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About Anisgar

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    Coal Miner

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  • Character Name
    Alvar Ruric

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  1. “Nordish pride world wide, *******.” says a drunken individual
  2. *dosent recall a Norlanders backing out of any fight nor retreating from any battle* ”read up on norland culture inbred” Rollo would laugh at this man
  3. A Reflection on Nordish law and Peoples ‘To struggle is divine, to succumb is beastial’ ‘There is only the Father’ these words, pounded into my skull over innumerable hours of study in the clerical arts. Yet to this day I have found none that captures the essence of our history and law so succinctly. We have for almost five hundred years remained whilst our oppressors, our foes. They are long forgotten to the dusty annals of history. Therein lies the question. Why? Why do the Nordish go on when so many fall, breathing their last breath and welcoming the embrace of death with a resigned sigh. In that vein, what does it mean to be Nordish? What has prompted them to reform some sixteen times now. In contrast to the southern ethic, originating from Nenzing. The secular cannot exist. To claim a sphere is secular is to reject the divine in regards to that sphere, to belittle the divine by implicitly suggesting its absence in any theatre. There is in the Nordish understanding no sphere where divinity is not present and no sphere wherein divinity can be excluded. Man walks in the realm of the divine, and thus must always conform to the divine law or risk disaster. In no sphere is this more apparent than in the matter of law and governance. The state, when formed in the divine image guarantees none of the trivial ‘rights’ so many enlightened scholars champion. Rights to life, to liberty, to trial, to property ad nauseum. These claims reinforced by the notion that they are divinely guaranteed. Yet to me this has always seemed a foolish claim. One construed on the utopian dreams of sheltered academics rather than a harsh confrontation of genuine divine law. All the aforementioned rights share the same inherent flaw. They can be alienated. Therefore they cannot be divine. For that which is guaranteed by the divine cannot be alienated. Yet each of these precepts in turn can and have been taken. By righteous or tyrannical means their possessors have been denied their ‘rights’. As such it becomes clear that these are not rights, but privileges. Granted from those wielding power, deprived at whim or by institutional sanction. Yet in the end deprived nonetheless. There is only a singular ‘right’ guaranteed by divinity. Struggle. The right to one’s own power in all circumstances. A man bound in chains can labour to free himself, a man bound by wytchery retains his inner sanctum and from their can rail against his abuser. Therein lies the purpose of life. Mortals, being wrought from sinful flesh, are doomed to endless vice and failure. Destined to stray from the divine path by the constitution of their own flesh. The pure soul, that alone descended from the father trapped within a cage of sinful flesh. Constantly under the corrupting influences of a rotting world. It is only through endless unceasing struggle does the mortal ascend from beasthood to become what they are. What they were meant to be. There is nothing more repulsive than a mortal, granted conscience by the divine, having cast aside this most sacred of gift to indulge in hedonism and primal urge. Repulsive. These are the fundamental precepts of Fatherism. This, most basic of philosophies instilled in the mind of every Nordish child from their first breath ‘till the dirges ring over the flames of their pyre. It is in this that one can begin to understand the Nordish ethic. To persevere in the face of impossible odds is the most beautiful act one can perform. To recognize the brevity of life and to live every moment in rejection of the darkness, the sin, the vice, the cowardice. That which grips the flesh, but not, with effort, the soul. Dancing this beautiful dance in the face of a despairing world, a despairing future. There is no form of worship more divine. Writ by Godric of Mordsgrad
