Halt

S.A. 170 midst the cold, stone walls of an ever-populated keep, a young boy, one Alexander Caius, lies in his bed atop one of the towers... The dome of glass gave way to the night sky, which, perhaps, was reflected in the starry circlet gifted to him upon his fifth birthday celebration. His mother, the Queen of Aaun, sat by his bedside. Amelya was regaling him with the tale of Sir Alwyn and his great victories across a lifetime of knightly endeavors. As the tale carried on, his thoughts began to wander. Reminding him of their plans to pick strawberries tomorrow, she rose from her chair and gradually put out the lights. As he lay in the growing darkness, he pondered her words. He still had much to learn and many more stories in which to feature. Perhaps one day, he would be the person to best in the tales of someone else. Until then, his hand would find companionship in a quill, and his gaze would meet the blankness of parchment. He lit the candles his mother had previously sought to dim and began writing. His chambers were filled with books aplenty; he did his best to mimic some missives of great renown, though his intellect was perhaps belied by the childlike imperfection of the letters themselves. Art was scarcely found on his walls, much the same. Thus, inspiration, too, was borrowed and imprinted upon another blank piece of parchment. In the morrow, he would pay this woman yet another visit—at least, he would endeavor to. A faint tap awoke the young lad, startling him slightly as he realized he had dozed off during his mother's tale. The queen regarded her son with a gentle smile as he began to recount his own day's events to her. With great gusto, he regaled her with a tale of his own valor against the odds and overcoming a much more powerful combatant—another queen, a certain Catherine I of the Petra. She placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair gently before remarking that perhaps he hadn't simply overwhelmed his opponent in the duel. Perhaps she, in her graciousness, had decided that, like many before her, it was her duty to allow others their simple moment of triumph. After all, she had little to gain from besting a boy, and he would gain a lifelong memory. A surge of renewed respect went through Alexander as he listened; too, an expression of malcontent washed over his features. Was the victory folly? .fade-in-section { opacity: 0; animation: fadeInAnimation 3s ease forwards, opacityLoop 5s ease-in-out 3s infinite; } @keyframes fadeInAnimation { from { opacity: 0; transform: translateY(20px); } to { opacity: 1; transform: translateY(0); } } @keyframes opacityLoop { 0%, 100% { opacity: 1; } 50% { opacity: 0.6; } } .fade-in-section-text { opacity: 0; animation: fadeInAnimation 3s ease forwards; } @keyframes fadeInAnimation { from { opacity: 0; } to { opacity: 1; } } .zoom-shadow { transition: transform 0.3s ease, box-shadow 0.3s ease; display: inline-block; } .zoom-shadow:hover { transform: scale(1.1); box-shadow: 5px 5px 15px rgba(0,0,0,0.6); }

The following is a small excerpt from a larger interview conducted with Sir Ruben of Middelan. I’ve done a number of these interviews with various citizens across the realm, and they typically focus on the general state of affairs. Additionally, I prefer to let the interviewee highlight whatever aspect of their lives that they wish to, finding that it leads to more organic conversation. I happened upon him while traveling on the road and spontaneously struck up a conversation with him. While he seemed quite eager to be on his way, to my surprise, he agreed to an interview. I walked with him for a time, and the following contains the insights gleaned. My interview with Sir Ruben was mainly centered on his general philosophy on life and the surprisingly ordinary perspective of a knight. One aspect that I found interesting was that Sir Ruben has collected a number of items that he ascribes a particular meaning to. According to him, they stand for significant turning points in his life, and this document provides a fleeting glimpse into the emotion associated with each item in his collection. Toward the closing end of our interview, Sir Ruben left me with a note that I’ve copied here. It reads as follows: This date shall mark the end of my grievance with Lorenz Gavaudin. Displaying admirable bravery, he agreed to meet my challenge in a year’s time. Tomorrow is that Saint’s Day. As I ready myself for the strife ahead, my thoughts are not of battle. Instead, they lie with the family and friends I have come to know along the course of my life. I venture to Portoregne alone, and while I prefer it that way, it is not an easy decision to make. I came into this world alone, and should fortune not favor me, I’ll leave it that way. However, it is not that loneliness that defines my experience. Instead, it is the companionship and time spent with my beloved Margaret. I leave this for her, knowing that should I err in the duel, she ought to know I didn’t err in choosing to share my life with her. In a way, she chose me. Many will speak of the various relics or storied items in my possession in the event of my passing. A number of these items could be considered precious treasures by many, and I could not fault them for that belief. And yet, I find her heart of gold to be the