Seuss

Severin sat across Devana ( @Mady) in the Alban tavern as they shared a drink post-meeting. "To a brighter future under GUD and with Man." The young knight-aspirant toasted The suit of armor was not in Herzskar when he heard the news. He was standing alongside a good friend as they admired the robotic husk in front of them. "I had hoped for this. For everyone to gather again."

What should I bring to the cookout, @Dyl?

A forgotten knight, having woken up two decades later, was faced with the fear that he lost all of those he loved. Now after finding them all safe and sound, he comes to learn of a scroll detailing the future kidnapping of his niece. This will not happen under his watch. This will never come to light so long as his mechanical heart beats.

The conscious of a warrior trapped in the husk of a metal body looked over the document. His name was not there, but that was to be expected. Though none of his kin were listed, and it brought him great pain.

“I am dying…” the large Scyfling stated bluntly. Across from him sat an old friend, an ally, and an opportunity. “My heart has failed me once already. I must extend the life I have left, so that I may fight the gudi fight forevermore.” “Ah, so this is your request…” came the humble response of the skilled craftsman. “Such is a tall ask. Normally, such outsiders would be barred from such privileges.” The Scyfling lowered the tea cup he was offered, placing it before him with a bowed head “I would nej come to anyone else… Skrali, my dear companion.” “Make peace with your flesh, Joakim. Come back to me in two years.” He stood atop the grandest mountain in all of Aevos. The air pure and untainted as he inhaled through his nose and sent wisps of chilling air out from his lungs. The altitude made breathing difficult for some, but a Scyfling who trained on the mountain every day was more than accustomed. He stood facing the southern front of Haense. With his home of Kazan behind him, his allies of Novkursain behind him, and all he was destined to protect behind him, there was nowhere else for the Scyfling to go but forward. Behind him was the faint aroma of flowers, the subtle mix of pine, and the refreshing breeze across the ponds and lakes. But in front of him there was no achievement in the scent carried through the air. The stench of burning wood and charcoal as torches were hoisted up and down. The reek of corpses, unwashed orcs, and blood-stained bandits that marched onward to Haense. Before them, standing amongst the bushes and boulders, was their first and only opponent on Haeseni soil. One they would come to regret meeting atop Aevos’ grandest mountain. The Scyfling was a different man after that encounter. His past did not come clearly to him, but he did remember every moment after as if it was yesterday. In the square of New Valdev, he comforted his daughter, Dima, who was recovering from a mental bout of revenge. “You could have killed her right then and there. Close that chapter of your life, if you so willed it.” “It didn’t feel right… neit then.” She pressed her forehead into his plate “My kindness was niet mercy, it will happen in time..” The knight-to-be promised herself, albeit a wavering resolution. “Perhaps. But you did show your humanity in that moment. Monsters like her would stab you in the back when you are at your weakest. But you, the dottir I am proud of, spared her life in her most vulnerable.” “Vy’re a dobry papej - Ea mean that.” “You’re a gudi dottir. I wouldn’t dare ask for any other.” The war cries ripped through the thin veil of air so high up on the mountain. An approaching band of vile anti-Haense scoundrels made themselves known to any close enough to hear their shouts and cries. Though only one knight heard their ill-tuned symphony, and one knight alone was the perfect crowd. The Scyfling raised his helmet up in front of him, bringing it down overhead and securing the leather fastens under his chin. In his left hand did he bear the colors of House Colborn on his worn round shield. In his right hand sparked the furies of his mace, coated in lightning and humming a shadowed radiance. Since the days before he donned the Marian armor, these two weapons were a staple of the Scyfling’s armory. Every darkspawn he laid to rest, every castle he brought to ruins, every fiend he brought to justice, all stood opposite to him and his weaponry. He received their attention, and the large force came to a stop. One knight alone stopped a marching army. One knight alone stood between them and his people. There was no waiting for them to continue marching forward. The Scyfling took initiative, and his metallic boots carried him forward. The world behind him faded, and all that laid before him was the future he chose for himself. The path of destiny he paved. The depths of midnight were only broken by the twinkling