Emery

love u nun

my biggest piece of advice would be to not be a *****. all the greatest roleplay moments have come from dope ass people finding what they want and going out and doing it. at the end of the day its just a game so there's really nothing to lose.

Conrad Jrent lingered at the edge of the yard, arms folded across his chest as he watched Sir Everett take each man in turn. He followed the bouts in silence, his gaze fixed on the clashing of the daemonsteel blades. The fights were short, but each ended the same. Conrad gave a faint shake of his head at one clumsy strike, then gave a quiet nod at another well-placed blow. When the last of them fell, he pushed off the wall and turned away without a word. There was nothing more to see.

Conrad Jrent held the Östlunder flank as the enemy line broke upon Mont Collier, the White Eagle snapping above him in the wind. He drove his horse downhill into the fleeing mass, lance striking once before splintering, his sword drawn in the same breath. Men scattered before him, tripping over stone and one another, yet Conrad did not slow, cutting them down as they ran. One among them turned to face him, a peasant warrior with a battered blade and just enough courage to stand. Conrad reined in, meeting him on the bloodied slope. Their steel rang once, twice, the brigand’s blows wild but fierce, until Conrad stepped through his guard and felled him with a single, decisive stroke. Without a word, he pressed on, remounting the chase as the Östlunders closed in, leaving no path of escape for those who dared flee.

glory to drusco

AR IS UPON THE IMPERIUM. The Druscans know it best, for their strength has been tried in battle, and they are second to none in the realm. Their enemies however, the men of Myrine and Númenost, could scarce say the same, for their forces were wholly unready for that which drew nigh. This much would be proven when the Druscans took to the roads, their host numbering some four thousand strong. First, the Allied host arrived at the keep of Myrine. Three bannermen found their way into the castle, but Calias ‘the Spanked’ shut his doors and fled the violence, fitting as the insolent boy he is. The forces then moved to their next destination: the gates of the White City, to deliver the Druscan Answer personally to the half-breed allies of Calias ‘the Spanked’. And when at last the unsightly white walls of Númenost lay before them, the Druscans found neither the great host promised by Calias, nor the retainers of Númendil to meet them in battle. Instead, he found shut gates which guarded an empty city. Not to be denied, the Druscan host pressed into the mountains, rode up its peaks, and from there scaled the walls to breach it. To no surprise of anyone, the meager host of Numendilians and Myrinians hid behind their palace gates. It was made very clear today that the Numendilians have successfully taken a page out of the Balianite Novellen playbook: to speak brazenly while cowering behind their doors. Even the Tar of Numendil abandoned his own people! Upon hearing the Druscan bannermen charge through the city square, the Tar of Numendil vanished into thin air, leaving his own subjects to be apprehended by the knights of the Alliance. We celebrate the cowardly Tar of Numendil for sparing the lives of his citizens, by magically vanishing upon this day. Hurray to the Allied forces! Ave Drusco!

Beneath a quiet canopy of the Middens old pines, Bohemond de Rouen stood alone. In his hand he held the Imperial letters—words heavy with honor: Prince of Savoy and Ulmsbottom, Archduke of Drusco. A faint smile touched his lips as he looked toward home, pride swelling not with grandeur, but with quiet certainty. The house had endured, their bloodline risen once more—and in this stillness, Bohemond felt the august reverence of his forbearers.

Bohemond quit his brother’s chamber, yet still mud clicked, sweat drenched, and still clad in his riding gear, making swift passage for the armory of Castle Waldemer. There, he cast his gaze upon the breastplates which adorned upon the wall, noting each, that every man might be duly furnished for the battle to come.

RP: Name: Bohemond de Rouen Age: 21 Race: Human Reason for Enlisting: To serve GOD Past Experience (if any): trained in ulmsbottom OOC: MC Name: EmeryOP Discord Tag: e.mery

Everyone is just going to be glazing their own characters. With that being said Sir Edmond de Rouen probably takes the top spot.

LETTER TO THE ASHFORD The age of prosperous Savoyard people has long since faded into memory; in its place has come an era of pretenders and hollow men, where names carry no weight and titles are held by unworthy holders. The echoes of Olivier Renault's reign has faded, and with him perished the last true remnants of a united Savoy. The Rouennais are all that endures, a flicker of a dying sun. The Savoyard people are scattered and enfeebled, drifting like exiles in their land, yearning for a home, for a leader of true Ashford blood to guide them. In their desperation, they have taken up borrowed cloaks, wearing an identity not tailored to them, unfit for the legacy our ancestors once bore with pride. So let me speak plainly, for each breath these pretenders draw fuels our claim, and I shall not stay my hand in its pressing. Let it be known throughout the realms of men that I, Robert Lysander Ashford de Rouen, step forth to claim Patriach-Dynast of Ashford. Upon the thread of my mortal coil, I swear this oath: before GOD delivers my soul to the seven skies, I shall deliver the Savoyard people to a land they may once more call their own and see the fractured Ashford houses united beneath the banner of a red sun. My words are writ in iron and shant be broken. Signed, Robert of Ulmsbottom Patriarch-Dynast of Ashford, Captain of the Prince’s Army,

Robert lingered at the camp’s edge, where the wind carried the murmur of men and the distant hush of the land beyond. The Lowlands lay waiting, uncertain in their fate, as banners stirred in the dim light. He signs a two-barred cross upon his chest, making for the Lord Commander.