most valuable thing among them. First, her father’s, and now my greatest achievement to lay claim to in this life—to have shared it so meaningfully with her. With this, I depart, for better or worse. WRITTEN BY, -R. KURĀKEN S.A. 159 It seems fitting that we begin with the most distinct piece in Sir Ruben’s collection. A shimmering longsword wrought of Thanhium and shaped into oceanic iconography. When asked about its meaning, Sir Ruben explained that the item’s symbolism was twofold. In one respect, it served as a way for the former apprentice blacksmith to attempt to craft something that would rival his father’s own sword. He spoke of his upbringing under a blacksmith and how it instilled a work ethic in him. Additionally, the source of the weapon’s material bears its own story. The materials sourced for the making of the sword were a reward to the knight by the realm for which he fought, as thanks for courageous acts and leadership during the skirmish of the Westmark. While recalling the battle, I noted that many emotions crept over his face, ranging from pride at overcoming odds to a generally resigned weariness. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why. The day-to-day struggles of the common man are often accompanied by a crisis of faith. It is far too easy to experience the many evils of our world and let them corrupt us into lesser versions of ourselves. Freshly from the fields of battle for Westmark and baptized in war, Sir Ruben began to express doubts about the person he was becoming. Naturally, he sought to alleviate this by seeking the guidance of one Sista “Juli’el” Jenny. With her guidance, he found a way to metaphorically cleanse himself of wrongdoings and commit to a fresh slate of righteousness. He delved into his armory and turned a wicked blade into one with renewed purpose. An Azhl dagger, covered in a web of strange veins. Determined to overcome the blade’s poisonous nature, he committed himself to having it serve as a physical symbol of virtuous action. A badge of honor for his own struggle to overcome the evils that had stricken him. IMPIA S.A. 160 BŪRŪMUN S.A. 162 The next item bears a similar sentiment to that of Vox Draconis. It serves as a signature of sorts for Sir Ruben, and holds a great deal of emotional importance to him. Gifted on his 18th nameday, it was originally borne by one Húrin Ibarellan. This was quite an honor for the young knight, as the blade was already storied by this point, and the man who wielded it much the same. Húrin served as a source of inspiration to an impressionable Sir Ruben and would witness many of the man’s greatest triumphs and pitfalls. Whilst searching for a worthy successor to wield Būrūmun, Húrin found many lacking. Eventually, he chose Sir Ruben as the blade’s successor, finding no one more worthy to be its wielder. With it, Sir Ruben inherited a hefty responsibility to live up to the blade’s history and its previous wielder’s expectations. The weapon itself is an elegant katana, crafted from Carbarum and frosted with Lunarite to grant it a soft silvery glow. It is only natural that the next item should follow suit after the introduction of Būrūmun. Sir Ruben recounts a harrowing tale of a duel within which his opponent’s blade was shattered by this very katana. While initially disheartened at the loss of such a fine weapon, the knight was determined not to let the rare material go to waste. Sir Ruben repurposed the fragments into a Lunarite sword breaker. Its hilt is covered in the hide of a strange beast—a manticore—-and while it is not as ornate as Būrūmun, the sword breaker has a simple charm that is hard to ignore. The final item is one that, I must confess, bore the greatest interest to me. As an amateur scholar of sorts, I found myself quite fascinated at the concept that lay with the creation. An intricate ring wrought of Dracanium, bearing similar imagery of a dragon to that of Vox Draconis and yet appearing distinct. According to Sir Ruben, said ring possesses an uncanny ability. One can hear strange whispering while observing the ring in proximity, and reportedly, the consciousness of a dragon rests within. While the ring also possesses the ability to produce a dazzling display of light, it is the primary ability that bears most of my interest. The insights that could potentially be gained from such a creature are immense, and the perspective alone would be worth its weight in gold. The procurement of such a mysterious artifact is surprisingly mundane. Sir Ruben recounts that it was a parting gift for him and his wife, originally meant for his father’s possession but given to the knight in his stead. KINBOK S.A. 167 Thus concludes my excerpt from the greater interview that took place over the course of several hours. While we covered a number of topics, this seemed the most noteworthy of which to share with the public. Many thanks to the reader, and I hope that this proved informative or at least provided some form of entertainment wherever you might be. A humble bard, Nashor. The following documents were obtained during the conduction of a search warrant by officials in a small tower near the remnants of Keep Breakwater in service of the Haeseni crown. Other materials obtained include a small bag of wizard powder, copious amounts of feathers, and