MadOne

VIDIMAR FOR MAYOR OF ANATIS STABILITY. PROSPERITY. CLEAN HANDS. CLEAN STREETS. CITIZENS OF ANATIS, We have had enough of unintelligible missives with fancy words; Enough of perfumed parchment and complicated phrases that say nothing, mean nothing, and do nothing. You should not need a scribe or a tallowed candle to translate and decipher what our leaders intend to do with our livelihood. So, I will speak plainly. Now, and when I am Mayor of this city. You need answers. You will always need answers. And a city council that cannot provide that, and speak plainly to its own people will not do. For it is a city half ruled already by corruption. My name is Vidimar. I am running for City Mayor of Anatis, as a man who will put in the work. Here is what I promise to you: I. PARCHMENT POLITICS ARE OVER Writers and leaders across humanity hide behind pomp and fancy writing with big words because pomp is safe. But pomp never fixes a roof or brings food. Pomp never stops corruption. I will not write you riddles to read. I will tell you what I will do, when I will do it, and what it will cost. If I cannot explain my policies to a tavern table in Anatis, it is not going to govern our city. II. A PLATFORM OF STABILITY AND PROSPERITY Not "theories". Not "visions". Not ten-year plans. My stability means: STREETS THAT ARE SAFE. LAWS THAT ARE PREDICTABLE. GUILDS THAT CAN TRADE FREELY. CROPS THAT REACH THE MARKET WITHOUT BEING STOLEN. Prosperity means: MORE WORK FOR MORE HANDS. MORE COIN STAYING IN BELETH. FEWER PARASITES FEEDING ON YOUR HARD WORK. You cannot have prosperity without stability. And you cannot have stability if people treat this city like a carcass. III. I WILL CLEAN THIS PLACE UP Let me be clear to you. I mean this in two different ways. First: Corruption, evil, and wicked deeds. Second: Filth. Anatis will not become the kind of city where people whisper about "how it is done," because they fear what happens if they speak openly. A city of whispers is a city of thieves. Under my mayoral tenure: Any man taking a bribe will be rooted out, Any violence stopped. Jobs will be created by my office. The military will be rendered useful and paid. IV. ENOUGH OF TALK. LET US FOCUS ON WHAT MATTERS People love to say: politics this, policy that, administration, committees, reforms. Here is what is real, and what I will focus on: Crops Buildings Roads Walls Mills Markets Clean Water Waste removed Festivities Events A mayor is not a philosopher. A mayor ensures the city's daily survival. If you want speeches, hire a bard. If you want the city to function, elect me. V. ANATIS WILL LIVE: EVENTS AND FESTIVITIES A city is not only a city on paper. It is a place to live. Anatis needs life put into it: Regular tavern nights, Beer feasts, Seasonal festivals, Public games and contests, I will build an arena for concert, and PAY LANDSKAR to play for us. Not because I want extravagance, but because a city that never celebrates does not have a soul. People need a reason to feel pride for Beleth. They need to see their neighbors as neighbors, not strangers competing for scraps. VI. WE NEED A STABILISING HAND Look at what has happened in the past. In history, when leadership wavers and order becomes a rumor, and chaos does not wait, people turn on each other. Death and violence come. Anatis will not become the next cautionary tale. We do not need to panic. We need actual steadiness. We need someone who can make decisions without flinching, enforce those decisions without favoritism, and keep the city standing while others are debating about which words to say. VII. AND YES. WE WILL LITERALLY CLEAN THIS CITY UP. Filth is not only unpleasant, but it is a sickness. It is vermin and rot. It is death for the poor and inconvenience for the rich. Under my mayoralty, my office will build a proper sewer system, public fountains for clear water access, aqueduct works improving what we already have where feasible, and maintenance crews that maintain them. We will create legislation for relief to the poor. If our citizens are willing to contribute labour and materials, then we will organize it properly, transparently and with results. No more "donations to the Church" or "relief for the poor" disappearing into somebody's cousin's pocket. This is what prosperity will look like. a city that can feed, house itself and keep itself healthy and functioning properly. VIII. MY COMPETITI I am sure my competition for this seat are wonderful people. But I have not seen any campaigning through missives from them, and so far there has been no word about people explaining their politics and what they will do with this seat. With respect, this is a reason to elect me. If people are unwilling to even campaign properly for themselves, are you sure that they will put the effort to actually do Mayor things for the city? This missive has been the first and only campaigning post for this seat that I have seen. I urge you, if your friend is running for Mayor, do not elect them because they are your friend. Give me a chance and I will show you how a real mayor looks like. I will be shortly creating a political party, with like minded people. We will actually create a city government. For this purpose, I counsel you to vote in also; CESARE FOR STEWARD SLORBIN FOR ENGINEER THE CHOICE IS SIMPLE. You can keep the old way: Pompous missives Invisible decisions Visible decay Loud Promises Or you can choose the new way: Plain speech Hard order Honest work A cleaner city Anatis does not need a prettier document. It needs a stronger hand. VIDIMAR FOR MAYOR. CLEAN HANDS. CLEAN STREETS. STABILITY AND PROSPERITY.

