Masouri

FREEDMEN AT LAST Issued by the KINGDOM OF HAENSE On this victorious 18th day of Gronna ag Droba of 560 E.S. VA BIRODEO HERZENAV AG ELDERVIK, IT WAS IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT IN THE WORKER’S WEEK THAT THEY CAME, AS IS OFTEN THE CASE WHEN THE DAELISH REAR THEIR HEADS. Some attribute this to their disgusting, blanched-pink flesh and ginger locks, though truly it is a symptom only of their cowardice. Eighty “raiders,” more likely the man-concubines of the Daelish chief, rode through the gates with blades drawn. As the some one-hundred twenty Haeseni that mulled about the square turned to meet them, the green and red trousers of the great chief were surely soiled brown. As quickly as they came, did the cravens hoist up their kilts (Common: “Dainty Skirt”) and turn heel. Praise be to young Acolyte Jan, whose hand was surely guided by THE LAST PROPHET, SIGISMUND. In case any were curious, Marius Audemar was unable to attend to the dismay of many. As the chief waddled as fast as he could, weighed down as he was by his load, an arrow soon found itself pierced through his decorative dome. The rest of his band were torn from their horses, and beaten to death by the assembly of the commons in the Aleksandrplatz. And so those Daels that survived fled screaming while the Prince Sigmar Lorik and Duke Dmitry of Ruthern rallied the people. They were chased first to Nataliyino, where they were slain in the fields. It was here that Prince Josef, the Oracle of Maenvestiyaeo, thrust his pike through three Daels and dragged them from their scrawny nags. Then unto the river, where they slipped and drowned on the rocks. Those few dogs that crawled into Waltonburg opted to slit their own throats, a final act of cowardice, before the justice of the Dual-Kingdom. Only one was brave enough to hang, and hang he did. It is said that this was the best of Daeland (and a wayward Ferryman). If that is so, then we advise you, the Daels, this: Follow the example of your brethren. Slit your throats and be done with it. Shoutout to my Ruthern kin, Rhys and Viktor. GODANI JEST WIELKI, His Grace, Dmitry var Ruthern, Duke of Vidaus, Count of Metterden, Viscount of Greyspine, Baron of Rostig, Lord of Morteskvan, Lord of Barrows, and Protector of the South His Royal Highness, Sigmar Lorik, Prince of Hanseti-Ruska