some form of illegally modified crossbow. No suspects were apprehended in this raid. .freetable-f06 p{padding:10px 20px;margin:0px;text-indent:0px;}.freetable-f06 b{color:#E5CDB6;} .freetable-f06-b{width:602px;border:1px solid #000000;margin:0px auto;border-radius:6px;-webkit-border-radius:6px;-moz-border-radius:6px;} .freetable-f06-name{font-family:georgia, serif;color:#27180A;text-shadow:#F8E1CA 0px 0px 5px;margin:-7px auto;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:25px;font-weight:bold;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:right;padding:10px 25px 0px 0px;width:350px;} .freetable-f06-ooc{font-family:arial, helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;letter-spacing:.4px;font-style:italic;} .freetable-f06{background-color:#8F7154;border:1px solid #E5CDB6;font-family:georgia, serif;font-size:12px;color:#352516;letter-spacing:.3px;word-spacing:2px;line-height:14px;width:600px;text-align:justify;padding:3px 0px;border-radius:6px;-webkit-border-radius:6px;-moz-border-radius:6px;} .freetable-f06-divider{border-bottom:1px dotted #E5CDB6;width:85%;margin:0px auto;}

A depiction of two ancient knights in combat, circa 986. To those it may concern, primarily one Lorenz Gavaudin, @itdontmatta It is with a heavy hand and a heavier heart that I find myself forced into this situation yet again. As I find myself drawn into violence further, the sense of weariness grows with each passing day. And yet, one cannot turn a blind eye when it comes to matters of family. In his direst days, you abandoned my father, Sir Gaspard, to preserve your own hide or for personal gain. I cannot guess as to what your motivations were, and frankly it matters not now. The weight of responsibility demands I address this in the only way I have become accustomed to. I hereby issue a formal challenge to the named party. You may view this as the proverbial gauntlet being cast at your feet. While many would cast aspersions on the name of my family, I will state the terms of this duel clearly, so that my honor might not be questioned. I demand satisfaction for this grievance in the form of blood and steel, with only one of us emerging from this clash with his life. Furthermore, I have been made aware that you have possession of something you should not, for it belongs to we. I would see it reclaimed at any cost, even if it must be taken from your lifeless form. The meeting location, time, and further specifics shall be deferred to you as the one challenged, be it in either Winburgh, Whitespire, or as far as the stretches of jungle that so surround the Kingdom of Balian, and its capital. Signed, Honorable Husband to Margaret, Dweller of an Undisclosed Oceanside Villa, Shepherd of a Lone Goat, Treasurer of Knitted Goods, Acquaintance of a Certain Maudlin Baruch, etcetera.

It was a fine show, undoubtedly something befitting the many frills and frollies that those in the lands of the north would amuse themselves with; a spider's spindle tells its tale, and so I tell mine. A bright sun shone over the armies of the coalition as they rode into Veletz’s capital town. King Aleksandr, donned in the armor of his regal station, sat atop his horse at the head of them all. No warrior was he, but as it had been told by his scouts—third-rate men, truly—the capital of our great league had been left ripe for the taking. He mustered the courage to join his forces to occupy this critical city. Having just departed from a ball thrown in their honor, the closest thing to military training they had enjoyed, the forces of Haense laughed and sang as they began to cross our humble wooden walls into our market square. Yet it was a trap! As wise as a fox, our Captain-General's nephew had been forewarned of this approach. “AT ARMS!” Cried Sir Gaspard, waving his own in the air, and onto the streets streamed five thousand six hundred, ready for battle and clamoring eagerly to defend their home. For a moment, across the narrow field of battle, the two armies locked eyes. Six thousand Haeseni, Hyspian, Balianite, Petran, Dwarf, and other such soldiers looked on in terror. Although they numbered greater and the battle should have naturally been theirs, instead of war and vigor, their days had been weaned on wine and vice. Each man then turned to their brave, good King Aleksandr, who should have been at the army’s front, as they asked what to do. Gustaf Otto, nephew of Sir Gaspard, led the army in an assault against this retreating mass of men. Nary a man was spared, but perhaps some few found shelter under rocks and muddy creek beds. Only the King of Haense and some of his retinue made it back to the gates of his city alive. Perhaps some few dozen of our own had been wounded and killed, trampled under the spirited surge, but it was no significant number. The coalition had been thrashed, pushed back to Haense or whatever hole they crawled from! Yet he was not there! Half a league or more down the road back to his kingdom, the King of Haense fled as fast as he could. His confidence broken and his spirit shattered, he left his army behind to do all he needed of them: die so that he may escape. While the coalition did not fight well or bravely, they did do this sufficiently enough. Trying to follow their disgraced king’s lead, this mass of men was cut down by a charge.