stars scattered about the sky. All of them so far away from one another, and yet the Scyfling felt as if he could reach up and ****** a handful away from the skies - ones to become his own collection. The beauty of dusk reflected in the dule river that flows westbound. A distant howling of celebration could be heard in the bustling Haeseni city, though he found peace standing beside his younger brother, Davyd, far from the commotion and instead enjoying the harmonic masterpiece of nature. “I did nej think we’d come this far. But it all feels like a dream when I look back upon our journey.” The much larger knight spoke towards his kid brother. “That it does, yet the signs are much the same in this place as it was back then. We will face the Great Migration again - But at least this time we won’t face it alone.” The wiser of the two replied. Although they were alike in many ways, Davyd was certainly one to use his brain to its greatest capabilities, and his older brother mimicked the same with his strength and talent. “I am nej long for another migration, brodir.” A sentence that certainly brought a frown to his kin’s features. “I will die soon.” “The day I lose eym might truly be the day I go mad. But I will try mik best to persevere. If only to maintain what we have sown and the fruits we’ve toiled for.” “Which is why I’ve asked you to come here.” His eyes casted upwards towards the starry night sky “I am nej done yet, Davyd. This soul will burn until my goals have reached completion.” A promise made, a secret kept. One no one else would come to know or learn of. The marching Scyfling was clearly not a merchant. He was neither a farmer nor a politician. This was a knight with the fullest intent to battle making his way towards the enemies. Though they did not see him for such, and they laughed. Orcs howled out, bandits snickered between themselves, and undead groaned as orders went ungiven. One sole person cannot stop such a force, and he was a laughing stock for attempting such. They sent one man forward, carrying a longsword in his left hand. One was enough, to the beliefs of the vast majority. Those who lacked skill often were boastful in how they fought, and yet this sole bandit had no chance to display his incapability. The Scyfling raised his mace and brought it down swiftly. What was once laughter erupting from the enemy crowd soon hushed. Did the knight stop at all while he was marching towards them? The bandit who stepped forward now laid on the ground dead, and yet the knight pressed on. The Scyfling stood beside the newly anointed Dame Teodora as she carried out the interrogations of Haeseni citizens and foreigners alike. She received word and wisdom from Sigmar Lorik, questioned Amou and those associated alike, and compiled a document accounting the entirety. “Nej the first thing a Dame is expected to do once knighted, but you are displaying excellent prowess in your ability to lead and gather information.” The senior knight spoke in regards to his niece. “I was hoping to burn down the castles of daemons and slay bandits. Nej. . . this.” the younger Colborn gestured in front of her, keeping the conversation to hushed whispers between them. An old bout of laughter escaped the aged Scyfling. “In time, my brodirdottir. You will display greatness far past anything you’ve done up to now.” One by one they came charging forward, and each one met the face of the Scyfling’s shield, followed shortly after by the sharpened flanges of the macehead. What was once a small test of might to the orcs became a battle of survival. What was once a quick cash grab for the bandits became a matter of life and death. The undead marched on without doubt, as per their directive, and yet once their heads were done in, no directive kept them up longer. The seeds of fear made their way through the assembly. Foes in the backlines saw as allies ahead of them toppled over with ease. The thin air atop the mountain was a place only the undead could get accustomed to, and it played a partial role in the trained knight’s capability to maintain his stamina as those around him struggled to maintain their level-headedness. Another cry came from the crowd, and the entirety charged forth after the sole enemy. The Scyfling remained the only obstacle between them and the city they sought to reduce to rubble. The basilica of New Valdev filled quickly with citizens and foreigners alike. The long awaited wedding between Kovachev and Kortrevich was happening, but the bride has yet to show. The Scyfling made his way out of the House of God, following the path down the alleys of the city until he happened upon the Amador shop. He noticed his niece Mikhaila through the window, and as he entered, he saw his daughter in her gown. She was nervous, and on the verge of tears. Emma Kortrevich and Mikhaila were trying to comfort