NAF VE TURNI I ROSTIG ON THE TOURNEY OF ROSTIG Issued by the DUCHY OF VIDAUS On the 10th day of Gronna ag Droba of 559 E.S. SANGKRUV I RUTHER, AFTER MANY YEARS, IT IS WITH GREAT PRIDE THAT I INHERIT MY BIRTHRIGHT. To this, I extend my thanks to those who gathered to celebrate alongside my kin. For those who could not, I have penned a recounting of the day’s events. The joust was won by Firress Vasilia Barrow, who dehorsed the Lord Vitomir Korvacz. The bastard was notably bet upon by the Count of Ayr, Duncan Baruch, who garnered a heavy purse of coin for it. However, the young Korvacz showcased a great display of his own, handily defeating each of those he placed against within the first round. One should not forget the success of a smallfolk boy, Tomasz van Karoswald, for defeating both Sers and the noble blooded alike. The first bout; I. Firress Vasilia Barrow, who won against Firr Demos Emberveil. II. Firr Tomasz van Karoswald, who won against Ser Sigmar var Ruthern. III. The Right Honourable, Duncan Baruch, who won against Firr Greiret Elverhilin, after they took to foot. IV. His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred, who won against His Lordship, Tihomir Ivanovich. V. His Royal Majesty, King Karl VI, who won against the Firress Mara Vanir. VI. His Lordship, Vitomir Korvacz, who won against His Lordship, Sigmund Ludovar. VII. His Royal Highness, Aleksandr Leopold, who won against Her Ladyship, Catarina Valkonen, after the two dismounted in favor of melee. The second bout; I. Firress Vasilia Barrow, who won against Firr Adrián Antonio once the two were called to dismount. II. Firr Tomasz van Karoswald, who won against The Right Honourable, Duncan Baruch. III. His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred, who won against his brother, His Royal Majesty, King Karl IV. IV. His Lordship, Vitomir Korvacz, who won against His Royal Highness, Aleksandr Leopold. The third bout; I. Firress Vasilia Barrow, who won against Firr Tomasz van Karoswald. II. His Lordship, Vitomir Korvacz, who won against His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred. The final bout; I. Firress Vasilia Barrow, who won against His Lordship, Vitomir Korvacz. In regards to the melee, it was fought in brackets, of which the victor was the Prince Sigmar Lorik, who triumphed in the final round against Firr Adrián Antonio. Two men stood out from their peers in a remarkable bout, being the Prince Joren Manfred and Ser Gentry Ruthern, with the Prince narrowly besting the knight. The first round of the melee; I. His Royal Highness, Aleksandr Leopold, who won against Ser Sigmar var Ruthern. II. Firr Frederic, who won against His Lordship, Andrei Kortevich. III. His Lordship, Tihomir Ivanovich, who won against His Lordship, Vitomir Korvacz. IV. His Royal Highness, Sigmar Lorik, who won against Firr Greiret Elverhilin. V. Firr Adrián Antonio, who won against Firr Tomasz van Karoswald. VI. Firress Vasilia Barrow, who won against Ser Gerard aus Welle. VII. Firr Demos Emberveil, who won against Her Ladyship, Nadya Weiss. VIII. His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred, who won against Ser Gentry Ruthern. The second round of the melee; I. Firr Frederic, who won against His Royal Highness, Aleksandr Leopold. II. His Royal Highness, Sigmar Lorik, who won against His Lordship, Tihomir Ivanovich. III. Firr Adrián Antonio, who won against Firress Vasilia Barrow. IV. His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred, who won against Firr Demos Emberveil after his disqualification for drawing a blade. The third round of the melee; I. His Royal Highness, Sigmar Lorik, who won against Firr Frederic. II. Firr Adrián Antonio, who won against His Royal Highness, Joren Manfred. The final round of the melee; I. His Royal Highness, Sigmar Lorik, who won against Firr Adrián Antonio. DRUZ GJERNZ AG GRYNZ, His Grace, Dmitry var Ruthern, Duke of Vidaus, Count of Metterden, Viscount of Greyspine, Baron of Rostig, Lord of Morteskvan, Lord of Barrows, and Protector of the South

Ser Belisar returned from his late night patrol, adding another tally to his scoreboard. It now read: 5-0, CLEAN SWEEP. "One day, they might become Ferrymen," The knight remarked.

I have known Mick for the duration of the time I've been on LOTC. He was apart of the dwarven clan I joined and was willing to teach me the ropes of this server along with many other noobs. I've only known Mick to be truly caring about people and he goes out of his way for people. I've seen his work first hand whether it was Urguan, Krugmar, Myrine, or the Ferrymen, Mick has always done his best to bring up communities using his skill set. Never have I seen Mick hate another person out of character that has not truly deserved it (pedophiles). Mick and I have had our disagreements, and yet we still remain friends. I fought on the opposing side of the war with many of my old friends. Although many of my old friends have only shown me hate and malice since then, Mick has risen above this. He has made clear to me that he does not care for the 'mineman schemes' and 'omg kill haense' like most of the people who he surrounds himself with. To this day, Mick and I have had many laughs and talks about his vacations and current life. If this does not show you that Mick could not care more about the happenings of a minecraft server, I don't know what will. He simply does not have the interest or care to 'metaplay' against his 'minecraft enemies'. Mick does have a unique way of playing this server that contrasts the majority of people. He enjoys conflict and the narrative that is driven from it. I do not think it is right to punish a player for his way of having fun on this server. The roleplay Mick and his group has done, whether it be conflict or worldbuilding, add value to this server. Please reconsider his ban. Even under the most damning evidence of metaplay (which I am convinced there is none), there should be infractions given rather than full-on bans. This rule is enforced arbitrarily and I believe this is the perfect example of it.

On his day off, Ser Belisar decided to visit his favorite amusement park - Midget World. He dearly wished to ride the 'SUGAFOOT'S MANSION', but he was met with malice from one of the halfling workers. "Where are you going, giant." The halfling shouted at the him, pointing to a sign that read: MUST BE 4 FOOT OR UNDER TO RIDE The knight's day was ruined, but he was determined to return and fight for equality in Dunwen.