Name: Vidimar Address: Grisblood II Seats Desired: City Mayor

ADELMAR VON KANUNSBERG, ONCE A VISITOR TO STIRLAND AND FRIEND OF PETER LAMENTS THAT PETER ROVARE INVENTED A FAKE PRINCIPALITY TITLE TO DON HIMSELF IN. HE THROWS AN ALEHORN AT THE NEAREST WALL IN THE DRUKEN MAIDEN.

"IRONIC" says CAIUS BRANDT reflecting on the past.

A WORD FROM THE LAWSPEAKER, ON THE YIPPING OF WAYFARERS As spoken in the Leon’s Ruhe, by Adelmar von Kanunsberg, Raewita of Reinmar Hear now the cry of the leaf-eared stranger, her words spilled like wine from an upturned cup; sweet, bitter, and good for nothing but stains on the reedmat. She calls the Lex Tiberi a "slap to the face." No, sister of no tribe, it is the weight of a father’s palm upon the wild son’s cheek. It is correction, not cruelty. She bemoans order, and raises her pen in defiance, as if ink were blood and parchment were shield. But what is her rebellion towards? That a people should be a people? That a realm ought to bind itself not to the howling of rootless drifters, but to lineage, law, and the solemn right of kings? Let me tell you, outlander, This Empire is not a soup-kitchen for the world’s castaways. It is not the porch of a wayfarer’s inn. It is a hearth. A hall. A home. And homes must have walls, or the wolves piss in the corners. You who cry "tyrant!" at the man with the crown, What did you think an Emperor was? Some town reeve to flatter your dainty ideals? Some alehouse mayor to hold your hand and let you vote on truth? This is the Empire of Man. And Man is not merely fingers and name. Man is fathers buried in cairns. Man is tribes born beneath banners. Man is not every glade-licking, wand-sniffing elf who stumbles down from a stump, clutching her moral fancies like a child’s rattle. You speak of hierarchy like it is a curse. I say it is a ladder. You speak of unity like it is prison. I say it is shieldswall. You speak of race as if it were guilt. I say it is birthright. We Reinmaren know this. Each tribe has its law. Each law has its chief. Each chief bows to the Law, And above that, the Empire. Not because it is flawless, but because it is ours. So to you, vagrant scribbler of ashwood opinion; Keep your pen sharp, aye. But do not mistake its sting for the spear’s bite. And when next you call for a world where no one belongs to anything but their own whims, Know that in such a world, no man would fight beside you, bleed for you, or remember your name. For tribes are not built on disobedient scribbles. They are built on oath, order, and blood paid forward. Go back to your tavern-stool throne and your parchment crown. We have laws to enforce, fields to sow, and legacies to uphold. 𐌰𐌳𐌰𐌻𐌼𐌰𐍂 𐍅𐌰𐌽 𐌺𐌰𐌽𐌿𐌽𐍃𐌺𐌴𐍂𐌲 Adalmar von Kanunsberg Raewita uf Reinmar

𐌷𐌰𐌹𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌽𐌳 𐌳𐌰𐌹 𐌱𐌰𐌽𐍅𐍂𐌹𐌽𐌲𐍃 ISSUED BY THE ADELMAR, THE LAWSPEAKER 𐌱𐌰𐌽𐍄𐌴𐌹𐌲𐌰𐌽 - ON THE OFFICE OF JUDGMENT, THE BAILIFF Know this, o, Bailiff,: yours is not a craft taught by parchment, nor is it a task for those who seek praise or power. It is a burden, plain and heavy, and no cloak nor rod shall ever make it lighter. In the South, they write laws in ink. In the East, they measure justice in years behind bars. But here, in Reinmar, we carry it on our backs in the names we remember and the scars we forgive. The law in Reinmar does not reside in edict, nor is it found nailed to the beams of a courthouse. It walks in men. It breathes between speaker and enforcer, between shame and repair. You must first understand this, Banwring, or you will never understand your own hands: In Reinmar, justice is not a cage. It is not weighed in years nor doled out in equal coins. It is a living thing — one half spirit, one half flesh. The Raewita, our Lawspeaker, bears the voice of the Kanun. He speaks not from his own wisdom, but from the memory of our dead. When he judges, he does so beneath the Kanun, before kin, tribe and Gott. But his words are not final in form - He gives it spirit. He gathers the Kanun’s breath - old sayings, sacred tales, the ashes of past rulings - and from that fire he gives a word. A sentence. But he does not say: “Three months for thievery.” He says: “Let the man restore what he has taken. Let the people see it done.” He says:“As the Kanun says, ‘The man who steals his neighbour’s bread owes shame, but the one who steals his neighbour’s daughter’s bread owes blood.’ Let shame be marked, and restitution paid.” This is a judgment. But it is not finished. Because now you, Banwring, you must give it shape. If the Lawspeaker declares: “Let him repay two goats,” You must decide. Which goats? From which pen? Sickly or strong? Now, or after the next birth? Publicly, or quietly through his elder? And it is here, in that choice - where the Lawspeaker cannot tread - that the Kanun lives or dies. For what if the thief is no rogue, but a starving man whose sister lies pale with fever? What if the goats he stole were milkers, not for greed, but for survival? If you demand two healthy breeders from him, you break the family for a single wrong. If you demand two weak yearlings, the wronged party scoffs and feels robbed again. You cannot appeal the Lawspeaker’s judgment - but you can soften its edge. Or sharpen it. That is the meaning and discretion of your office. This is what we have always known in Reinmar, though few speak it aloud: The Lawspeaker interprets the Kanun. The Bailiff interprets the Lawspeaker. When his judgment is too high, you temper it through your execution. When his judgment is too low, you enforce it heavily. And if both of you are just, then the punishment will land rightly: hard enough to teach, but not cruel enough to corrode the soul. This is why we say: “The Raewita judges the man. The Banwring judges the world he walks in.” There are times, too, when your action becomes the true judgment. When a man spits before the chieftain’s banner or cheats the scales in the market. These are lesser wrongs, too low to summon the firepit and the Raewita’s word. You, Bailiff, pass sentence there - not to rival the Lawspeaker, but to guard his silence. But where the Lawspeaker has spoken, your hand must never contradict him. You do not overturn. You translate. You do not delay. You deliver. You do not defy. You discern. This is no light duty. It requires not just knowledge of goats, grain, or the weight of coin but knowledge of men. Of hunger, pride, kinship, and shame. To judge rightly, you must know the tribe as a shepherd knows his flock. That is why the Banwring must walk the fields, not sit behind doors. That is why your judgment must be seen by all, and not whispered. The people must trust that your sentence fits the body it strikes. If you grow too soft, the people will scoff at justice. If you grow too cruel, they will fear it, but hide from it. But if you strike rightly, they will feel its presence without needing to speak its name. So remember: The Lawspeaker gives the law its soul. You give it its teeth. But also its mercy. And between the two of you, the Kanun does not merely survive — it guides. 𐌳𐌿𐌻𐌺𐍂𐌰𐍆𐍄 - OF THE DUAL BALANCE Hearken this then, O Banwring: You are not beneath the Raewita, nor are you above him. You are not brothers, yet you are not strangers. You are two limbs of one body: the Kanun - and its' heart beats only when both of you walk in harmony and restraint. The Raewita is the Voice. You are the Hand. He speaks in ritual and remembrance. He invokes old sayings and tribe-bound precedent and schwur. His word is a flame drawn from the hearth of the past. But flame cannot walk. Fire does not drive a stake. That is your burden. You take his judgment and bind it to the earth. You measure it not only by what is right, but by what is possible, endurable, and true to the moment. His judgment is rooted in memory. Yours must be rooted in flesh. There are times when he speaks clearly and you act plainly. But more often, his sentence is like a road through mist. You must walk it and not lose your way. You and the Lawspeaker stand not in command of one another, but in tension. This tension is not a flaw. It is the very foundation of Reinmaren justice. When the Raewita grows too rigid, bound by old words and forgotten quarrels, you keep the law human. When the Banwring grows too swift, ruled by anger or the hunger for order, he calls you to answer. Neither may overrule the other outright. But each may rebuke. Each may delay. Each may temper. This is how the Kanun is kept alive — not as decree, but as dialogue. There is no court to appeal to. There is no council of judges. There is only you and him, in sacred balance. If the Raewita declares: “Let shame be known for three market days.” You may decide: “Let it be by name nailed to his door, but not flogging.” If the Raewita speaks nothing, absent, or delayed - you may act alone, so long as your action is lawful. But should you overstep, strike unjustly, shame the wrong man, punish from pride, he may name your act as void. And the people will remember. Likewise, if he grows forgetful of rite or too friendly with the mighty, you may let his sentence soften beneath your hand. Not in defiance, but in silent correction. This is what the elders meant when they said: “The Raewita binds in firelight. The Banwring binds in frost.” You are not rivals. You are restraints upon each other. You are the answer to each other’s flaws. And if ever one of you falls too far, it is the tribe who shall speak. For while the Kanun is memory, it is also watchfulness and all who wear the cap and cloak walk beneath its gaze. So remember this; The Raewita, if left unchecked, becomes a philosopher - wise, slow, but useless to a village that bleeds. The Banwring, without the Raewita, becomes a tyrant - swift, feared, but no different than a rogue with a club. And so, Reinmar gives them no ladder, no hierarchy, only tension. The Kanun rests between them. Never in one man’s grip. 