louislxix

Free B[eboon]obby Shmurda. how unfortunate

The Paramount of Hanseti-Ruska, occupied by other duties, rest a hand over his chest plate, from where a pained ache would not quite subside. His letter would later arrive, as he occupied his mind elsewhere in the knightly halls, hours before, he had seen Ser Brandt -- and in a way, he could still feel the presence of him. A one-over sufficed for the long-suffering memory of Ser Alric. "A dobry man." Taking his leave subsequently, he wends his way through the palace of Karosgrad, hoping to hear from the other knights of the orders.

Ser Alric Ruthern heard news of the late Koenas further on in his day. Having been on duty and standing guard at a particular meeting, he was long overdue a proper rest, so he found himself to be in his office; entirely solus. Revealing an unruly mop of dampened black hair, he then unclicked his helmet and set it upon his desk. "It didn't have to be like this," is what the Paramount eventually commented, keeping his eyes fixed to a distant statue.

[!] A courier spreads word and missives bearing the time-tested Ruthern seal, brandishing upon idle posts of timbre, or being extended to the hands of nobles. To the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska, At my own behest, do I offer a long-deserving and deserving of apology, to not only this Kingdom, but all who dwell inside. My own mouth has spilled that loyalty takes knightly precedence above all else. But what is a knight, or Paramount of the Realm, with only loyalty and not anything else? How have I failed you Lady Haense, and Mother Ruska? For years now, during my tenure as Paramount, my mouth has spilled values, and what it means to be a knight; knighthood itself. Yet, all those speeches, or values I tried to instill, I did not believe or reflect upon myself. Being Knight Paramount means more than just having a knack for swordplay and organization of our two orders, and I wish to be better; truly. Now, my sight beholds the future. And I cannot fix what has already been broken or betrayed, but what the future holds, I swear to steer it. The squires to come along the road, I shall look to them, pleasantly, guiding them to eventually shape the face of this nation; the knights. My first efforts extend to reaching out to a member of the clergy, long, have I strayed from Godan -- all men sin, and I wish to seek forgiveness, from Godan, from the people and myself. I’m holding dearly onto the remnants of the past and honourable knight, Ser Alric Ruthern -- help me find him again. Some may not believe me, but I so swear this: “I Alric Ruthern, solemnly swears to right all I have wronged, To undergo my own trials and tribulations to seek redemption, To never break the trust, that the people of Hanseti-Ruska have beseeched in me, To never act unmindfully again, under the chains of loyalty, To alas, practise all that I have preached, in hopes of serving this Kingdom with honour once more.” In swearing this, from this day forth, and until the day Lady Haense and Mother Ruska smiles upon my soul once more. My helmet shall not be removed; until you are proud of the person within, until the burdens that I bear are naught under my conviction, until I find absolution in the people, and in the eyes of Godan; if ever. Iv Joveo Maan, Ser Alric Ruthern, Knight Paramount to the Kingdom of Hanseti-Ruska

is it true, you do a little trolling?

Ser Alric overheard the ever-so-sage words of Gregory, revealing an innocent smile from around a corner. A finger of his then rises aloft, pointing out the obvious! "Why of course I didn't do it!"

An unchampioned ferrymen, afforded the name of 'Brick' sat in his lonesome hours after the ensued battle, nestling the cap of his boot into a mound of gravel. "Hours o' waiting, for two minutes o' battle." A weighted breath then passed the lips of the veiled figure, drawing his sword to a whetstone, making ready for that of future prospects -- his dreary gaze, casting to a powdered wig, a prize he had claimed all those years ago when he stood against thrice his force.

Kaaldomun upon reading the letter in full, reclined from where he was sat and stretched out his limbs, letting up a guttural cackle from behind his up curled lips. That fond countenance sticks as he folds the letter, drawing it into a compartment of his armour. "Foolish," is all the man comments, finding the entire situation to be rather enrapturing.

Ser Alric retreats from the sooty fireplace, rubbing his thumb to his fingers as he smeared the residue about. "Urm. I was merely checking the integrity of this fine hearth."

Ser Alric Ruthern finds the residue of burnt paper amongst many fireplaces.

Ser Alric during his stint away from the order, catches glimpse of the teachings. A placid smile grows onto his features, bestowing any approval that might come with his laborious and astute hardworking. A proper knight.