  4. Wow! This is real good stuff. Perfectly balanced!! Would love to see this in the game. +1
  5. Fly the Red, Hoist the Flame *A letter is sent to the Nordish chieftains and their ilk en masse sent forth from the Eyrie of Pinemarch. Upon it the sigil of the Edvardssons would be imprinted To all the broad children of the Father. Those who bear the Father’s flame in their hearts. Those whose veins flow with the blood of the Rurikid, the Nordish. I call all of the blood and the flame to the halls of Pinemarch. You may not know of me so I shall speak of myself. I am Godric, a son of Edvard, by way of Thoromir II. A 2 scholar of our history and student of the Father’s teachings. Yet most of all I am Nordish. The Nordish realms have fallen to disrepair, the clans are scattered, the Hearth scattered and lacking leadership. Thus I call this Folkmoot, this gathering of all Nordish peoples, of all Fatherists. We shall meet in Pinemarch and discuss the future path of our peoples. Around the Holy fire shall all chieftains gather. And we shall discuss the following. Topics of Discussion -Blood Feuds, between the Nordish and with Foreigners -Nordish laws -The Nordish clans -Dealing with traitors and apostates -The Future of the Faith -Grievances of the Rurikid -Grievances of the clans and the freemen -The Future of the Realm -The Future of Pinemarch For too long have I stood idly by and watched the fate of our people meander down the dark roads of the future. For too long have I been engaged in travel and study. Their exist slights to our noble people that cannot go unanswered. Amongst our people remains bad blood, foul feud. The Fire of the Hearth burns low, unkept and lacking a keeper. For the last century we have moved from hovel to hovel. From tiny wooden village to tiny wooden village. Seeking to avoid the ails of the world not with our grand walls and strength of arm. But rather with our simple lives. Trusting that our smallness of scale would keep us safe from those who would destroy us. Once more the Red shall fly from the high hall. Once more the pyres shall be lit. Arrive at dusk on the morrow. Hark, come the Nordish. (8pm est tonight) Writ en Namen de Godric,
  6. Alvar shakes his head in disappointment, before going to get a bite to eat alongside the other fallen Norlandic kings.
  7. The False Steeds Issued and Confirmed by His Lordship William II Silversteed and Arthur Silversteed With the recent return of the beloved Grandson of William “The Humble” Silversteed, William II, tales have been told across Norland of the rebellious Silversteed kinsmen, further tainting the Silversteed line of Aragon. William II and Arthur Silversteed cannot let the family's name be tainted any further. Thusly in the eyes of the Allfather, William II as the head of House Silversteed, descendant of Ethan Silversteed the eldest son of Avalon, declare the line of Aragon bastardized no longer allowed to hold titles nor the Silversteed name, thusly all titles once held by these traitors shall be granted unto William II himself, and shall be formally destroyed and restart the house from anew. Furthermore all those not willing to follow the traitorous Silversteeds, shall be warmly welcomed for a return to Norland to further support the King of Norland in his conquests against the false pretender, as a Silver Guard and shall be granted living space within the new Clan hall. Lastly, all those not of the descent of Ethan “The Courageous” Silversteed that proclaim themselves TRUE Silversteeds, shall be hunted and hung by the Silver dogs, as decreed by His Lordship William. The Silversteed line shall not be tainted any longer. We are Retribution. Writ En Namen De William II Silversteed, Chieftain of Clan Silversteed Arthur Silversteed, Son of Brunn
  8. Nicholas gasps after reading the document “A bold move!”
  9. Anisgar