𐍆𐌰𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌲𐌿𐌻𐌿𐍃 - ON THE ENFORCEMENT OF THE LOW Sir Teft, the First Bailiff of Minitz. You must understand this, Banwring: there are wrongs too small for the Raewita to rise from his hearth. The Kanun is not a gnat-catcher. It does not swat at every child’s prank or crooked scale. But a thing left unmarked becomes rot. And rot, left to fester, brings down even stone halls. This is where your boots fall. You walk not in Mootlhalls or under chieftain’s horns but among barrels, breadcarts, doorposts, and drains. You hear not testimony, but tavern-gossip. You read not scrolls, but faces. And from these, you must judge. A man sells weak ale. A baker sells hollow loaves. A drunkard curses at the shrine. A stableboy spits near the Chieftain’s banner. None of these cry out for a Raewita to rouse from his nightcap for judgment. But each, if unchallenged, chips away at the stone of order. The people must not learn that law is only for the mighty. They must not think the Kanun sleeps while the petty lie, cheat, and taint. So you, Banwring, are its waking breath in low places. And yet, this is where your burden begins. You carry the right to judge these acts without ceremony. But not without conscience. You may shame — but not ruin. You may strike — but not for pride. You may name — but not mock. Punishment is not a theatre. It is a memory you place into the tribe. A drunk who fouls the path may be made to sweep the square till dawn, with an apron of thorns. That will teach him, and others besides. But to drag him through mud before his grieving kin? That would not be judgment. That would be vengeance, and it has no place in your hand. You must know the difference between punishment and cruelty. One cleans. The other scars. The first brings silence. The second, whispers. So ask yourself: Will this act remind the folk that order lives? Or will it teach them that the law belongs to the angry? You will not be thanked for your deeds. Justice in small things wins no ballads. But it builds the road the Raewita walks upon. It keeps the Moothall clean. It lets the chieftain sleep without hearing knives sharpened under wine-jars. The Kanun does not speak clearly here. But if you are wise, and your eye keen, you will hear its whisper in every low wrong. “When the gutter floods, the roof is not to blame - but it still falls.” Strike low, Banwring, but strike clean. The small shames you punish are the fence that keeps the greater shames at bay. So long as they fear your step more than they trust the silence, the Kanun still walks. 𐌲𐌰𐌼𐌱𐌰𐌻𐌳𐌴𐌹𐍂𐌸 - ON THE TOOLS OF SHAME AND JUSTICE You are not a knight, Banwring. You wear no shining crest upon your brow, nor do the skalds sing your praises in the spring feasts. Yet your name, more than theirs, is feared in the mouths of liars. What marks your office is not cloak or chain, but sign. Three signs, plain and sacred, passed to you when you swore schwur: Your mace, to strike but not to shatter. A stone dyed red, to press shame upon the guilty. A cloth, torn, to remind you of the weak who cannot strike back. These are not ornaments. They are memory. They are warning. The mace you carry is not for war. You do not beat the tribe into order. You touch with it, you tap, you show. A blow is a last word, not the first. The stone, ochred, heavy, cooled in ash, is not a weapon. It is a voice for the voiceless. You drive it into doors not to boast, but to speak: “Here, a wrong was done. Let none forget.” And the cloth, tattered and humble, is the leash upon your wrath. When your blood burns and your pride rises, you look to it. It says, “He who judges must always remember those who cannot fight back.” These are your weapons. Not blade nor bow. And in them, a harder art. You must learn when shame speaks louder than wounds. When a name nailed to a threshold breaks a man deeper than a switch to the back. When silence, imposed