Skin Name: Northern Hunk Skinner’s Username: Venclair Discord: louis#1234 Bid: 600 Mina

Skin Name: Northern Hunk Skinner's Username: venclair Bid: 420 mina Skin Name: basic gambeson Skinner: spoon Bid: 200 mina

Ser Alric Ruthern Trial of the Fortress The Battle of the Blackmeu Mire & The Siege of Stanford Keep A story about the Impatience of Man The Battle of the Blackmeu Mire Soft squelches of boots resounded at the near center of Blackmeu Mire, from where the men of King Alexander intermittently took watch of the night. Morale was sunken and at full tilt, spreading throughout the camp, like leeches burgeoning and fattening out as they ingurgitate the blood of men. For the posted soldiery, wrought together by the impulsivity and restlessness of man, had been camped out for near weeks. So as the humid days of the Mire dragged, their initial plan of patience and starving out the defenders was astray - only coerced together, at the thought of King Alexander crushing his own men from beneath his feared boot. Half-measures procured as the hours of bleak darkness continued to sink in, the weary eyes of the watching men began to subside and close consequently. No longer, did the King’s force have control of the encampment. Nearly half of the twenty posted soldiers had dozed into the dead of night. Hence they did not catch the silhouettes of the figures approaching, not until the dimly lit torchlight of the camp caught glimpse of them. Stifled yawps then escaped the maws of the jaded men, espying the silhouette force before the whiz of an arrow flourished and buried into the guarding victims. One after another, until the camp was inevitably alerted, forced out of their desperately needed sleep and into the fray of a night’s battle. The rebel combattants, while shallow in numbers, were fortified by the nature of their stronghold’s surroundings. For their keep was seated just outside of the named mire, and backed up by the herculean drop of a cliffside. Their human hand also backed the notion of their defence, as they were cornered and rebelling for a full-hearted cause. A deep contrast, to the King’s folk who were fighting under the tyrannical rule of a cantankerous bastard. Therefore, as the final arrow whizzed and the crack of dawn seeped light into the King’s encampment, a quarter of their force was ultimately mowed down. Herded, like the very sheep they were, into demise. Before the merit of numbers alone could turn the tide of the abrupt battle, the attackers beated a hasty heel of retreat. Bounding and traipsing through the sickly mire, they strived for the safety of their stowed horses, tied to the looming trees at the edge of the bog. Chase was given, but ultimately only the death of a few swamp-lodged rebels went about, ponderously, as the sluggish King’s haphazard men struggled to traverse the mire themselves. Minutes after the battle’s end, the stench of masacre loomed physically and mentally throughout the air. Cut down bodies sank and drizzled ichor into the mire, and the hushed sobs of men lingered. They licked their wounds, and prepared to heed the King, who had ignorantly slept through the clash. “Wha’ do you mean we lost?!” The bastard King had snapped at his men, banging his gauntleted-hand against a tabletop, as serpentine spite ran throughout his eyes. Oho, as per usual the calamity of man wavered in that tent, burdened by the sin of impatience. “Prepare the men! Those wretched weasels have cowered in tha’ blasted keep for too long!” His saging men blanched at his roar and remained still, each plucking up the courage to oppose his frivolous command. But as the lips of a man parted, the King heinously thrust a gauntleted finger against his cheek, “You ‘ave five minutes before I drown you in the bog myself!” With that, and the seed of dubiety in their minds, and the fatigue of a lost battle and a sleepless night, they marched on the keep. The Siege of Stanford Keep Downtrodden boots trudged through the mire, until the pristinely built Keep, was discernible from over the horizon of the creaking morn. Constructed out of scarlet bricks and the likes of ivory tiles, the Keep seemed to glow fervently and from afar, glistening as the sun's rays clashed against the walls. In that flicker, of what could only be described as a burning hearth, came