her, to some extent. The Scyfling came down on a knee in front of his daughter, taking up her hand and crossing a Scyfling ruin about her palm “One fiery blonde warrior of the retinue.” He made a cross along her hand “One wielder of the worm bow. One Scyfling greater than the rest.” he closed her individual fingers into a fist “One Dima Aina Kovachev. Only one dottir of mine. What is there to fear, when you are everything you could ever be?” An embrace occurred between the two, and he, despite his age, walked her down the aisle and handed his trust to Andrei Kortrevich, to forever care for her and protect her. A beautiful wedding, and the last he would see. It was not a battle meant to last hours, but one was sure to be enough. Half the forces were brought to piles under the raging warrior, littering the once flourishing grassy mountain top with corpses and rotting flesh. Bushes snapped and collapsed under the weight of the individuals that fell on top of them. The Scyfling was not as immortal as the fear in his enemies painted him to be. Mauls and maces alike dented his armor and broke bones. Blades found their sword path through the thickened leather over his joints, narrowly missing tendons that would render his limbs useless. Knives find passage through flesh as the knight collects trophies buried into his body. Despite the injuries taken on, the Scyfling could not afford to fall. He could not afford to let himself succumb to age or weakness. If he fell, then Haense was sure to be attacked. His people of Kazan would have ruin brought upon them. His allies and friends would be harmed as a result of his failure. The Scyfling stood back, watching as his companion and the two helpers he brought with him began their construction. There was no talking outside of the orders he gave to them. Piece by piece did the knight witness as constructs were raised, positioned, and secured. With each part of the puzzle, they would look back to the Scyfling, as if waiting for confirmation. None would come as the large man stared forward, simply awaiting completion. Heavy were the thoughts pressing down on his shoulders. And when the figure came to completion, the Scyfling stepped forward. His face reflecting off the metallic sheen, and he felt himself lose the light of his eyes despite still standing with a beating heart. But for how much longer would he be able to experience this? Will he come to forget the feeling entirely? Questions he would be unable to answer. His mace, although remaining as sharp as it did when he first wielded it, felt heavier than an ox. His shield, littered with arrows and breaking along the edges, could no longer defend him. A large orc brought down his warhammer, striking the Scyfling’s knee and causing him to collapse. His right leg could no longer be stood on. Heavy breaths and fading conscience weighed on the knight’s mind. He raised his mace upwards, hoping to take another foe with him, but his body could not follow his resolve. A spear was thrusted through his broken plate. A gasp of air left his body, and his teeth grit in pain. He brought his shield up to block the spear, but the disconnection between his will and strength increased with each passing second. Another spear found its way into the Scyfling’s left leg, bringing him to both knees as his arms collapsed to his sides. The remaining forces surrounded him, and the knight knelt there before them all, unable to move. With what little energy he could muster, the Scyfling looked up towards the sky. It was just after noon when he climbed the cliffs; but now dark clouds hang overhead, accompanied by the disgusting yellowish tint of a setting sun. His eyes laid upon no individual around him, but higher sights residing past the clouds. He eyed the Seven Skies, or the direction he believed it settled in. The remaining orcs and bandits struggled to laugh, forcing themselves to find humor in their victory as the knight remained motionless and disassociated. The sounds of defeated cheers and howling winds deafened around the Scyfling as he retreated into the recess of his mind. His heart pounded in his chest, echoing in his ears and playing an uncanny rhythm he could not ignore. Badump Badump Badump Ba- Life faded from the eyes of Ser Joakim Colborn, and even when surrounded by the forces that brought him to the end of his time, a smile managed its way across his face. He knew his duty was seen through to the end. No harm would come to his family or his people. The forces that walked onto Haense would not take a step closer, and he found peace in that. Tick Tick Tick Tick Despite the fall of Joakim, the remainder of that group never did descend down Aevos’ grandest mountain. The Scyfling was found surrounded by the bodies of all those who marched on Haense that evening, and by some unnatural force, none of them left.