in public, burns worse than coin lost. For this, you must know your folk. Know which man can bear ridicule, and which will kill over it. Know whose pride is fragile, and whose shame may drive him to repay wrong with worse. You must read their posture, their eyes, the weight of their shoulders when you name the wrong aloud. Punishment is not spectacle. It is memory inscribed in flesh, name, and hearth. When you press the red stone to a man’s gate, do not smile. When you seize spoiled mead from a merchant’s cart, do not gloat. When you force a proud woman to apologize to a widow before the market-folk, do not turn it into a play. You are not here to teach through cruelty, but through presence. When the people see you, let them remember: "That is the hand of the Kanun. It moves slow, but it moves". And hearken that the Kanun remembers well. Every stone you place, every rod you raise, every shame you name. These things echo longer than the deeds that caused them. “The thief forgets the flogging. The tribe remembers who gave it.” So carry your tools with gravity. Keep them clean. Let them be seen, but never brandished like trophies. For you are not just the hand of justice. You are its witness. And the witness must never forget the weight of what he sees. 𐌺𐌰𐌽𐌿𐌽𐌴𐌳𐍅𐌰𐌸𐍃 - ON THE LIMIT OF YOUR STRENGTH There is no chain around your wrist, Banwring, but make no mistake, your hand is bound. You walk with weight, and the people yield before you. A man who bears shame beneath your judgment will lower his gaze for seasons. Mothers hush their children when your boots strike the path. It is a fearful thing, to be the hand of justice. And yet you must remember: your might is not your own. The Kanun grants you the right to strike, to shame, to seize. But only so long as your hand serves not your pride, but the law. You are not free. You may not invent punishments to suit your mood. The Kanun is old - older than you, older than the lords of Reinmar. It does not need cleverness. It needs memory. You may not strike a man for insult to your person. If he dishonors the Moot, the banner, the shrine - then the rod may rise. But if he mocks your beard, your gait, your father’s name, then hearken; grit your teeth and walk on. For the rod is not yours. It belongs to the tribe. You may not act in secret. There is no midnight justice in Reinmar. You do not drag men from hearth and bed. You do not whisper shame into ears. If a wrong is named, it must be seen. And if you are right, let it be shown in daylight. If you punish from shadow, the tribe will remember only your cruelty, not the law that shaped it. You may not delay when swiftness is called for. The spoiled meat must be seized before it spreads sickness. The man who spits on the shrine must be shamed before his words can sour others. But you must also not rush when patience is owed. A man who sins in grief deserves a moment to be heard. A debt owed between brothers must be judged with their kin beside them. You walk a narrow path. Too slow, and wrongness roots. Too fast, and you trample the wheat with the weed. So hold this to heart: your strength lies not in the rod, nor in the stone, nor even in the name 'Banwring'. It lies in the eyes of the folk. If they believe your hand is true, they will follow your judgments even when they cut deep. If they believe you act for yourself, not the Kanun, they will mock you behind doors, resist you in corners, and call you breaker when your back is turned. And if the Lawspeaker sees you overstep, he will speak against you in Moot. If the Chieftain hears of cruelty without cause, he will strip you bare. But worse still, O, Banwring, is when the people themselves turn cold to your voice. For then your power has fled, and your name will not be feared, only spat upon. Remember this Reinmaren saying: “A rod that strikes for pride breaks on the skull. But a rod that strikes for justice never forgets the hand that held it.” So judge yourself before you judge another. Ask if your blood is calm. Ask if your cause is shared by the Kanun. Ask if your hand brings peace, or only pain. And when you strike, do so without joy. When you shame, do so without scorn. When you walk, let it be seen by all. For the Kanun has no use for tyrants. And no mercy for fools. 