18 R.R. A SHORT STORY, BY AMELYA VAN AERT @Fie .fr-credit-link{padding:10px 0;font-size:11px;font-style:italic;} Emmelina, a precocious child with braids tumbling down her back and a mischievous smile, was always on the lookout for ways to play matchmaker. Her cousin Gustaf Otto was a man of many things, primarily without much immediate family or kinship except for his sister and cousin. For, he had yet to find a partner in this life of his. One morning, one Emmelina rushed into Gustaf’s periphery and pulled at his cloaked wrists. “Cousin! There’s trouble brewing in the square of Winburgh,” she cried. Gustaf let loose a sigh and followed in her wake toward the ostensible chaos. But as he arrived, expecting a ruckus, the crowd seemed to disperse. Instead, he found only a single figure—Margaret. “Emmelina spoke of unrest?” Gustaf began to inquire, still looking around with a gaze made cautious. Margaret chuckled softly and looked confused, maybe. His younger cousin took this opportunity to make known her cousin’s station as a man yet unwed. Gustaf dodged the topic with a polite smile. “Children and their games. I apologize if she troubled you.” Too, he wrote her a simple note; pulling a stick of charcoal from the pocket of his burgundy robe, Gustaf made clear that he was not involved with her schemes. Margaret waved her hand dismissively. “No harm done. Though I must admit, it’s not often I’m introduced under such pretenses.” In the ensuing conversation, Gustaf mentioned a tournament his uncle was attending in Celia'nor. Margaret’s eyes lit up at the mention of the bustling city. “Would you care to join me?” Gustaf offered, “There’s room on my horse if you’re willing.” Margaret considered briefly, then nodded. “I would like that.” Together, they rode to Celia'nor, the journey filled with shared, idle thoughts and occasional laughter. Upon arrival, they joined Gustaf’s father in the noble stands, overlooking the throne room, where knights and warriors alike clashed. As they watched, they made small talk, continuing in their conversation held prior. “I don’t drink,” Margaret remarked after declining a glass of mead offered by one of the attendants. “No matter,” Gustaf said, smiling. “The tournament is entertainment enough.” As the tournament continued, Gustaf’s eyes were drawn to the fierce fighting between the famed Húrin and a nameless warrior of unknown prowess. Their blades clashed with a symphony of steel, and the crowd erupted into cheers. “Why don’t you compete?” Margaret asked, turning to Gustaf. “Aren’t you a swordsman?” Gustaf leaned back, his fingers tracing the hilt of his sword. “I prefer to fight in real battles,” he replied thoughtlessly. Margaret smirked. “Well, a victory here would surely be real enough.” Gustaf considered her challenge, then leaned closer. “If you’ll agree to have a drink to my success, so I’ll fight the winner of my Húrin and the man unknown.” Margaret’s smile scarcely widened. “Deal.” After Húrin was defeated by the unknown warrior, Gustaf stood up and vaulted over the stands into the arena. The crowd fell silent as Gustaf Otto challenged the mysterious victor, and so the man clad in golden armor obliged this request. Their duel was intense, albeit one made brief; Gustaf’s technique was flawless, and his strikes were only precise. The man was overmatched and defeated swiftly. From her seat, Margaret watched with amusement, or so Gustaf thought. He returned to her side, victorious and still catching his breath, only to find her face painted ambivalent. “A drink to my success?” He echoed it with a grin. “Perhaps one,” Margaret replied with a suppressed smile. “If I so survive the siege come the morrow,” Gustaf spoke in earnest, “I will buy you one such drink to make good of your promise.” “I’ll hold you to that just the same, Gustaf. But, you had better return to Winburgh safely.” .freetable-f06 p{padding:5px 20px;margin:0px;text-indent:30px;} .freetable-f06 b{color:#E5CDB6;} .freetable-f06-b{width:402px;border:1px solid #000000;margin:0px auto;border-radius:6px;-webkit-border-radius:6px;-moz-border-radius:6px;} .freetable-f06-name{font-family:georgia, serif;color:#27180A;text-shadow:#F8E1CA 0px 0px 5px;margin:-7px