Draiden

Aedan sat in his barren court, hidden amongst the backalleys of Alisgrad as he read over a missive sent to him by the... Chancellor? Chamberlain? He didn't quite know the difference, nor did it matter. To him, it was just another honorific given to some stooge to handle minor administrative tasks for the crown anyways. The nature of the missive, however, was quite troubling, and he had many restless nights fighting himself over what to do about it. He had a lot of pride for what he and his lineage were, as furtive as it seemed to be. A long line of warriors and scholars, bred from bloodlines of royalty, fighters, heroes, alchemists, drunkards and scoundrels. Through the eyes of his predecessors, Norland had always been watched since the foundations of Seahelm were laid centuries ago. He wondered what they would say; how they would react to behold Alisgrad now. He was unsure of what they'd think of it. It didn't matter much anyways. Where was Aedan's beloved lineage now? Living in an alley and written off until needed to do what must be done. It seemed a common theme, at least in recent generations - no one had the courage to do what was right except the Farettos, and the Farettos always suffered for it. A price to pay for everything, he figured. Half of his body lost to the tides of Svarlandic chaos and a war that some thought would never end, and no thanks but continued service to a crown that could not bear its own weight. Some predecessors took that mantle with such a ravenous fervor, but not him. Such a warm-hearted soul was not meant to be a dog of war. An age of heroes came and past, and Aedan was merely a bystander... At least he didn't feel like a hero. Heroes were celebrated, and he felt like any decision he made would be met with ridicule regardless of what he said. No other paths to take except the one that led away. He gathered up what little possessions he had left after the sacking of Varhelm and left his cold corner of the new city. He felt old, weighed down by the mistakes and responsibilities inherited from his forebears. Yet he felt somewhat liberated as he left through the front gate - as if the weight had been lifted for his new path into the unknown north. The path of the Warrior Priest. In Alisgrad, the rumored legend of the Barrel King hopefully lived on, though its newest denizens hardly knew what it meant. His last notes would seem nonsensical to them, but yet they managed to resonate with a few. Peace out, everyone.

Aedan raises an eyebrow at the missive. "... Who the hell is Vangel?"

Aedan smirked at the flyer, he himself being a travelling doctor. "Why didn't I think of doing this? This is great."

Somewhere in Varhelm, a Red Priest laments the passing of Father Paco. "Adios, Padre."

Aedan Faretto knew only two basic rules to fighting - hit the enemy, and don't get hit by the enemy. He thought about all the confusion as to whether or not Oren "won" this raid, despite not setting foot into the city. A lot of people showed up to both fight and be fought, but less of his comrades in purpose not littered mass graves on the Haenseni roadside, and he himself managed to walk away from it with only minor injuries. "The best success is coming out ahead of people whose entire livelihood is fighting and nothing else, I suppose."

Aedan Faretto would go back home to Norland alongside his brothers, relatively silent among the whooping and hollering of "IRON FROM ICE!!" from Norland's sons and daughters. He had no personal qualms with the Ferrymen, and ultimately didn't quite understand what business the people of the Rimeveld had in the conflicts of Eastfleet... ... But he had to admit, he'd almost forgotten how fun it was to fight.

Adan squints at the note. "... This is the second time I've seen this ad. Isn't there some kind of vetting for the notice boards?" Adean writes a letter back. Aedan, Castellan of the Purifiers. Norlandic alchemist. Half of me is made of rock and metal. Write back.

don't care + didn't ask + cry about it + stay mad + get real + L + mald seethe cope harder + hoes mad + basic + skill issue + ratio + you fell off + the audacity + triggered + any askers + redpilled + get a life + ok and? + cringe + touch grass + donowalled + not based + your're a (insert stereotype) + not funny didn't laugh + you're* + grammar issue + go outside + get good + reported + ad hominem + GG! + ask deez + ez clap + straight cash + ratio again + final ratio + stay mad + stay pressed + pedophile + cancelled + done for + mad free + freer than air + rip bozo + slight_smile + cringe again + mad cuz bad + lol + irrelevant + cope + jealous + go ahead whine about it + your problem + don't care even more + sex offender + sex defender + not okay + glhf + problematic

Aedan Faretto would hold his hands up defensively. "Before anyone says anything - I didn't do it."

Aedan would frown behind his porcelain mask. "Mera? Get the ball. The aurum one."

Aedan Faretto, despite his favorite team being knocked out cold in the semi's, would take advantage of this exciting development as the Dunes prove themselves able to contend with the juggernaut Saints. He'd begin taking bets all over Almaris on behalf of his part-time employer Velsyni Indoren, who had taught him the beauty in all events is not necessarily the events themselves - but rather the mina to be made in the process. "Father above do I love a good gamble."

Aedan would read over the wanted poster with a frown. "Man, I didn't really understand the importance of shutting up and covering your face when committing a crime until now - we hardly know anything about this guy, if it is indeed a "he"

Aedan Faretto would whoop and holler at the Beserkers' newest win, proud as can be that his brother was continuing to do the clan proud. He'd throw himself relentlessly into the celebratory riot at the Indoren Corner Club, eventually being arrested for destroying half the tavern by himself. He was quoted to have said "BESERKERS BALLIN!! LETS ******* GOOOO!!"

Skjord would comment to a local news source, "Yn ov tchaem hjaet-bjutchaed mae en bjaetchwaen mae laeks. Ae tchjnk tchaet schjuld bjae ae fjovl, bjutch aetch's njotch fjoor mae tchjo haet tchae plaeyjaer oor tchae gaem - mae rjovl aes tchjo plae, aent ae schjuld plae baetchaer."

Ballin and bucketpilled