I HAVE A NOTE “She says I am the one, but that note is not mine!” - Banjo I have a note. A note written by noble Haeseni women, married women, who gave it to our Ferrymen, urging them to strip down. A note not of decency, but of indecency - a note filled with suggestive comments, unsolicited requests, and the hopes that our Ferrymen would abandon their loving wives and creed for a moment of misguided pleasure. But we will not be silenced. We have brought this note to the court of justice, demanding punishment to those who have slighted us. Yet, we find ourselves facing a sham of a court, where equality has been traded for a pouch of minas, where justice is blinded by the weight of a judge’s pocket. I have a note, but also a dream. I have a dream that one day, every Ferryman, from every boat and every shore, will not be judged by the bandanas they wear, but by the dignity with which they hold themselves. I have a dream that one day, the courtrooms of Haense will be filled with the air of true justice, untainted by the stink of bribery and inequality. I have a dream that one day, Ferrymen and Nobles alike will stand hand in hand, not in shame, but in mutual respect, without the fear of scandalous notes and oppression. Signed, Penned by famous Hyspian Activist,

Ser Belisar took a needed break from his heavy bag and glossed over the missive, “This August must be a shit boxer.” He commented from afar, perhaps this new Prince needed a few boxing lessons?

AN OPEN LETTER TO THE PONTIFICATE: ON CRAVENMIRE EA SZALMAR TER MZIDER “I Shall Not Falter” YOUR HOLINESS, DEUNORO I, I write to notify you of a great injury against my honor, and indeed to all the Canonist faithful. Imploring your authority as a conciliator of nations under the Seven Skies, I compel your attention to the ill intent of these men of Blackworth and their serving goblin. I present to you my recalling of events, which I pray shall expose a stark violation of the divine Will and of the laws that faithfully govern the conduct of men. It is my belief that these wrongs must be righted, and that the saints shall counsel in favour of this appeal. In the recent missive, Of Incompetence and Blood, the pagan Bon’Ox accuses myself, and the late Prince Alexander Barbanov-Bihar, born to the House of Alstion, of wanton murder. The creature asserts that we, under guest-rite of this Henry of Haverlock, assailed him and his own. A lie. We were offered no guest-rite, for we struck them down in the streets of the capital. His Holiness, Caius, spoke unto us in the halls of Kastell Lesanov. He told us of an insolent “King,” who had crowned himself without the blessing of the Holy Mother Church, and thus of GOD Himself. It was at His Holiness’ behest that we rode north on armed pilgrimage, two boys of sixteen, to bring these men back into the fold, and reunite their subjects with the Canonist flock. We made to treat with the locals in the tavern, in which we met the late Sir Magnus. He boasted to us of how he and his comrades assailed our countrymen, murdering them as they worked their fields, for he had marched in the legions of the Anathema. The memory of the Great War in the Midlands is not lost to us. His boasts were met with a challenge, which he swiftly lost. As he lay bloodied on the ground, Henry of Haverlock and Sir Illatius, well-armed themselves, moved to intercede. In the resulting battle I dispatched Sir Illatius and cut the head from his shoulders. It must also be noted that Henry turned tail and ran, sobbing and screaming empty threats, as his men were cut down. We did not pursue him, nor the wounded Sir Magnus, and we made no attempt to assail the others that dwelled in the city. Alexander and I returned to Hanseti-Ruska, where we presented the remains of this aggressor to our liege. King Ivan, GOD rest his soul, decreed his head be spiked as a warning to all others who would bear arms against the Holy Mother Church. Lo’ and behold, come the next Saint’s Day, Bo Rostova relinquished his false claim to kingship and submitted to Caius. I know not what became of Sir Magnus after our encounter in the streets of Ravenmire. The head taken from the walls of my liege, a request which was met with no protest, is that of Sir Illatius; not Sir Magnus as the goblin asserts. I pray that this mistake is the fruit of his subhuman wit, and for this I shall forgive. Yet I cannot forgive the call for the desecration of the corpse of my comrade, the good Prince Alexander. He, who fought in defense of myself and our shared faith, had committed no crime; no affront to GOD and his flock. They call for him to be exhumed, that his remains may be paraded in some sick triumph through Blackworth. They call for his head, for they could not have taken it while he still lived. I cannot ignore the plots of Gaspard Winburgh, who wishes to murder me on behalf of his craven liege. The support of Henry, and the intent of Gaspard, were confirmed to me by Ser Lukas of the Order of St. Jude, a most pious and leal servant to the Holy Mother Church. This man of Winburgh seeks to avenge his father, Sir Magnus, a man in whose fate I had no part. And I cannot turn a blind eye to their housing of the Daelishmen, who have assaulted my kinsmen and men of the clergy both. I was led to their hold in the frozen north by a woman who was assailed by them. Ser Nikolas, a man of my retinue, scaled the walls in search of her belongings. He returned empty-handed, though claimed to see jewelry matching that which was stolen, locked away. These slights are grievous, and my mercy is not without bounds. I humbly request the intercession of Your Holiness, as the Chosen Vicar of God and shepherd of His flock, that these stray sheep may be guided once more to the path of righteousness. Should they continue in their path, and their lives apart from GOD, I shall be forced to deliver them to Him for judgment. WE COME AS CROWS, Ser Belisar var Ruthern, Knight Paramount of the Marian Order

