M1919

One of the kindest people that I ever had the chance to meet, and by far one of the most welcoming people in Norland's Discord server. She had a wonderful sense of humor, a solid music taste, and the silliest of insults to message me randomly. I'm not that talkative for most people, but she saw through it, was adamantly friendly, and wanted to see my reaction to a horror mudpack or commentary of us all when we played Helldivers 2. The more I look back, the more I think that without her initial kind-heartedness, I likely wouldn't have stuck around to develop Sólgaard's early era, get me to appreciate certain games or song tastes, or meet the people I know now. Her influence was a gift; I'm glad she's touched others similarly. May this strong woman's memory keep the candles bright for her family, even during this dark period. 2 Corinthians 1:3-4

[X] "And what would it be for us to see? What perils, what plights- those taunts of damnation, it all ails me, -" "- but you should hope as much as I, Prince, that you will not let another to dictate your destiny!" - Twelfth stanza, Björnsöngur (Songs of Björn) THWACK! There was the sound of an ax clambering into the skull of a horrific pile of metal and flesh, which had crumpled down under the weight of one man. The remains are kicked aside, and the fog that was emanating from the clamor of smoldering rock and splintered timber had been laid to waste by the Uruk’s cannoneers and the trebuchets manned by the warriors from Grense and Ravenmire. The Varyag had been resolute in his efforts on one of the engines, preferring to keep close to where the Pontiff had been prior despite having personally been dispatching other souls to see to his well-being after also personally arming the Vicar of the Southron’s Almighty. He hoped ALL-FATHER would take pleasure in that, and that BJORN would laugh from the exalted halls and fields of beyond. THWACK! A poorly fired arrow found itself chipping against the dragonmaille. The arrowhead sank through a link's bend yet failed to penetrate flesh. It was snapped and released below, letting it crumble on. The ancient beast he wore for protection hissed and damned the very fiber of the Norn’s being in a gutteral whisper. Its tongue is esoteric and foreign, yet Conan had figured it was a reprimand for his recklessness. An insult to the fact that the War Druid were but a mortal being. He had clambered over the walls by then, with Daahd’Lur giving the command to leave the makeshift fort and advance. One elf fell after another, pierced by javelins and spears that hissed against the humid air. One halfling lay crumpled with steel enthralled into his narrow shoulders. The war-ax had gotten stuck in the collarbone and the wielder discarded it in favor of using the steel dropped by the stunted soul. On opened up his gore with its narrow frame and thin neck squashed by another norn's hammer. One hand, the Northman had realized early on during his entry into frays, further south- into the township of Silasia, which was rapidly becoming more of a fabled barrow than anything else. All it would take. THWACK! A clump of stone fell upon another- Ysmir could hear their cry when the rampart gave in. Onward, he thought to himself. Ever-forward, ever-resolute, the dance of the voice in his head swirled around his skull like a thick mead from the kegs of his fathers. Conan would need to bury his blade forward into the souls before him. He was a warrior who hated needless killing yet had come to love the dance in the jungle as though it were validating all the sweat-soaked trips he had made ferrying his companions across Aevos’ plunders. From the vaults of kingdoms to the lairs of ghouls, the plundering of trinkets and assets brought him joy. The pair of dwarves kicking over some market stall reminded him of this. It had given the thegn a sense of comfort, knowing that even amid foray could greed be found. THWACK! A current of bodies had jumbled up together as the walls were swarming with warm flesh and bones that would go cold. Conan heard through it that up above Warlock held right, pressing on with the rest of the main body. The Khan and Thegn had the center and left, pushing with the rest of the crusading host and a few of the Numenedain, too. The Vicar had followed, guarded by then with the resolute warriors of the Southron Halls as Grense’s finest put to torch an elf when he slipped and fell into a pit of his own design. He realized that the screams would haunt Conan’s conscience for a time, but not until this symphony of bone-shattering iron had all concluded. The maestro would not be done for some time, nor would the skalds who’d reminisce about such a performance. The siege had been expected to last for weeks; yet it hardly drifted on for a few days. Even still, the finality of it seemed so bittersweet that it was over almost as soon as it had begun. The enemy had weakened defenses, a craven leadership, and an unprepared host of militiamen. The fact they were not already surrendering toward the tide of blood and iron had been commendable, and Conan could find neither shame nor insult for them in that regard. Pity, perhaps, yet the sycophants and the bloodthirsty creatures who warmed the surcoats of the Silasian uniforms had yet to shed their skin in full. Suffer not the unworthy, Ysmir heard that familiar voice- a woman’s- remind him. So gentle, so caring- the epitome of love and perfection and Fate had proclaimed her so bound to his conscience. Return with your shield and suffer them not. He had heard a cry for help and dived down into one of the murder pits to save a Numendain man-at-arms who had gotten himself entangled. Leaping, his scavenged broadsword had flung itself into the fragile make of an elfish woman, carving through her armor and rendering her bloody in a moment. Return to me. He had brought up his blade one final time, preparing to hack this foe down and end her suffering as swiftly as possible. There had been a glint in the elf’s irises, bloodshot and horrified, and yet she saw none but the draugr haze of Ysmir’s spangenhelm. Bloodied knuckles and calloused palms tightened along the grip as he brought the steel down with a resounding- THWACK! The camps were lively that night. The victory was assured, and the wounded were carted off for treatment by clerics, shaman, physician or put out of their misery. What loss this righteous host had experienced or recovered from the heaps of stone and ash left behind by walls kissed by brimstone and boulders- none of them were from Conan’s own. His companions were alive and well, happy as could be. He had taken his leave from one of the meetings, where he felt an old friend congratulate him, and another thanked him for keeping an eye out for them. The man had picked up an esoteric banner and carried it with him in homage to a brother who was now missing. The warchief took himself along a scenic path still stained and smelling of sulfur. Soles of leather had guided him to the front of the stronghold, and there, he set out to collect piles of rubble to carve out a runestone while the banner of his brother’s faith had overlooked the act, as though he might see it himself. One to leave behind for the memories made and souls taken. --- The stone, when found upon the battlefield, would read: “When we were but smaller things, with twisted dreams and unable to finish the meat from the bone, Rarely did we ever pause to think- to consider how we might be able to carve our fates into stone. The enemy here gave it their all, and yet it was my ax which they found to kiss them as their beloved; We had all fed them a blistering roast of steel for their last meal- their walls now run red. Where had they gone, those self-proclaimed glorious and resolute fighters for freedom and liberty? Had they scampered like the pests they are, perhaps taking off into the sea? This was nevertheless a slaughter, a reaping of cattle from rotten pens which we cannot dine, Yet to you brave few brothers-mine, tonight we shall feast, and my lips will taste of our enemy's wine.” ---