auto;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:25px;font-weight:bold;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:right;padding:10px 25px 0px 0px;width:350px;} .freetable-f06-ooc{font-family:arial, helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;letter-spacing:.4px;font-style:italic;} .freetable-f06{background-color:#8F7154;border:1px solid #E5CDB6;font-family:georgia, serif;font-size:12px;color:#352516;letter-spacing:.3px;word-spacing:2px;line-height:14px;width:400px;text-align:justify;padding:3px 0px;border-radius:6px;-webkit-border-radius:6px;-moz-border-radius:6px;} .freetable-f06-divider{border-bottom:1px dotted #E5CDB6;width:85%;margin:0px auto;} .fade-in-section-text { opacity: 0; animation: fadeInAnimation 2s ease forwards; } @keyframes fadeInAnimation { from { opacity: 0; transform: translateY(20px); } to { opacity: 1; transform: translateY(0); } } .slideDown { opacity: 0; animation-name: slideDown; animation: slideDown 2s ease forwards; } @keyframes slideDown { 0% { transform: translateY(-100%); opacity: 1; } 50% { transform: translateY(8%); } 65% { transform: translateY(-4%); } 80% { transform: translateY(4%); } 95% { transform: translateY(-2%); } 100% { transform: translateY(0%); opacity: 1; } }

Reminder: All of this is a rough draft purely for the sake of demonstration. If there is interest in making adjustments, then further feedback will be taken into account. Hey everyone, A few updates ago, Mojang increased the character limit for nameplates. What this means for LotC is that it's now possible to display a wealth of information, including statuses, roleplay names, health, and more, all at once. An example of how the server currently functions can be seen here: An example of a new way to format names can be seen here: There's a poll attached to this thread; please be sure to vote in it and/or leave a comment with additional feedback. Secondly, the forums used to have badges in the form of circles (●●●) related to reputation or post count. It seems that feature has been lost over time. We have three options: leave them removed, read them in the form of text symbols, and lastly, add custom images. In the spoiler below, I'll leave a few references, and those three options will be listed in the poll. I appreciate everyone who takes the time to vote on these polls; each one matters.

Hey everyone, As a few of you may be aware, Minecraft now supports 6-digit hexadecimal colors to specify custom colors other than the 16 default color codes. This introduces millions of new options for colors in text components. In simpler terms, this means things like custom emote colors are now possible. The first critique that comes to mind when suggesting a change like this would be something along the lines of: find colors that fit within the existing LotC ecosystem (no obnoxious gradients or neon colors). I understand there's a certain nostalgia attached to some of the current color codes too. It's my personal belief that the community can probably come up with a better set of color schemes and conventions than I could on my own, should we decide to implement some. Nothing is set in stone; this post is purely meant to solicit feedback and hopefully start a conversation. I'll leave a poll to gauge opinions. What's more helpful, however, are comments. I've run this idea by @Llir and @The60th. After a brief discussion and a cursory look at the existing codebase, this feature should be able to be incorporated on the server. The question is: how? The changes don't need to be dramatic, it could be as simple as adjusting the tablist's header and footer. A rough example of this can be seen below: Another idea is revamping some of the VIP colors. For instance, Ender and Bedrock share a color; the differentiating factor between them is simply one being bold. Here is an example of what it looks like now, as well as an idea for a way to make them differ. Should bolded characters only be reserved for staff teams? The last idea is adding custom emote colors as an ostensible VIP perk. We could preapprove a list of hundreds of colors as well as have a system for approving unique ones similar to the custom tag system for Aether VIPs.