the gargle of something unknown. It trembled the bulwarked walls, mutating the light flicker of a hearth into an insidiously proud roar of a firestorm. As the disturbed soldiers of the King blinked, the roar-like gargle ceased, and so they prepared to mount their aching attack. On sheer account of numbers alone, the King deemed it inappropriate to haul siege equipment through the mire - so the lackeys and fodder of the army were sent in first, hoisting ladders onto the walls. War is vicious, and it always will be, in saying that, the crack of a ballista thundered through the air. Then another, and another, sending the malign bolts crashing into several groups of ladder bearers. Cries were sounded, as the men were dismembered and the splints of the mammoth ladders soared through the air, lacerating the waxen skin of the fodder. A constant back and forth pursued for half of the hour, as the men of the King struggled to mount the walls. The ladders planted alas, sticking to the walls as the soldiers began to climb, gnawing against the crimson walls. In spite of it all, more defences had been laid and set into motion. A grizzled smile flashed at the top of a ladder, peering through a crenellation. Then, as the flash of dirtied canines retreated, the first-in soldiers met that of a rancorous pitch. Hideous sizzles and screams were relayed all along the battlements, as the faces of liquidized men came crashing down, echoing the snapping of bones. But it was all ineludible, the numbers continued to climb and climb, like a horde of undead. Now, atop the walls of the ablazen keep, vicious blows were exchanged as steel met steel. All until the remaining wall-stationed rebels were trounced over, having afforded their lives to reduce the King’s force to a ratio of two to one. Once the battle had temporarily come to a standstill, the soldiery ogled elsewhere. To the barren courtyard which reeked of duplicity, with a feast hall to the left and the barracks seated to right, and straight ahead laid the throne room. Each with their doors unbarred but still shut, save for the throne room which remained with a creek in the ajar door. A stifled command was set forth, and then acted out. Presumably, the throne room was to have possessed the most garrisoned men, ready to thwart their attack. Then the two stray rooms, were surmised to have the smaller force, ready to crash into them from the sidelines. So the Commander deemed a head-on attack suitable, while the side rooms were to be dealt with by a smaller force. An eerie silence filled the yard as the men set themselves into position, not even an utter could be discerned from the rebels. Three gauntleted-fingers were then held up, by the commander, then two, subsequently one. “Charge!” Clamoured the Commander, and then his men in unison. A quarter into the Feasthall, and a quarter into the barracks - half plummeting into the slightly ajar throne room. Then the crack of battle roared once more, but it was all some wildering ruse. The men who had entered the feast hall were met with an equal force, and had charged defenceless into a fortified room - so they were cut down within minutes. All the same had occurred within the confines of the barracks, leaving half of the opposing force seated in a near empty throne room. From there. a singular ashen figure sat on the throne, and as he rose to stand, the door clattered shut behind the men-at-arms. The rebelling force tended to their injured, piling out of their prevailing rooms and into the yard once, hoisting war-besmitten men away. Yet, the stillness of the throne room was ever present - and while ordered, to not intervene, a curious rebel ventured to the door and pressed his ear against it. Forced sobs of men dithered, but were infrequent, followed by the warm and squelched sound of a dagger sinking through flesh. His skin paled as he drew himself away from the door, lofting a hand to cover his nauseated mouth. Just as he turned a heel, he thought himself to be ensnared. A serpentine, wisping smoke seeped from under the doorway and wrapped around his foot, sickly looking as it continued to plume out of the door. Painfully snorting, he then retreated from the place apace, knowing the battle was truly won. [OOC: This is not public, serving only as a letter to Oliver Helane.]