WILL THE SHARK DROWN “A SHARK WHO STOPS SWIMMING, SINKS” It was a sunny day in the capital city of Haense, the streets were bustling with townsfolk and the markets with bartering merchants. Things were as usual as any other day in the Kingdom, the tavern was exceptionally busy. The merry chants of drunken men and women could be heard as the place bustled with joy and glee. Until uneasiness befell all within. The tavern goers of that eve felt their chests instantly tighten; a fear beginning to sprout. Worried eyes shot around, noticing others alike to themself were on edge too – worry worsening as the tavern was getting colder and colder. Many townsfolk wore confused expressions as some peered outside to only see the sun at its peak. What in GODs name is going on? Ser Belisar, a young knight, would twitch as he froze in shock and fear. Distant sounds of whispers grew louder and louder within his mind. He glanced around quickly to see if someone was playing a trick upon him, but he only saw concerned stares. Something was wrong, something unholy was occurring. The whispers grew louder and louder until it sounded as if the entire tavern was screaming into his ear, yet he could not make out what they were saying, but some yelled in horrific pain and suffering. Suddenly the voices ceased in an instant. His heart was beating rapidly wondering what just happened. He looked towards his peers as he froze once again. Ser Belisar would hear it, that mocking laughter. A sense of dread and dizziness washed over, he knelt down to the ground as he felt a heavy weight upon him. The knight’s veins began to pop visibly as they turned black, he mouthed words but there was no sound. “What is happening?” he thought, his vision blurred before the ominous laughter boomed within his mind. He felt like he couldn’t breathe, his entire body felt light as though he were in water, he was beginning to lose consciousness as the sensation flooded him. It was as if he was drowning. Suddenly he awoke. He was alone. Darkness surrounded him, he looked around but could see nothing. After a few moments he began to hear a whisper, but this time a familiar voice beckoned him. It couldn’t be who he thought it was, but he had to make sure. The knight’s journey now began, traversing the void he’d been damned to. “Belisar…” The voice echoed from within the darkness, each syllable a haunting familiarity. As he moved forward, the silhouette of his lost friend, Alexander, emerged. A rare smile broke across the knight's face as he embraced his fallen brother. For a fleeting moment, he was freed from his perpetual torment. “I’m sorry, I’ve failed you,” he whispered, tears cascading down his cheeks. “You did, Belisar. I would be alive if it was not for you.” Alexander's voice, now warped and sinister, erupted into ominous laughter. His eyes flickered between gray and a menacing red. In the oppressive blackness, those demonic eyes were all the knight could see. “Show yourself,” he commanded, his voice wavering, betraying his usual stern demeanor. The eyes hovered in the dark before lunging at him, and the darkness swallowed him whole. Dragged deeper into the void, he gasped for air but found none. Helpless, the knight was suffocated by the abyss, his eyes shutting as his life force ebbed away. “Belisar, take cover!” He awoke within a dream, a realm of death masquerading as familiarity. BOOM! His plate armor was struck by a warhammer, the impact crushing his chestplate and sending him sprawling. “Belisar! Watch out!” Alexander's voice rang out amid the chaos. BAM! Another strike sent him hurtling back into the void. The pull of the abyss deepened, his breathing grew labored. Visions of the past consumed his mind. “Belisar…” A gentle, nurturing voice called out. “Mother?” he responded, finding himself in his family’s castle, Mortevskan. His sisters played nearby, their laughter a distant melody, and his father looked on with a stern but loving gaze. His mother appeared before him, her embrace bringing a fleeting respite from his suffering. The warmth of her touch and the familiar scents of home filled him with a bittersweet longing. “This is an illusion, a dream.” He recoiled from his mother’s embrace. Her form shattered, morphing into a horde of demons encircling him. Their grotesque forms twisted and snarled, their eyes gleaming with malevolent glee. He stood his ground, his sword drawn, facing the encroaching darkness. Each demon's face seemed to mock him, reflecting his deepest fears and regrets. “You thought you were loved?” The demon taunted in his mother’s voice, the words dripping with venom. His resolve faltered, insecurities gnawing at his strength. The demons lunged from all sides, overwhelming him with a relentless onslaught. Once more, he was plunged into the suffocating depths of the darkness, his breath slipping away, the weight of his torment pulling him ever deeper. “Can you not swim?” The voice of his drowned friend, Petyr, echoed in Belisar’s mind. The current pulled him farther from the banks of the darkness where his living family and friends stood. He turned to face Petyr, who sat upon a spectral boat, observing the struggling knight with a cold, detached gaze. Desperation drove Belisar to swim closer, reaching out for his friend's help, his muscles straining against the relentless current. “You will drown, just as I did.” Petyr's voice was a hollow whisper as he uncloaked himself, revealing a grotesque visage: his face was half-fish, half-human, infested with sea creatures and encrusted with barnacles. The young shark’s heart pounded with a mix of fear and determination as he fought with all his will to reach the banks. Each stroke became more labored, the weight of the water pressing down on him, his armor dragging him deeper. The current, relentless and uncaring, continued to push him out into the distance, tiring him with each passing second. As the banks of the river slowly disappeared from his sight, swallowed by the encroaching darkness, he felt his strength ebbing away. His limbs grew heavy, his movements sluggish. He began to sink, his life essence slowly draining in the mortal world. Voices filled his head, a cacophony of jeers and taunts from all the demons who had haunted him. Their mocking laughter intertwined, creating a symphony of torment that echoed in the abyss. Drowning in a pith of endless darkness, as touting souls, and screaming voices ushered in this eternal void, a raucous, gravelly, and hideous voice spoke out; it was overbearing, and could be heard from beyond the shrieks of deceased men and women beset by the foul demon. "This truculent nightmare. I pity you," drawled the aged, and wise tone, as though it had lived through many years, and was filled by a breadth of experience. In the coming seconds, the darkness of the void shifted into a crude taint of crimson-red, as if the world was filled by a pool of blood. At the center of Belisar's periphery, he would gaze upon the large, grotesque, and unkindly form of an owl, its eyebrows crooked into a hideous leer. There was an otherworldly presence that escaped the features of the all-knowing owl, "We can make a deal," soothed the words of the devilish-owl, whose words were filled by a certain venom. Belisar felt something tugging at his soul, incoherent drab voices of the deific owl erupting in his ear, before jolting him awake.