[!] A series of missives would be posted around the Commonwealth of the Petra, the majority of which would be seen in its capital, Vallagne. ☩ ΉΣЯΣ ᄂIΣƧ ƬΉΣ ЦПƧΣΣП ✦ Hwæt! Þonne com oferne plegan, þær scēapa and gāt seofonfald hātan. Listen! When the game is over, the sevenfold shall be named, the sheep and G҉O҉A҉T҉. ✦ Hwilum blæd and wæstm þæs ofersēola fylð, ac him bið lytel freoðe āfre geteohod. ۞ ۞ Sometimes the abundance and growth of the high pasture shall fail, but little peace shall ever be bestowed upon them. ✦ Gesāwon wēardas, blēatsprǣce sēon, hwylce bēacna sēcþ, þonne scēapan fuglað. The shepherds have seen, they seek signs of bleatspeak, when the sheep are flying. ƬӨ ƬΉӨƧΣ ЩΉӨ ᄂΛᄃK IƬƧ FΛVӨЯ ☬

Courtesy: @Nectorist HIS MOTHER'S KEEPER 22nd of Owyn's Flame, 1887 “Are you deaf, man? Your name!” The words of the ruddy-faced guardsman rung clearly in Thomas’ ears. His heart, which for a moment had stopped its heavy thudding, resumed again. As the blood began to travel through his veins once again, the man could think clearly. Best to give them a false name for now. The governor may be more inclined to hear me out, but I can’t bet my life on street watchers. Thomas looked away from the guard, and to the governor’s palace behind him. Brick, brick, and more brick. A man could spend a lifetime counting each and every one, laid perfectly atop one another. A short wall, starting from the palace wrapping around the estate; encompassing the post office, the granary, and the servant’s quarters, akin to how a mother embraced her children. It was the largest building for miles around, by far. Still, it was the home of a provincial governor, assigned to oversee farming and ensure grain shipments were sent on time. It could not hold a candle to the lavish courts of Montclair or Vesetta, never mind Langford or Pronce. Regardless, it was Thomas Augustus’ last chance at finding a home. It would have to do. “Well? I haven’t got all da-” “Edwin. My name is Edwin. I come from Fenbel. I bear news for Governor Richton, from Lord Amiel.” Thomas reached inside his overcoat, pulling from it a few crumpled papers. “The drought has rendered five of our mills unusable. I’ve come to see if Obel can spare any flour.” The guardsman looked over the papers for a moment before handing them back to Thomas. “Not that I can read them. Go on in.” He lifted his halberd and stepped aside, allowing the man entry. The interior of the palace was as similarly unspectacular as the exterior, though it was clear that Governor Richton had spent a small fortune on decorations. Rugs from Oyashima lined the floors. A mixture of boar, deer, lion, and other animal’s heads lined the walls. A chandelier, clearly made from the craftsmen of Arkent, hung from the ceiling. A handful of slaves, servants, and attendants scuttled throughout the house, but aside from that it was mostly quiet. Ascending a polished wooden staircase, Thomas made his way to the second story of the palace, where he was told the governor’s office would be. The second floor of the palace was little more than a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors, save for the very end, where a large double-door, laced with silver and painted black, was waiting. Presuming that this was the governor’s office, Thomas made his way down. Though he tried to keep quiet, his footsteps thudded loudly. When he had finally made his way to the end, he rapped his knuckles upon the door. Without delay, a low, guttural voice responded. “Come in!” Governor Richton’s office was nothing short of a catastrophe. Papers and books flooded the room in messy, haphazardly-stacked piles. Black tea, or was it ink, had seeped into one stack, and instead of throwing them out, the governor had allowed them to languish in a corner. The governor himself, a short, portly fellow of middling age, sat behind a desk that was no less cluttered. The only saving grace was the large, uncovered window in the back that led out to a small overlook. The room, thankfully not bereft of sunlight, could at least be shown in all of its unholy glory. “Sit, sit!” Governor Richton called out to Thomas cheerily, gesturing to the two seats in front of his desk. Both were occupied by stacks of papers. “Never mind those,” Richton assured him. “You can set them aside.” Thomas warily made his way over to the right chair and carefully moved the papers onto the floor. He sat in it and stared across to the balding, fat Governor Richton, who bore a small smile. “Thank you, governor.” He shuffled through his overcoat again, passing the same papers as before to the man. “I am sure you are aware of who I am.” Richton nodded, and his kindly smile turned into something of a smirk. “Baron Sirion informed me of your impending arrival… along with a recommendation that I have you thrown in the cells.” Thomas’s heart dropped when he heard the words. It was rare to even be received now at the courts and estates he ventured to. His lineage was too high to be allowed near the jobs of the common man, yet his family’s station was too lowly, too disgraced, for his presence to be welcomed or even tolerated. He had hoped that in Obel, a