You saying Shonen just reminded me of non-shonen bangers

Yes, spit your shit indeed

A cold, metallic gauntlet held onto the missive that made the rounds across all of Haense. An emotion drawn from the helm, but no expression was manageable on the surface level.

Name: Ser Joakim Colborn Nationality: Haense Joust or Mach? (Can be both): Both Do you love chivalry?: Ja

Ser Joakim had not been a table for signing treaties since well during Ivan VIII's time as King. It was a nostalgic moment.

A Warrior’s Battlefield The dim light of a campfire illuminates the face of a man sitting in deep thought. The reflection of the flames dance in his eyes as he mutters prayers to himself in a Scyfen tongue. Although silence occupied his mind, around him a symphony of sound ushered in with the distant firing of cannons, the unending whipping of the wind against the tent, and the glorious calls of man ringing out near and far. The entrance flapped open excessively, and the man was soon carried back to reality. He tightened the knots in his braid, strapped his round shield to his forearm, and checked thoroughly all the weapons that decorated his body. He stepped forward towards the exit, taking up his helmet and securing it atop his head along the way. When he exited the tent, he was met with an all too familiar display of war spanning across an entire valley. Large blotches of black and silver separated the forces of good and evil, while the large imposing castle crafted of black stone stood as a monument of the enemy before them. Banners of his nation were held high in the wind, contrasting with the muddied, stomped and desecrated banners of allies and enemies alike that littered the valley. The eyes of the man scanned from left to right, taking in the painting before him with careful scrutiny. Swords being raised, shields clattering to the ground, spears piercing through flesh. All familiar motions he has practiced himself. Heralds on chest plates covered in blood, bodies littering the floor like pamphlets in the streets of a busy city, cries of the dying and silence from the dead. All familiar sights he has witnessed himself. Though in the brief moment it took this man to survey the scenery, he has likewise steeled his heart once more, and brought up his mace from his belt. The enemy before him was uncommon to most, but he has lived a dedicated life to the elimination of any and all like them. One boot at a time does this man move forward, passing through the lines of reinforcements that arrived to aid the cause. Some of these men were terrified, and it showed. Others puffed their chests and gripped their weapons, but they could not sell a lie on their faces. Death awaited the other end of the valley, whether successful or not, many of these soldiers knew where they would lie when the sun finally settled. The collection wore armors of different ranks, different retinues, and different nations. At the front of the line were men clad in black, each with a platoon lined behind them. The man soon passed by them as well and stood at the forefront of it all. With a raise of his mace did the hands of many behind him tense. Last second resolves occurred in silence between the banners, the soldiers, and their destiny. The man ushered his tool forward with a battlecry, soon repeated by the reinforcements behind him. As the man left the tent behind him to do battle, so too did he bring with him the fury and might of man. An otherwise indecisive war soon changed tides with the extra forces. Shields, polearms, and armor clashed against their likeness, and a new choir of screams and agony joined the symphony of war. The man led by example, cleaving through foes with excessive force and reveling in the aftermath. The man felt at peace with himself as the count in his head increased one digit at a time the longer the fight continued. As ground was made, and the ever growing force of good encroached on the territory of evil, there stood in the burning center of war was that man clad in silver unrelenting in his pursuit. The world grew silent around him despite the unending firing of cannons, screaming winds through hollow armor, and the terrifying screams of man near and far. The man’s focus laid before him, where the enemies were either dead, or upright for only mere moments left. The man was unstoppable in his conquest, and it no longer became a matter of good versus evil, but that man against the odds in front of him. Would his body falter in the midst of battle, or will it wait until he is safe and home to give in? The man pushed the thought from his mind. Would the enemies realize the folly of the man and quickly turn his weakness into their hope? The man pushed the thought from his mind. As his breath drew longer, and his weapon swung with greater weight, the man found himself atop