As the news reached the young knight, a profound and unyielding agony enveloped his heart, a grief so deep it mirrored the loss of his mother. His fellow knight, his steadfast companion, his friend—no, his brother—was gone. He wept for his brother, each tear a testament to the bond they had shared and the battles they had fought side by side. Memories flashed before his eyes: Belisar walking him down the aisle, standing as his best man, and fighting by his side in every battle. He whispered to the empty room, his voice trembling in sorrow, "I wish it had been me, Alexander. You were a better man than I ever could be." Yet, in his heart, he knew Alexander would not have wanted this despair to consume him. Seeking solace in familiar company, he found his last childhood friend, Corporal Graham. In the dim light of the tavern, they sat in heavy silence, their glasses clinking softly as they drank to numb the relentless ache of their loss, the weight of their memories hanging heavily in the air. Raising his glass, the knight murmured, "To Alexander and Henry." Drink after drink, the hours blurred, their sorrow drowning in a sea of ale and regret, until finally, the darkness of oblivion claimed them both, and they blacked out, the weight of their grief momentarily forgotten.

Belisar tried on his best suit and bowtie in anticipation for the event. As he checked himself out in the mirror, he sang a quick tune - "I'm bringing sexy back, yeah."

Regards to the Raven @Halt _____________________________________ “Is this the place?” From atop their horses on a snowy hill, Alexander frowned as he and Belisar surveyed the slush-soaked streets of Ravenmire from afar. It was a strange thing to imagine for the Alstion Prince, that worthy foes were holed up in such a cold place, faraway from the rest of mankind. It seemed to be a quiet place, despite the stout stone walls, and the banners atop the ramparts and towers flapped in a lonely, whistling wind. “This is the way he ran,” Belisar answered with a shrug, and impatiently drummed his fingers on the pommel of his blade. “Are we going or not? If I stay in a saddle any longer, I’m going to get blisters on my a -” “Yes,” Alexander cut him off with a grunt, and hiked up his scabbarded sword before he flicked his horse’s reins. “Come on. Let’s be quick about it.” He suppressed a shiver as the northern wind gusted; for all his visits to Stefaniya in Haense, he did not think he would ever grow accustomed to the cold. Alexander and Belisar earned a few askance looks from the smattering of townsfolk as they trot their horses through the open gates, in search of the target that had fled from them earlier. There was only a paltry din of chatter, no longer than the bleats of a flock of goats that a farmer seemed to be herding to a market. Their mission was a simple one - to hunt down the bandits, kinslayers, and excommunicants that took refuge here, and root them out for good. More than one crowned head had ordered it, and, even though it was just Alexander and Belisar who trot down the streets, he knew the world would soon come to watch this stage. It did not take too long for them to get the lay of the place. “This is definitely the place,” Alexander muttered with a misty breath to Belisar, after they spied more than one guardsman sporting an Aurelian cross on their mail. “We should - Belisar?” he wheeled around when he noticed his companion was not there. Instead, he saw the Ruthern had made a bee-line to what looked like a tavern at the end of the street. “For God’s sake.” By the time Alexander had urged his horse to catch up, Belisar had already slid from his saddle, and was tying his own horse’s reins in a loose knot to a fencepost outside. “What are you doing? We’re not here to drink.” “What?” Belisar shot him an unabashed look as he tied off the reins. “There’s no better place to get information than a tavern, Alexander.” The Alstion relented with a mutter, and