more damage on bows dont remove the extra line of hp, because a good pvper will kill u in 4 crits (which is easy to do) saturation less

im not sure about anybody else, but the big 40v40 training we did with haense/norland/dwarves was some of the most fun I've had this map if ur complaining that the health is too high / damage too little, u can't jump crit or group fight properly 1.9 pvp = high skill gap, and personally more fun 1.8 pvp = more of the same, less fun and idk about you, but the server hardly ever does pvp, so when it does i'd preferred slightly extended fights rather than just blobbing into a big autoclicking mess

always thought i'd hate 1.9 but these ore-[redacted] mfers still havent figured timed hitting after 3 months, so im inclined to say 1.9, ez soap and if ur saying 1.9 fights last longer, its only because u havent figured out jump critting / actually doing damage

HAESENI MILITARY ETIQUETTE As penned by THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, the Lady Chamberlain Rosalind Elizaveta Amador de Astrea, and by SER Alric Sigmar Ruthern, of the Marian Retinue and approved by HIS GRACE Lord Friedrich Barclay - 359 ES Etiquette, while needed in court, is also essential in military practise. The HRA albeit a brotherhood, it is still paramount that all soldiers conduct themselves properly on the field, as well as in court. Being a member of the HRA means that you represent the Kingdom of Haense and the Royal family as well as acting as a protector of the people. Many will look to the men and women in armour to uphold Haense’s values and conduct themselves in a proper way, therefore earning their respect. The ranks of the HRA are as follows, officers being in italics. Remember them, since it affects how you address them and forms of greeting: Lord Marshal Captain Lieutenant Sergeant Armiger Armsman Footman Initiate GLOSSARY: Formality - Any settings described as formal. Examples include: in court or on duty, in uniform. Casualness - Any settings described as casual. For example, in the tavern or out of uniform. Superior - An officer past the rank of Armiger. On duty - When a soldier is in uniform. Off duty - When a soldier is out of uniform. ADDRESSING It is of utmost importance that one knows how to address members of the court and Royal family - [See I. SALUTATIONS] for reference. Additionally to this, referring to fellow soldiers and your superiors within the ranks of the army in the correct manner is imperative. When addressing the Lord Marshal, always address them as ‘Lord Marshal’. However, if there is clarification to use their normal name, the soldier may do so. When addressing a soldier of a superior rank, always begin with ‘Sir’. When addressing a knight, always address them as ‘Ser’. If a knight is also an officer, their salutation of ‘Ser’ has priority over the salutation of ‘Sir’. When addressing a monarch, always give a brief inclination of the head, dipping your chin, thereafter dressing them ‘Your Majesty.’ When addressing other royalty, aulic councilors or nobles, regard proper etiquette and address them with their appropriate salutation. SALUTING & POSTURE ALL superiors past the rank of Armiger must be saluted even in casual settings. Always salute the highest ranking officer in the room. In formal settings, however, the salute and rigid position must be held until the superior commands them to be ‘At ease.’ When in doubt if the situation is one of formality, our recommendation is to stand at attention and salute regardless. Those who do so all the time are recognized as exceptional soldiers, garnering respect for themselves. Not only does one keep their upright posture in formal settings, soldiers are expected that, no matter the situation, when a superior officer enters a room, stand and salute until the superior has passed through. Knights, no matter the setting, are to be respected and saluted briefly. When at attention, the soldier will keep his legs and feet together. His heels will touch and hit feet will be spread at a forty degree angle. His right hand will be made to fist and will properly shield his heart before extending his arm outwards at a forty-five degree angle. In formal settings, this position must be held until dismissed. EXPECTATIONS OF BEHAVIOUR It is expected that members of the HRA conduct themselves in a way that garners respect rather than the latter. The ideal picture of a cohesive and powerful force does not always come from the merit of mere numbers and might, but the ability to act judiciously. An exceptional soldier will ensure their ability to communicate is intact. In doing so, all soldiers are expected to be diplomatic rather than be hostile. They will speak resonantly, without being abrasive. Peaceful resolutions take favour over physical and violent outcomes. When standing in formation, verbal communication between soldiers should be restricted, barring commands from superior officers. Speaking out of turn in any situation, snapping back or publicly confronting a superior is unacceptable. Moreover soldiers will not question orders from an officer: on or off duty. [An additional note:] It goes without being said that soldiers are expected to uphold personal hygiene as well as their standard of dress and appearance, especially in armour. Armour should be shining, swords sharpened and maintained. Signed, His Grace, Friedrich Wilheim Barclay, Lord Marshall of Hanseti-Ruska Ser Alric Sigmar Ruthern, of the Marian Retinue, Sergeant of Hanseti-Ruska The Right Honourable, Rosalind Elizaveta Amador de Astrea, Lady Chamberlain of Hanseti-Ruska

Ser Alric frowns deeply. He had been one of the initial knights to bring him down, unharmed, so he thought. Regardless, upon pivoting on his heels to face the man once more, he was no more, inanimate and put to death. So he signs the lorraine in his office later that night, uttering a prayer - but most of all, respecting the late man for fighting until his last breath. A fete not many men were willing to do.

Alric var Ruthern sits within the confines of his study, rubbing his palms together excitedly as he hears of such fantastic news. He makes off to find his brother, and once in his presence he does frown at the state of his children, but he congratulates him nonetheless, giving him a swift bow. "Congratulations borsa, vy have once again lifted this family into greatness." He then flicks around, leaving him to deal with his unruly offspring. Ailred is stuck up a tower somewhere, yelping for his mamej.