mounds of enemy corpses. No medal given could renew this feeling the man had. No number of ceremonies could match the surge of adrenaline that ran through the man’s heart. On the battlefield is where the man felt peace. On the battlefield is where the man felt at home On the battlefield is where the man knows he will die. The dark clouds lingered overhead as the sun gave what little light it had left to offer from over the horizon. A painting of cold greys and warm orange washed over the sky, illuminating the fields of war. However, this field was not one for producing goods, but instead deciding destiny. The lives of the few to protect the many. The lives of the dead gave up for the lives of the plenty. The man stood with his thoughts atop the bodies of enemies under him. His gaze lingered on the blackened castle walls that loomed in the distance. He turned himself away from the sight, and as he now faced the men he fought with, the counter in his mind began to fall. A soldier he led into battle laid dead on the ground - the number lowers. The armor of an officer, but no head to accompany it - the number lowers. A child forced into war by his nation laid motionless - the number lowers. With each body he passed did the grandeur of slaying the villains behind him dwindle away. Many of the bodies were being laid side by side, organized by rank and affiliation. But soon did the man stop in his tracts, seeing before him a trio of bodies laid out side by side. One of them wore silver armor with a golden tree decorating the face of his plate. A familiar white streak in the corpse’ hair sent shivers down the man’s spine. One of them wore the squire armor of a knight retinue. A whip, cut away at the handle laid in the corpse’ hand, unrelenting to let go. One of them wore armor befitting a beginner. A white streak as well, but the face of a young girl too inexperienced for war. The counter did not drop by an integer for these three. The man’s breath hitched and his throat swelled up as the numeral in his mind dropped several digits for each of those soldiers in front of him. The intrusive thoughts seeped out of the recesses of the man’s mind, agitating him for allowing such a failure to occur. The thoughts poked at his pride and denied him his glory as he looked down on those he could not protect. His heart did not crumble; no, it remained whole as what felt like a hand gripped it tight and refused to let it fall. The man fell to his knee in front of the trio, his gauntlet unable to grip past the blood soaked chest plate he dawned. His breath became heavier, and his vision faltered temporarily. The man felt at fault, and his emotions fired off like cannons inside his mind. As he attempted to force himself back in order, his gaze could not help but find itself gravitating towards another body laying in the field. The man’s eyes widened in horror, and he felt the hand around his heart slowly balling into a fist. Pain shot through his body as he struggled off his knee, making way towards that lone corpse in the valley. His vision blurred more, and it became harder to breathe. The armor of the figure was certainly that of a page in a knight retinue. But the most unmistakable trait was the blonde hair the young woman had. The man’s feet became too heavy to walk another step. His muscles turned to mush as he fell to both his knees this time in front of the page. His head pulsed in unending pain as the counter did not fall a digit at a time, nor did it fall a few handful of digits. The counter slowly disappeared, making any numerical value useless. The dirt and dried blood on the man’s face were renewed with tears that were quick to soak his skin. His mind, plagued by thoughts of failure, became a reality. He reached a hand out, taking the cold digits of the blonde girl and hoping to feel any sign of life. His voice strained through unequivocal agony as he begged for a response. His tears ushered out like the first break of a river after a forty day storm as he prayed for a sign of life. Darkness faded in around the man and the blonde girl. The painting-esque skies were no longer visible. The muddied fields disappeared into the void. And one by one did the corpses of good and evil around him cease to be, leaving only the man and the blonde girl. His grip over his chest began to grow weak, and his heart could no longer bear to exist after everything he had lost. The man did not fight to his feet after this battle. The man did not yell out in victory for this war. But the silent whimpering of the man was the only comfort he had to offer himself. The man’s head hung down as his grip on the blonde girl’s hand fell. The man’s heart was soon released from its unending suffering. The empty void soon accepted two more inhabitants as the man’s body faded away. And then he woke up.