place greatly disconnected from the many great courts and intrigues of Aeldin, he could find a home. Now that final door appeared to be closing. “Please, Governor Richton! I’ll work for you in any office, high or low, and not resent my service. Give me a small room here, and I will work loyally and ably until the end of your service,” he begged. Richton did not respond, and instead looked over the papers that had been handed to him. “Your mother makes a similar appeal here, it seems,” he scoffed. “How kind of her, given the sort she was. Does she fare well?” Thomas thought back the beatings he had endured by her hand, the drunken mess she made of herself in the castles and estates of each host. More often than not, her incessant groveling and begging had resulted in the two of them being thrown out. More often than not, she had blamed him for it, and rendered another beating. The last time Thomas had seen her was well over a year ago, and by then it was clear the drink had taken what was left of her feeble mind. He quietly hoped she was either being well-cared for or was burning in hell. “As usual with her, Governor Richton.” He shrugged. ”Probably not too different since the two of you last met.” The governor laughed at that. “You've got her wit, at least. One of the few things she possessed. Tell me, Thomas Augustus, what do you know of tending a field?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of directing grain shipments?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of surveying land, so it may be sold and distributed for use as a farmstead, or any other necessary purpose?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Of settling legal disputes between grant holders?” “Nothing, Governor Richton.” “Then what use do I have for you? Do you think I’ve room to sponsor some wastrel courtier? To give you a cushy job behind a desk that doesn’t require the brains of an ox?” The governor squinted at Thomas with small, beady eyes. “I thought you’d have learned from your father’s example. He went around begging for postings, as you once did. The fourth son of a man two generations removed from a baron in Sabonen, himself five generations removed from an emperor. Yet still, he called himself a ‘Horen’ and said that he ‘bore the blood of the dragons.’ He was no dragon, Thomas. He was a pathetic sod who married a wretched woman, and they both pissed away their meager inheritances.” “I understand, Governor Richton.” Thomas clenched his teeth, staring back at the man with a stony gaze. He had no love for his mother and never knew his father, yet he could hardly tolerate these insults to his family, to himself. “An hour before you did, I met with a cobbler’s son who was seeking work. Some of my farmers needed their shoes repaired, and we had few spares, so I hired the man on the spot. To think that I have more use for a cobbler’s son than for the ‘blood of the dragon’.” Governor Richton laughed again, though this one was far crueler. It was evident to Thomas that the man could no longer think of him seriously. “How old are you, Thomas Augustus?” “Thirty, Governor Richton,” he answered through clenched teeth. Richton laughed again, his large gut wobbling as he did so. “At thirty, I was overseeing repairs to border fortifications to the east. Yet, looking through your records now, I see nothing of note…” He flipped through a small stack of papers before him, neatly aligned and presented. “If I knew that my service here would be limited to being an object of your jests, then I would have brought a glove, so I may have challenged you for the slights you make,” hissed Thomas, gritting his teeth as he rose from his desk. “I bid you a good day, Governor Richton.” “Stop. There is one thing I see here, and it may just be your lucky ticket to make something of yourself, belated as it is,” Richton called out to Thomas, gesturing for him to return to his seat, which he did. The governor then put one of the many papers before him. “It says here that you took part in some anti-piracy operations off of the coast of Endaen.” “I did, yes.” “It doesn’t seem you served with any great distinction, but that matters little. You have experience, which is what my brother needs.” The governor rose from his desk for a moment. He waddled to a chest in the room and opened it, pulling from it a large map, which he unfurled atop the desk, knocking aside a quill and several books in the process. “He’s an admiral in the navy, if you weren’t aware.” Thomas’s eyes went wide, and his spirits returned to him again. “I know ships, yes. Anything your brother may need, I can do.” Richton nodded. He then pointed to a cluster of islands on the map, far to the south and west of Aeldin. “Here lay the Duchy of Furnestock. Have you heard of it?” Thomas shook his head. “I thought so. They’re far away, and have had little relevance. Until now. They’re a collection of sixteen islands, conquered by some prince from the far west half a century ago. Some of our traders have found that the islands are rich in spices, but we’ve long been denied the rights to found a port of our own. Now, though, the tides have changed.” He drew a