith pounding away at an anvil. Growing, growing, growing. Completely optionless, despaired Milonir hurried out of the shabby little thatch home as fast as his pubescent legs would take him. It was surprising in this state that he was even able to manage that. A good distance away from the home, Milonir froze in abject, paralyzing horror at the sight before him. Everything he knew, all of his memories, and his very childhood were set ablaze in the inferno. His family raggedly stumbled outside, awoken from the commotion and smoke. Mother and father, covered in ash and coughing, doggedly made for Milonir’s side. Mother, through her infinite love, appeared confused, betrayed, completely heartbroken. Father’s expression told a different story. The bleeding emotions of righteous rage, betrayal, and a satisfying confirmation that he was right gripped his visage. The family blade gripped within his white knuckles told it all. No words were exchanged, yet Milonir squeaked “No, no,” barely mustering the words. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ III: THE COWARD'S WAY OUT Panic overtook him, and Milonir backed away from his kin, like a desperate, cornered animal. Run. All he could do was run. With his bundle of possessions under his armpit, Milonir escaped into the pale, cold moonlight. Not stopping to look back at the product of his foolishness, Milonir noticed a much brighter orange glow out of the corner of his eye. Whitehall burned. His legs carried him as far as they would. Echoes throughout the valley could be heard; panicked voices familiar to Milonir, and the thundering masses of timber that fell in on themselves. They slowly dissipated until all was silent and dark. Run. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ Whitehall burns. ____________________________________________________________________________________________________________________ IV: THE ACCIDENT It was an accident. He didn’t mean it. What had he done? It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t mean for this to happen. Young Milonir had proven to Whitehall that their words were right. That Milonir was exactly what they said he was. A useless, fat pile of shit. Reality set in. Milonir stopped only to vomit the vegetable soup he had eaten earlier. Everything he knew and loved was ripped from him that night. He was alone in the dark forest, left with nothing. All he could do was keep running until dawn broke. The bustle of Haense lie before him. A new day. Milonir would make this right. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not in a year, or even ten. But he would make it right. He swore it. He swore it a million times. Milonir would right the wrongs of the past.

Its cool seeing how your skins have improved over the years