-1 Xarkly never replied to DMs

Ser Joakim Colborn welcomed all of his Scyfling brothers and sisters from their journeys across realms to return home to the Scyfling March.

As the soft steps of the young Joren var Ruthern echoed down the halls of his empty home, his mind wandered the limited space of his conscious. Though his mother would no longer be in those halls he paced around in, and although his siblings will avoid those halls that haunt their family, the young boy felt more comfortable there in those halls then he did anywhere else. His small right hand dragged along the large crossbow he was so notably known for wielding wildly; however, he soon dropped it, leaving it behind on the rug while he took to the outer balcony of Morteskvan that led up to his room. The cold air encircled the boy as the northern mountain winds slammed against black stone and brittle cobble. His cheeks burning pink as blood rushed up his face. The steps he took no longer echoed as the sounds around him were overcome with howls of frost-riding winds. As he reached the large spruce door that kept the warmth locked in his bedroom, he finally raised a hand to grasp the ferrum lock. The silent little Ruthern turned the handle and opened the door, inviting the cold that follows as he stepped in and promptly closed the spruce once more. For many days to come, that door would remain shut. Not a word heard inside.

𝔗𝔥𝔢 ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔯𝔢𝔫𝔤𝔲𝔞𝔯𝔡 𝔜𝔬𝔲𝔯 ℭ𝔬𝔪𝔪𝔦𝔱𝔪𝔢𝔫𝔱 In the olden days of House Colborn, under the vassalage of Prince Alexander Horen, was commanded to raise a levy force for service in war and maintenance of law and order. This early force, dubbed The Carrenguard in honor of Saint Carr Colborn, was mostly composed of Scyfling peasants. However, the Colborn lords maintained an elite host of soldiers who were granted the rank of ehrengarde, or “honor guard”. With the call to arms of King Marius III, House Colborn will once again raise its banners and its arms in remembrance of the special relationship between the pact-bound Saint Karl and Saint Carr. Having answered the call to serve since the days of the Duchy of Haense, House Colborn takes great pride in its centuries of service. With a fiefdom on the border of the Kingdom, the Margraviate of Kazan—the Scyfling March—serves as the bulwark against attacks targeting the Haeseni farmlands. Given this responsibility, it is of the utmost priority that House Colborn hold fast against threats, foreign and domestic. The Lord Osgod Colborn, Margrave of Kazan and Protector of the Scyflings, has thus seen fit to reinstate the levy of House Colborn by reviving The Carrenguard. The Margrave has also commissioned from the Scyfling smiths the finest silver armor and weaponry to equip this new force. In command of this most esteemed host, Lord Osgod has designated Ser Joakim Colborn as the first Captain of the Carrenguard. Under his command, the levy of the Scyfling March is thus instructed to mobilize for the maintenance of the King’s peace. They shall patrol the roads and borders, protecting the King’s lands from evil of all sorts. 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔒𝔞𝔱𝔥 “Swear you to protect me and my kin, no matter the cost of your own wellness, and safeguard my and my family’s honor in name or flesh.” “Swear you to uphold the laws and justice that are the contents of our rule and our King’s rule.” “Swear you to take up arms and slay the enemies of GOD and King, to rid the realm of darkspawn and cultists, and to preserve Descendents' glory.” “Then serve me and my people rightfully and you shall be rewarded for your efforts.” “Then serve GOD and King rightfully and you shall bask in everlasting glory.” ℜ𝔬𝔬𝔪 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔅𝔬𝔞𝔯𝔡 Those who serve with righteous will and those who serve with pious strength are invited into the halls of Kazan where a warm meal, made bed, and ample storage await. You are kin under the banner of Colborn, and are treated as such so long as your oath is held true. The training grounds of The Carrenguard extend from the barracks to the surrounding cliffside and mountain ranges. The landscape provides suitable environments