𐌸𐌹𐌽𐌳𐍃𐌿𐌷𐍂𐌴𐌸𐌴𐌹𐌽 - CLOSING WORDS Know this, Banwring: the path you now walk is long, and no feast awaits you at its end. There shall be no choir to sing your justice, no crown to weigh your brow. There shall be no sons who boast of your kindness, nor daughters who toast your deeds. You shall be known by fewer names. You shall be remembered in fewer songs. But you shall be feared where you must be, and trusted where you must act. The Lawspeaker speaks to the past. You walk among the living. The Kanun is not a dead book. It is a living burden, and you are the one who carries it through mud, through scorn, through the edge of cold mornings when judgment must fall before the sun does. You will be cursed. You will be spat at by kin whose brother you flogged. You will be slandered by chieftains whose nephews you named guilty. You will be alone more days than not. But if the folk sleep safely in their halls, it is because you passed through the village. If the baker weighs his bread honestly, it is because you once nailed his fraud to the tavern door. If the youth speak with caution near the shrine, it is because you stood there once, and made an example of one who mocked it. This is your honor. Not applause. Not friendship. Not ease. But order. You are not the spirit of justice - you are its vessel. You are not the judge of men’s hearts, but you must deal with what leaks from them. and in your silence, in your walk, in your steadiness, the people will learn what the Kanun feels like, not just what it says. So go now. Take the mace, the stone, and the cloth. Let the mace remind you to strike, but not too hard. Let the stone remind you to shame, but not without purpose. Let the cloth remind you to protect, even those who have done wrong. Let none say the Kanun is forgotten, so long as your hand still moves. Let none say law is dead, so long as the Banwring still walks. Let none forget that in Reinmar; It is not kings nor laws that bind us but men who remember, and men who act. And you, Banwring, You are both. WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

"Well deserved." Adelmar, the Skald and the Lawspeaker of Reinmar comments upon the letters patent. "Alba, our friendly neighbors have been steadfast in upkeeping of their city, and neighbourly aid."

Adelmar poured a pint in the beginning of the match. One for himself, one for Blackvale. Upon the Mootgoers loss, he threw the pint towards the Blackvale fans stand as it was Minitz Mootgoers tradition to do so upon conceding a match.

“Close enough.” Says a Reinmaren thug called Ludrik and arrests Jan.

If you could put anything on a barbie what would it be How many decks do you operate out of on a monthly basis Under the context of Te Tiriti o Waitangi as a living constitutional document, how should the courts reconcile the apparent tension between customary Māori proprietary rights to natural resources (e.g., freshwater and geothermal energy) and the Crown’s asserted radical title under the common law doctrine of imperium, especially in light of the Resource Management Act’s 2020 reforms and ongoing co-governance arrangements? Further, to what extent can tikanga Māori be treated as a standalone source of law post-Trans-Tasman Resources Ltd v Taranaki-Whanganui Conservation Board [2021] NZSC 127, and how does this interact with the principle of parliamentary sovereignty in Aotearoa’s unwritten constitution?

Im put off by rping as a medic and getting healed by one since some medics roleplay the profession like modern doctors instead of being a medieval physician. Every medic seems to be able to sort out every issue ever and you heal in the next year. Though i recognise that characters getting better is practical and the blame leans more towards the patient, i still dont vibe with the style that much when my medic is talking about blood cells and bacteria.

ÖHNE UND TOCHTER VON REINMAR, HEARKEN ALL AND GATHER HEED, Let this word ride the wind and cross the valley of Frankland. Let it reach the steadings and the halls. Let my word be whispered to the ears of the tribesmen and the highseated, the greybeard gyjsh and the green shield-whelp. By right of the Kanun, I summon all the tribesfolk of Reinmar to stand in Moot. Come with your cloaks upon your shoulders, your caps upon your head, and your words weighed true. Come with coin to pay the moot-tithe, Come with the strength of your deeds and the truth of your ancestors behind you. The fire shall be lit, the horn shall sound, and none shall speak above the other. Matters of the tribe weigh heavy, and none shall be absent who would call himself Reinmaren. Let those who carry grievance bring it forth. Let those who seek judgment receive it. Let those who know silence speak, and those who have erred answer for their walk beneath the Kanun. The Moot shall be held beneath the Moot Rock on the dusk hence. Bring your kin. Bring your word. Bring your memory. So it is spoken. So it shall be done.