dismounted from his horse to join him. Their armour clanked, and their greaves trailed muddy slush, as they marched inside. There were a handful of patrons present - all of whom could no doubt instantly recognised the two of them as outsiders - but, after a few moments, it turned out that Belisar’s hunch had been correct; they quickly learned that this place had become a refuge for those defeated in the Covenant War, and that their targets were indeed in this place. “See? Pope man was right,” Belisar whispered to Alexander with a smirk as they stood listening to one of the tavern’s patrons - a soldier of some nobility with a Pertinaxi Cross inlaid on his mail - regale them with Ravenmire’s history. “He is called the Pontiff, not ‘pope man’,” Alexander grunted back. “Oi,” the Pertinaxi soldier barked with narrowed eyes, “are you listening? I’m telling you, we were the heroes in the war! I’m not minded to tolerate you saying otherwise. If you came to learn, then you had better listen.” With a creak of armour, Alexander exchanged a look with Belisar. And there’s our window. “Are you accustomed to being spoken to so rudely, Belisar?” “Most regrettably,” Belisar said melodramatically, “I am not. Where we come from, a duel follows an insult. Should we take this outside, my good man?” With his armour’s cross gleaming in the dim light, the soldier was all too eager to accept. As they made for the street outside, fanning out to face one another, Alexander almost pitied him as he slid his blade - Abyssal Light - from its sheath. In his periphery, he saw Belisar flash him an excited thumbs-up. Alexander indulged in the same battle-trance that had led him to victory in countless bouts before, and each stroke of his blade was a lightning-fast reflex. He barely felt the vibrations of steel as he parried the Aurelianist’s first blow, and cleanly transitioned to a riposte that clanged into his opponent’s shin, and brought him to a knee, before Alexander lifted the sword to his neck. “You are defeated,” he said softly, only vaguely aware of the modest crowd that had formed to watch in the streets. “You -” He cut off as blood splattered onto his mail, and a blade bloomed in the Aurelianists’ throat. He was only mildly surprised to see Belisar holding the other end of the blade, standing over the soldier. Some of the blood splashed through Alexander’s visor, and he twitched as he felt it on his cheek. “I wasn’t finished.” “What? You were the one who said to be quick about it,” Belisar hummed as he withdrew his sword with a fleshy squelch, and let the soldier collapse on the cobbles, motionless. “You can do the next one.” Alexander was about to ask what he meant by next one, but it was then that he heard hisses of steel as swords were drawn from the crowd by others wearing the Aurelian colours, who glared at the corpse of their fallen companion. There were three of them in total, and what few townsfolk there were quickly dispersed from the street with frantic gasps as the soldiers closed in around them. “Three of them against two of us,” Alexander said softly as he backed against Belisar, watching the soldiers approach. “Three Stassionites,” came Belisar’s dismissive reply. “It’ll be fine.” Belisar had the right of it again. Alexander could not have said if the fight lasted five minutes or five hours, but, by the time it was done, Ravenmire blood had stained Alexander and Belisar’s mail. As Belisar brandished the disembodied head of one of the soldiers with a whistle, the remaining two took off running - as best they could, at least, with what injuries they had sustained. “Well,” Belisar chimed cheerily as he bounced the head in his hand. “I’d say that went about as well as expected. Wouldn’t you?” Alexander loomed to the blood running through the grooves of cobbles, and the two corpses dead at their feet. With a flourish, he flicked the loose blood off Abyssal Light’s gleaming surface. “For an opening act? It’ll do.”