for training the mind and body. Rekrut Let any who have the heart to serve bear the title of Rekrut. May they prove they are more than the gambeson they wear and that their will is stronger than most. The rank of rekrut is not a permanent one, but a stepping stone to finding one’s path through dedication and perseverance. “A warrior is not born, but made.” -Saint Carr of Carrenhall Hirdann The first step to serving the cause. Rekruts who are accepted into the fold are promoted to Hirdann, and afforded their mail and plate baring the same Carrsten Tree—the symbol of House Colborn and the namesake of its founder. “Our greatest pride is the discipline of our common soldiers. They are--afterall--Scyflings; so when we call upon their arms they answer with the fighting spirit of Saint Carr.” -Ser Casimir Colborn Ehrengarde The select few warriors that compose the personal retinue of the head of House Colborn. They are the most capable warriors, entrusted with the safety of the head of the House and their kin. “A soldier’s honor is not found in the blade they wield, but in the purpose for which they rise.” -Blessed Queen Amaya of Venzia Kossir The Kossir is the lieutenant of the retinue and the second in command. The Kossir is the direct subordinate to the Kapten and aids them in the accomplishment of their duties. A Kapten might designate certain areas of their duties to the Kossir, such as quartermastery or field command. “We all lose things. Our pasts, our friends, our minds. But we keep going. Keep fixing ourselves when we break. We may never be. . . perfect. But we can get close enough.” -Ser Joakim Colborn Kapten The Head of House Colborn has many duties, and in their accomplishment, they seek the aid of experienced councilors. One such councilor is the Kapten of the Carrenguard, who is tasked with command of the Colborn levy. In addition to command of the retinue in battle, the Kapten also ensures the training, arming, provisioning, housing, and maintenance of Saint Carr’s retinue. “The man who runs from the enemy lives to see another day. The man who dies for his cause lives forever.” -Holy Ser Osgod Colborn 𝔗𝔥𝔢 𝔍𝔬𝔦𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔬𝔣 ℜ𝔞𝔫𝔨 To those that wish to enlist in the ranks of Saint Carr’s retinue, the Margraviate of Kazan will generously provide living accommodations, exempt from fee or taxes. It must be noted that soldiers of The Carrenguard are also members of the Brotherhood of Saint Karl, in addition to their service of House Colborn, owing all due allegiance and service to the royal army. Those who wish to join this elite retinue may provide their information to Ser Joakim Colborn, Captain of the Carrenguard ((IGN: SeussGoose)). RP Name: [character name] IGN: [ign] Age: [character age] Residence: [character residence] The Most Honourable Osgod Colborn, Margrave of Kazan, Count of Malkovya, Viscount of Venzia, Baron of Bethlenen, Lord of Vitraval, and Protector and Lord of the Scyflings.

A certain blonde Colborn looked over to his right in the Seven Skies. "How come you never send me roses, systir?" Carolus Colborn asked of Amaya who stood beside him @sarahbarah

What shaders/texture pack combos do you recommend?

Ser Joakim Colborn tapped his foot while standing guard outside the palace "The young ones are listening to quite the. . . bops, is it?"

"When you take the time to listen, you tend to learn the most." The Scyfling spoke while hearing the Lord Palatine recite the words aloud of his missive before it being sent out.

Ser Joakim Colborn looked over the missive he noticed on the Aulic doors while patrolling the palace. "The young Bihar was nej at the trial. Seems a case of whisper down the lane." he left the missive where it was nailed and went on about his patrol.

Ser Joakim Colborn intercepted one of the decaying spider-like creatures. With quick work from his mace, he subdued the being indefinitely and retrieved the scroll it was holding. As the harsh cold winds blew over his horse and himself, he read it carefully. "I see. . . Seems there is more to discuss of the north with Villorik once I return." When the Marian Knight returned to Haense, he shared the Scroll with Villorik @Xarkly