ÖHNE UND TÖCHTER VON REINMAR, GATHER HEED, When the folk stood gathered, I took my place before them and asked: "Who among you will take the law into their hands? Who will sit the stone-seat and bear the weight of the Kanun?" None answered. No man rose. No woman stepped forth. The old gave no names. The young made no claim. And so, by the stillness of the tribe, I was named Lawspeaker. This is no crown. This is no cloak of gold. It is a chain about the neck, a blade at the back. But I took it all the same, for no tribe walks long without its tongue. And the Kanun is our tongue. So I am seated as Lawgiver and Lawspeaker by the will of the folk assembled in Moot. The tribe spoke with silence, and so I have answered with oath and burden. See then, the events that transpired in this Moot, put under record and upon stone. In that same Moot came a man who was known to some and watched by many. His name was Johannas Stroheim, a healer by trade and a man of quiet bearing. He stood before the ring and spoke not for glory nor gain, but for place among us—to shed the name of guest and take up the mantle of tribesman. He sought blooding, and he sought it not as a stranger, but as one who had lived near our fire. And then the hands rose. Men of the tribe, and women of station, lifted voice on his behalf. They vouched for his steadiness. They vouched for his honour. They spoke of his craft in tending wounds, his gentleness of manner, and his strength when it mattered. By their voices, the circle was moved. So I turned to Johannas and asked him before all: "Will you walk the way of our tribe? Will you cast off the old name and take one rooted in our soil, sworn to our law, loyal to our way?" And he said, “Aye.” Then let it be written and remembered: he was blooded that day before the eyes of the folk, and he took the name Hans, as is our tradition—to mark the shedding of the old and the beginning of the new. But I say this also: Blooding is not word alone. So I gave him a charge: "By the ending of the Saint’s Week, take up bow or spear and seek a stag—not the weak nor the wounded, but a proud beast worthy of tale. Fell it with your own hand. Raise then a stone, carved by your own blade, and mark upon it your name, the date of your blooding, and the beast you slew. That way, your blooding shall not live in tongue alone, but in stone and story." For the land remembers what men forget. Then came quarrel, as it always does where pride walks beside man. Erminhilde, a daughter of the tribe, had spoken hard words against the folk of Wesenburg. Slander was named, and honour stained. The quarrel was not born of blades, but of the tongue -that sharpest of weapons. She came before the Moot not with denial nor deceit, but with plain speech. She admitted her fault. She named her sin. And she withdrew the words that had wounded. She put this upon in writ later. The kin of Roland and Varik, hearing this, did not press the wound. Instead, as men do who keep the Kanun, they broke bread. Peace was made-not by silence, but by the shared act of closing the wound with salt and crust, and so they broke bread. Let this be known and bound: Slander is named shameful in the eyes of the Kanun. But so too is the man who digs up a buried quarrel and shakes dust upon it anew. A wrong was done, but it was answered. Let none stir that ground again. He who speaks of it henceforth sins not in defence of truth, but in rejection of peace. So says the Kanun. Here I speak with weight and sorrow. The Moot was called. The circle was full. But when I raised my voice and invited reply, I heard only the breath of the wind. Where were the quarrels? Where was the laughter? Where were the cries of “Nay, that is not just!” or “Aye, let it be so!”? We are not men of parchment. We are not a people of ink and decree. We are not in marble halls whispering in robes. We are Reinmaren—a folk whose law is not carved in one tongue, but spoken in many. A people whose law is not carved in dead tongue but spoken in the breath of living men. The Moot is not a script to be read, but a fire to be fed. The Moot is the hearth of that law. If it falls silent, the fire dies. If I alone speak, and none challenge nor praise, then the Kanun becomes brittle. It grows hollow. It rots. This I will not allow. I do not want the law to be my voice. I want it to be ours. Raise your voices, folk of Reinmar. Speak not only when wounded. Speak to guide. Speak to question. Speak to uphold. The Moot is not a stage for one man. It is the root of the tribe. If the root rots, the tree falls. The Moot cannot live if all tongues are stilled. I looked out and saw only eyes, not voices. If the Moot dies, so does our way. Speak. Bring quarrel. Bring praise. Bring judgment. That is how the Kanun breathes. The Moot is the root of our law. Yet when I stood before it, I saw no fire in the eyes, no thunder in the chest. Too many watched, too few spoke. This is not our way. I will not drag the law of our forefathers behind me like a cart. I will not carry the law alone. And be ye noble, or a free tribesman, when you come to the Moot, speak. And if silence grips your tongue, then I shall loosen it. Let it now be law, by my word and by the stillness I was made to bear: All who come to the Moot shall henceforth pay the Moot-tithe: three silver marks. These marks shall be spent in full on the buying of Mootbier, drawn from the tavern. The casks shall