TO THE BASTARDS OF BALIAN To the Barrows who call themselves Rutherns, Let me first offer my congratulations to your ascension to Duke, Demetrius. It seems your starved group of Barrows finally begged enough to be thrown a title for them to chew on. To go from lowest of the nobles to dukedom is perhaps the only recent accomplishment your lazy line of Rutherns have reached. To that, you have only my laughter. It is not enough that you lower the prestige of our name, but you insult those who give power to your pretender line. It is only through the rightful line of Rutherns that your stolen name has any significance, and yet you insult us. You’ve insulted my sister, my father, and my ancestors before me. Your very existence is an insult. I would want nothing more than your head on a spike, but I am merciful to the weak and stupid. I will graciously allow you to accept my diplomatic terms. TO THE PRETENDER, I. A formal apology to Lady Tatiyana and the House of Ruthern for your slights. II. A payment of 500 minas for your grievances. III. Forfeiting the title of ‘Head of Rutherns’ or any title that implies it. ON DECLINE, You will meet me in a field battle. The Black Company and her allies will march on Reutov. If you shy away from battle, I will scourge your petty Kingdom for harboring such cowards. Do not be a fool - accept my generous terms. I expect your response within the next few days. Signed, Belisar var Ruthern Captain of the Black Company

THE SKIPPER WENT SKIPPING “A Captain who charts a course to victory in all seas is revered as a master of voyage, but a crew that reaches every destination without guidance is simply carried by the tides of fortune” - Captain Banjo4 To the Losers, It is the Captain’s job to lead his crew to victory, but where were your leaders now? Since I have been on the opposite side of the battlefield the Ferrymen have lost every single battle. Our compustats division have calculated that the all-time Ferrymen win record is under 0.5 (50% loss rate). Where are those who thought they could so easily fill in my shoes when I left? Did the Skipper go skipping? In an attempt to bolster your strength, you let every wimp join your merry band of losers instead of being an elite fighting corps. When I look across the field of battle, I see former fans donning our teal bandana with only a few of our founding members present. Has it not dawned on you that perhaps you are fighting for the wrong side? Just as I offered many of my former companions forgiveness, I too will extend my arms graciously to any Ferrymen who wish refuge within my little jolly band. For those interested, reach out to Wrangler Jerry with the code name ‘SAVING PRIVATE JERRY’ to redeem your free coupon to join the winning side. For those who continuously cling onto the name ‘Ferrymen.’ The real Ferrymen do not stand with you. Banjo, Andronikos, Jerry, Vydrek, Andronikos, Leonidas, and Jesus (in spirit) are all fighting on the Covenant’s side. Quit now. Resign with some dignity and hang up the mask. Signed,