circle around one of the islands on the exterior of the cluster, the smallest of them all. “Agathor wants a port here, and now we’ve the opportunity to. News travels slowly from the west, but whispers have reached me. Oren is no more, leaving Furnestock isolated. My brother has been authorized to lead a small fleet to force the governor to grant us rights to build a port. We don’t need, or want, the whole thing. Just one port.” “Am I to join this expedition, then?” Thomas asked. “Precisely. No doubt they’ll put up some resistance. It shouldn’t be too much, but we’ll need someone to lead the forces ashore. Agathor has been blessed with peace for years, but it means we lack men with combat experience. You bring some of this. Succeed here, and we can promise to outfit you a ship, which you may take to anywhere you want. However, it is best you leave Aeldin behind. You carry with you the burdens of a lineage that benefits you little, and parents that have weighed you in debt. Make a life elsewhere, Thomas,” the governor said, now quite sincere. He clasped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your mother, the wench that she was, saved me once. Consider this a favor repaid. I’ll let you reside in one of the guest rooms for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll give you a letter, which you are to take to my brother in Pronce.” Thomas sat there, stunned. For years, he and his mother had traveled from court to court, begging for some estate, some income, some job that they could work in service of the local lord, lady, or governor. In almost all cases he had been met with rejection, shunned for sins that were not his, and mocked for a name he could not live up to. Now, though, opportunity stared him in the face. He needed only to wrap his fingers about it, grasp it, and never let it from him.

Courtesy: Council of Renatus PACT OF VERIDIAN “Peace is not the absence of conflict, it is the ability to handle conflict by peaceful means.” 12th of Horen’s Calling, 1713 This pact hereby entails the principles to an accord agreed upon by the signees, to be adhered to by both their respective civilians and military alike. Should either principle be broken by a respective participant of either nation, then a truce will be inherently invoked, ergo allowing a maximum of three saints days wherein efforts to re-evaluate the accord, and, or, deem the accord no longer viable. Both signatories shall become at peace with one another, ceasing conflict between the two. Henceforth, both parties will adhere to a strict non-aggression agreement that will be enforced. Regarding the flow of goods and trade, no customs will discourage any exchange. Mobility between the nations will be enforced by both, and the roads swept of bandits who may harass our fair people. Both parties will aid one another in obtaining fugitives and criminals to their respective civilisation, unless one has a pact with said respective nation from which the fugitive hails from. Both parties will aid one another in the defensive means of any of the signatories providing they are aggressed upon. Recognising the supremacy each signatory holds over their race (Uruk, Man.) if this supremacy is contested then for the duration of the situation -- the pact will ascend into a full alliance. The Orcs of Krugmar will join in with the ongoing war against the EU, or any homogenous group, adhering to the commandments of “Desolation.” HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, Antonius I of the House of Horen, Emperor of Man, King of Renatus, Marna, Mardon, Salvus, Seventis, Savoy, Courland, Santegia, and Norland, Duke of the Crownlands, Avar, and Frederica, Count of Helena, Alamar, Frederica, Thesmer, Thelen, Lorath, and Cantal, Baron of Darkwood, Gravelhold, Fidei Defensor, Protector of the Heartlanders, Highlanders, Farfolk, etcetera REX, Burbur’Lur Farseer and Elementalist of Krugmar, Protector of the Hou-Zi.

Courtesy: Council of Renatus PACT OF DRAGON AND STONE “Prosperity tries the fortunate, adversity the great.” 7th of Sun’s Smile, 1707 This pact hereby entails the principles to an accord agreed upon by the signees, to be adhered to by both their respective civilians and military alike. Should either principle be broken by a respective participant of either nation, then a truce will be inherently invoked, ergo allowing a maximum of three saints days wherein efforts to re-evaluate the accord, and, or, deem the accord no longer viable. Both nations agree to avoid conflict with each other, should a potential conflict arise, both nations respective heads shall be notified to find a diplomatic alternative. Both nations agree to permit safe and free passage of each the other nation’s citizens. The Empire of Man and the Kingdom of Agnarum agree to establish borders: The mountain range to the west of the Empire shall be recognized as dwarven lands, given that the dwarves do not build fortifications above ground or expand north or east of that. The Empire agrees to leave the under-realm to the dwarves, and will not build or alter entrances. This pact will remain in effect as long as a Horen remains on the Imperial Throne.