    To Fireheart

    just call the 25v25 off alrdy pls ffs, i want siege some orenians!
  10. A Broken Branch, of an Elder Tree The circulated writings of Aeyn Edvardsson Rurik, Today I take my pen to this page with a heavy heart. For my blood hangs from the Ash Tree. Ancient symbol of our people. My King condemned my kin to a criminal’s death, for he had betrayed our land, our people, our Father. This man was dear to me. Known to others by Chieftain of the Caunters to me he was simply Caylus. He was a good man, with a straight back and kind eyes, who took in urchins and orphans in their time of need. Fed and clothed them. Taught them to read and write. Perhaps his veins ran thickly with the blood of his mother, a heartlander through and though as I am told. For his stomach always turned at our ways, at our justice. As the storm clouds of war weighed heavy upon the horizon, and the boots of foreign men increasingly invaded our lands I sensed great turmoil in his heart. Within our humble burgh a faction had formed. Perhaps of cravens, perhaps of the sentimental, perhaps of the wise. Only history will tell. Endlessly they begged us to defect to the cause of the rebels. That we should abandon our oaths, to the Hellenic Throne. That we should kneel to some foreign lord, of a foreign people, of a foreign land. A man who would write poetry as his men fought, bled, and died. As did.., far to many of our own. I have buried enough young men in this war to be far beyond the delusion that we shall reach victory quickly. But in the end our King could not be swayed by the words of these appellants. The young King Alvar cast these folk from our lands. Some departed on good terms. Merely wishing to be unaffiliated with either side. Whilst the Caunters, were banished. I will never know the workings of the minds of my fellow Rurikid. For we are a strange breed of men. Eternally obstinate, nigh suicidally devoted to our loyalties, to our convictions. Neither man would bend. And as rumours grew that Caylus intended to challenge Alvar in the ancient way, by mootright. The former was exiled from the Nordish realms. To live amongst his new battle brothers in the depths of Orenia. The war raged, the rains fell, and the crows feasted. The once golden fields atween Leuven and Dunharrow were rent and torn by endless skirmish and battle. They are now nought but bottomless mud and mire. Split only by the ever shrinking paved surface of the Imperial road. Again and again Caylus came to me, each time with growing desperation. Surely I would be able to change the opinion of my liege. Surely I would be able to sway the chieftains, the freemen, the clanless. No doubt the All-Father would wish us to survive, for the faith to persist. He said to me over and over again. For what hope could be had against the vast legions of Haense, of Adria, of Curon, of the countless brigands and mercenaries their vast coffers could employ. Again and again we grasped victory from the merest jaws of defeat. Our lords trumpeting our great victories as I was compelled to bury the corpses of more and more young Nordish men. Men who had died fighting a Heartlander war. Over Heartland crowns. But our oaths are not so easily broken. The Renatians had given us safety when we fled from Doran, his brigands and his Adrian rebels. They had given us land, titles, and most importantly of all. Our Faith. Only one Horen before had granted us such a boon. To turn our back on such a lineage. Unfathomable. As our intentions, nay our convictions became increasingly clear. The visits from Caylus began to decrease. Further apart and with greater desperation. Until one day, returning from a deep raid into the plush lands of Adria we came upon him. He was being held by the men of Istaff. A brutal band of warriors whose strength and support had been instrumental in repelling the Orenic rebels and holding the defensive line at Dunharrow. They ceded him to us, for he was a wanted man in the Redmark. And so, with a heavy heart I escorted my own blood to Dunharrow. That he may answer for his crimes against our King. Having brought him to the depths of the Dunwatch, my courage broke and I departed. For even with the Father’s strength I could not bear what was to come. I forbade the presiding Keeper from torturing the man, for he was my kin, my blood, and most importantly. Of the Ruricblood. Keeper Amice heard the final words of Caylus, gave him his final prayers and blessings. Before Caylus was escorted by the Dunwatch to our juvenile Ash Tree. Just now large enough to serve its most famous purpose. From over the rooftops I could hear the voice of Alvar, his words unusually cold, taunt almost. He sentenced his fellow Rurikid to die. Not the first, certainly not the last. But perhaps the first of his tribe to hang his blood. The world was silent then. Broken by naught but the sullen footsteps of Caylus as he mounted the platform. Then silence. Then nothing but the cawing of crows. For my friend was dead, and the world was just a little colder. Soon after his death I was met with the two, freshly orphaned sons of the Caunter Clan. Traveling to Dunharrow having heard the tidings of their father’s death. I cannot recall their names. But their faces remain clear in my mind. A young boy on his knees, eyes puffy and face still wet with tears. Whilst the elder fought to hold back tears. His lower lip quivering. I said what words of comfort I could. But, seeing my words ring hollow I departed. I would not do them the dishonour of watching these two lads, on the cusp of manhood, shed tears. Upon my return I was stricken with wroth. The orphans had cut their father down from the tree and carried him away. Dooming him to eternal torment. I had intended to free his soul, giving him a proper Nordish burial and laying him to rest next to the ashes of his forebears in the crypts below the Monastery. Lacking that I did what I could, his effects were gathered and lain upon his shield. These were born into the atrium of the Monastery. Where, having blessed the items and prayed for the soul of Caylus we gave them to the Father’s fire. To the Nordish Folk where’er they dwell As chieftain of the Edvardssons and High Keeper of Grand Hearth I extend my personal protection over the sons of Caylus until their twenty first winter respectively. Any Nordishman who does them unprovoked harm shall incur feud with the Edvardssons. And shall incur damnation from the Father. So it is writ, so it is. To the Sons of Caunter where’er they dwell Your Father is dead. I cannot bring back breath to his lungs nor can I restore the spark to his flesh. But you have damned him. His soul is trapped within his corpse. And I assume you have not given him the Father’s mercy. If so you have condemned your father to a rotting prison. In which he shall remain trapped until his bonds crumble to dust. I assure you that you will come to no harm if you return his remains to the monastery, that we may lay him to rest. Let the maidens sing his death song, let him lie upon his shield grasping his sword. Let him go and receive his judgement from the Father on high. I promise this on my honour as a Chieftain of the Nordish folk and the High Keeper of the Holy Hearth. So it is writ, so it is. Writ by Aeyn
  11. wdym bro, he was taking damage. literally died while he was fighting (if ur talking about drfate, which i assume u r) the guy that killed him literally stared him down and clicked him to death, while he was trapped in a corner clicking the oncoming Marnans.
  12. https://gyazo.com/b6d43003847ec34a1fed296b8e2a2eba
  13. Omg dude, ur one of the most intelligent GMs on the server atm
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