INTO THE JUNGLE - A LION - OUT A MOUSE Beneath the southern sun, the armies stood. Across the expanse of Hippo’s Gorge, broken only sporadically by freshly-sawed palisades and earthen bulwarks, the forces of the Grand Covenant stared northward at the Veletzian-Krugmar host. The Orcs and reavers cheered and heckled as their cavalry formed lines between the brush. Though outnumbered, they showed no fear; they were, after all, the great victors of the Battle of Westmark, where they had brought the advance of the Covenant infantry to a screeching halt, and it was they who had left no land unscathed by raids and pillaging over the long Saint’s winter. The mounted legions of the Covenant stared down their foes amassing on their horizon, and they raised no cheers of their own. And yet, as the banners of Norland, Petra, Balian, Numendil, Aaun, Urguan, Hyspia, and Haense streamed in the wind, and thousands upon thousands of steel-tipped lances gleamed in the sunlight, it was not despair that gripped them. Instead, it was defiance. That defiance smouldered in Viktor Daemonsteel. The Duke of Vidaus gripped his poleaxe, from which tassels in the colours of House Ruthern flew, as he glared across the gorge. He had earned his moniker in the heat of Valdev’s forges, where he had hammered countless iron and daemonsteel day and night to replenish the Covenant armoury. That defiance burned in Patriarch Josef. The Patriarch of Jorenus sipped his canteen of vodka as he squinted through the sunlight, and his mare struggled to hold his weight. Throughout the long winter, he had lived in the barns and stables of the north to procure fresh hides to sate the endless demand for leather. He had become the bovine reaper, feared by all cows, and he had defended those barns with every fibre of his being. That defiance blazed in Queen Amaya, the White Flame of Haense. As she sat atop her horse, enwreathed by her gold-worked satin cloak, she no longer trembled as she held her weapon. She had learned the nature of war in that winter, for she had been taken captive when she took up arms to fight in a raid. But she did not fear; not anymore, and her radiance instilled the same bravery in the Haeseni horsemen at her side. When the battle began, that defiance blazed through the Covenant army like an inferno. Like a bolt of lightning, Captain Banjo led his fabled warriors of the Yachtsmen as skirmishers on the rear of the battlefield, biting devastating holes into the Veletzian flank with each pass. Under a hail of arrowfire, the main cavalry under King Aleksandr held their ground as they waited for their opportunity to charge. Beneath their visors and faceguards, their jaws were set grimly, and their eyes burned with the heat of that inferno. When Captain Banjo signalled the first charge, King Aleksandr led the cavalry in sweeping tide of deadly lances into the disorganised right flank of the Veletzian army, and it was with a fury for the capture of Queen Amaya that the Haeseni riders sliced the flank into ribbons. When the second charge came and the Covenant cavalry thundered across the Gorge once more, it was with a vengeance of the Red Coronation that the Balian defenders with a malice never before attributed to them. With the third charge, the Petrine Knights exacted their blood-price for their burnt and murdered clergy. Finally, the Covenant horses turned and fell back to their palisades in a feinted retreat. When the remnants of the Veletzian invaders pursued, it was then that Captain Banjo charged his Yachtsmen through the brush, and slammed into the midriff of the Veletz column; Balor Ireheart, Sigrun Ireheart (stonehammer), Otto Ludovar, Ser Garen, Sigmar, Emilio Jr, Ser Rickard (and his herd), and other valiant Yachtsmen. With the final trap sprung, the Covenant banners were hoisted high as the main cavalry veered around, and galloped into the Veletzians as they were caught in the Yachtsmen lances. The Veletzians, who entered the battle as lions, scurried in defeat like mice from the battlefield. As fifteen-thousand horses bore down on their foe, the Covenant roared with that defiance. As fifteen-thousand warriors charged into the frey, any question of their unity was silenced. As fifteen-thousand lances struck in unison, the Battle of Hippo’s Gorge was won.