be brought to the Moot, and poured before all. There shall be no empty hands nor dry throats. For a dry man is a silent man—and I would rather deal with drunken quarrel than empty air. Let the ale stir the bellies, let the mouths run hot, and let belligerency rise like steam from stone. I would rather hear bellowing and bad judgment than stillness and cowardice. Better the man who speaks folly than the one who keeps wise silence and does nothing. So drink, you lot. Then speak. Then brawl, if need be. For this is how the Kanun lives—not in peace, but in passion. For the running of the Moot, as the Lawspeakers of old, I call for two Hirdmen. Men or women of strength and honour, to uphold justice, enforce the Kanun, and stand firm when law is challenged. I call for two Lawmen. Folk of sense and learning, who can speak the Kanun, help judge disputes, and proclaim justice before the fire. Lords, landed men, elders and youth alike - I expect your voice in the Moot. This law is ours, not mine. If the tribe is silent, we drift like leaves on the wind. Let this be known. Now that the law has been spoken and the quarrels laid bare, I speak as Skald, not Lawgiver. It is not enough for a tribe to be ruled. It must also remember. Our laws are bones, but our stories are blood. Our judgments build walls, but our songs fill the halls with warmth. A tribe that forgets its stories is like a man with no name—he walks, but no one knows him. So I give you now a tale, as our fathers did when the Moot fire burned low and the mead horn passed from hand to hand - for the Lawspeaker speaks not only law, but is the memory of the tribe. Let the children hear. Let the old men nod. Let the tale be told. Here now is a Reinmaren tale. Listen. Remember. Speak it again. In the Age of the Undead, during the Reinmaren flight to the North, Theoderic and brethren loyal to him thus traversed the untamed wilderness with his band of four hundred valiant Hird. Guided by destiny, they so stumbled upon this fateful encounter, a battle between unfamiliar forces of Waldenfolk. Theoderic's voice thundered like the storm of winds across the wilderness, as he spoke to his trusted riders, gathered like the warriors of old, beneath the shadow of this here towering runestone: "Hearken, noble comrades! In our wanderings, we came upon a clash of blades, a battle fought by unknown warriors. We here carry swords upon our hips, not in the manner of timorous souls, but in the way of true champions. To turn and flee, as craven folk, is an affront to our honor. We must extend our aid, but to which side shall we lend our strength? The victors or the vanquished?" Chieftain Theoderic shouted, and his eyes aflame like a maelstrom. His loyal brethren, their sinews like the gnarled roots of ancient trees, spoke in unison, their voices resonating as such; "To aid the victors seems the prudent course. Our numbers are few, and our might may not sway the course of the battle." Theoderic, however, shook his head, his gaze fixed upon the horizon. "Nay, dear brethren, such counsel is the path of the faint-hearted. To be a true warrior is to aid the vanquished, to strike with the fury of thunder and bring relief to those ensnared in despair. Genuine valour does not dwell in the ease of the chosen path, but in the extension of our might to those most in need, for this is the hallmark of a true warrior of the Rein." With hearts steeled, they advanced. Tjudmund, whose skill with the chisel was legendary, took note and thus carved these words. This stone was raised by Alaric in memory of Theoderic, his father's son. He was unjustly denied a death in battle, yet his honour echoed in these plains. Ever will stand this memorial. WER RASTET, DER ROSTET

Its not that crazy that nations who spend years trying to build a culture are wary of accepting people that will refuse to be a part of that culture, described as a “narrow mould”. If we just take anyone and everyone, it would be tantamount to a VRCHAT room with no aesthetic direction whatsoever. Cultures need to be relatively homogeneous for obvious reasons. I feel like this kind of mentality is a modern, cosmopolitan one whereas we are trying to be depict a vaguely medieval fantasy here. Imagine if Witcher towns had random demons and dragons and humans and swamp monsters living all in one town kumbaya style. It would not be a witcher town. Imagine if Whiterun had a gazillion argonians khajits and orcs living with no distinction from the nords, it would not be a nordic hold. Imagine if The Kingdom of Franks had no Franks. It would not be Frankia. When you join a community, whether it be orcs or haelunor or burgundy or church, there is an implicit agrement that you are trying to be a part of that community and not exist within it as a separate entity. (This can be pulled tastefully if it has narrative coherence, for example the relationship between welves and kha) think about it, you go to Urguan and you do not play a dwarf, and do not subcribe to their culture. How do you expect to be welcomed and intergrate when you are choosing explicitly to be the antithesis to what they are trying to build? It seems to me that some of the people in this thread just want a wishy washy all-be welcome motley baldurs gate dnd towns, as if a nation is some roadside tavern. This is a writing project and writing projects should be coherent not only on an individual but an institutional basis.