[x] AN OPEN DECLARATION OF CHALLENGE. "Gaze onto thy companions, Björn, and see to them. For you are their keeper, as they are yours," "And if it is that any one of them should fall?" "Make use of your steel, or someone else will." - Eighth stanza, Björnsöngur (Songs of Björn) A storm had rampaged through the heavens above the brutally smitten halls of Sólgaard, with embers long-settled against the charred rock and soil which had found itself set upon regularly by the demons and brutes- what the Norns would refer to as the ‘ilk of GRENDEL.’ Still, they had all persevered- they had pushed on into the land they worked and cared for so lovingly- that which they, and others, had fought and even died to keep safe. The tundra remained unforgiving, yet one man found the taste of frost evermore sweetened for him. The loss had forged a sensation of wroth inside him, spurred not by religious conviction or aims of zealous veneration—but by the loss of a soul most cherished to him. It had taken root within this dour manifestation, fortifying the establishment of a void that imbued him with such hate. He took to writing, as he rarely did, and set off when it was done. This was a task he'd seen addressed personally. Thus are these words written and nailed before the imposing doors of Tor-Praeth: “In all my years, I have now come to find That there is, from the Southron, a great prejudice against your kind. At first, I thought it was excessive, and still, I see no reason to scream and weep- To decry and sing with those who claim you devils- damning your soul for GRENDEL to keep. I confess I do not understand your very nature beyond the smoldering brimstone and mastery of fire, And yet it was upon a man whom I loved as a father that's now come to beholden a righteous pyre. Revenge is an endless cycle, a curse that forever imbues the human spirit with a luscious harvest of blood and sweat. For us mortals, it consistently becomes the standard theme in songs of love and regret. Under the traditions of my blood as Ruric and as the honor of my bones of Norn, may this serve as a challenge to whoever it was of this pack that has claimed the life of Sir Ailred. You may name a second—you may name a third. I will fight one, I will fight dozens, and just like him, we will fight until we are burnt and struck dead. We, the sons of Sólgrunnr, serve but one purpose: to live and to die And it will not matter whether it is against Southron knight or decadent ghoul- my blood shall never shy. Slay me, and in turn, will vengeance be reaped and sown Yield your soul to me, and vengeance will be all our gore has ever known. ʞonan-Thegn”

[ x ] The Sólvikingr, in a daring move, mustered a few good souls in the dead of night. Their stealthy footsteps through open doors and thin walls forged an opening for something devious: a whole throne was taken, a bold and unexpected act in response to the Balianite’s lack of hospitality during the last visit of the Northmen. A prized gem of a foreign land, it had been practically brought on tour of empty hills after a survey of the seaboards and rafts. After a short while, the fellowship gathered in GRENSE, the small town at the foot of Lemon Hill, which was assailed by brigands paid for by the enemy liege on the same day. Seated upon the throne were those of the Great Hearth. This is not yet a portrait. Perhaps you could change this? A metallic beast guides the column, the wondrous mount known for its great strength and resilient caste of iron. It was kept upright by the sled and wagon it pulled behind, and the halt was momentary. A small crowd gathered, and the Norns provided treats and alms to those who had come forward and would receive them. After all, at least two of the royal vaults had been scavenged through and plundered, with such little reward found in any. Friends rejoiced, some even stood a bit confused, but the day was merry and who could there have been to refute? A tragedy for the schismatic, and a defeat for the plotter - and in one day! Ah -woe! Left behind in the vacancy of the throne was a poem, carved into where it once stood: “The plump swine usually tend to squeal for vibrant things: Lies of piety and loyalty, covered in the shadow of shameful queens and scandalous kings; They even brag of great warriors, while ivory halls barely possess just one. What melancholy! That within their walls are dusted banners cherished by none. Chaunt of ferocity, lust for blood, but the pig is dressed in honeyed silk, And from your shepherds have we only observed your bilk. There is no doubt your line is cursed, mandated by GOD to be forever-rotten - Shall we weep for you? Nay, on behalf of your sins that may never be forgotten. So, we take this throne and other sentimental things, too, Your palace is today a hollow shell of the bulwark you’d once knew. This world is yet still sacred, the pain of such a generational loss to last but a moment, The cheese has been stolen from the barrow of an ill-prepared rodent." - OOC: The poem is known. Who did what is not, except for of course those who do know.