SimplySeo

Shit Wan you know all you gotta do is hit me up. I gotta reinstall it tho. Just what spoke to me I suppose, its mostly a matter of semantics for me anyway. Doesn't matter what different flavors of the Gods I worship when they're all ultimately the same. Cereal gotta have wheat and oats in milk. If it ain't got 'em, it ain't cereal, so sayth the lord. Marital classes all the way baybe. I can always raise more cousins after murdering their fathers.

Afternoon folks, been meaning to do one of these for awhile. Meant to do one for my three year anniversary, but the holiday season has been a *****. Nevertheless, here we go. Most of y'all know me as Dixie, Jorvin, or Seo. I joined in late Atlas and no-lifed this server for about two years straight without a break, had a brief mental breakdown around January of last year, and poked my head back around about four or five months ago. Its been good to be back, and I missed y'all. Almost all of you know me for my character, Jorvin Starbreaker, who started life as an introverted librarian in the halls of Kal'Tarak, and became Grand King of Urguan, a veteran Longbeard, and all around arrogant piece of shit. Recently I've branched out though! Since coming back I've also been RPing Enryn, my grouchy old man Dwarf, and Uther, my young Adunians with dreams of Kighthood. Besides the Dwarves, I've also dipped my toes in the Norlandic community, and was involved with Aegrothrond somewhat for about a year, before falling out while I was Dwarf NL. My interests include dark-age history, Asatru, midgets, LGBTQIA+ subjects, Warhammer, DnD, Fantasy as a whole, character studies, and obviously creative writing. If you have any questions, or messages you'd like to say, feel free to say 'em, keep it civil. Besides that, ask away.

You a hoe, but you one of my hoes.

Get rid of FTBs and bump up the application age a wee bit.

General Lee Sir, I have no division..

Former Grand King Jorvin also chuckles.

"Finish what we started Ulfric, end tha' long war once ah'n for all. Break them tae such ah' degree they will n'aer forget. Perhaps t'en, finalleh. Ah're folk will have peace." Remarks Jorvin Starbreaker.

Jorvin Starbreaker was content to enjoy retirement. Like any patriotic Dwarf, he'd do his part when the time, there'd be no doubting that, but he'd felt old, he'd felt like he'd put in his pound of flesh, even though technically he was still in the prime of his life. It felt like a lifetime ago when he was a simple Legionnaire, standing his silent watch over a half-empty half-built shell of a hold, carved out on the furthest edges of human territory, as that blighted race had nearly driven his folk to extinction. It felt like a lifetime ago when their resurgent people struck a terrible blow against Horen's parasitic children. When human settlers encroached on their sovereign land, and in turn, in three months Dwarvish soldiers marched into the Imperial Throne room, Jorvin among them. It felt like a lifetime ago when he, as a vengeful king with much to prove, launched a bloody war against Oren, and bled their people white. He would have burned Helena itself to the ground had it not been for the neverborn invasion consuming the rest of his reign in a deluge of fire. After three wars, Jorvin thought that the Orenians would've learned not to trouble his folk, he dared to think they had learned their lesson...His mistake he supposed. However, Jorvin never expected the Orenians to so grievously insult his people that Utak would return. And so, Jorvin thought back on his long and storied history with the man before finally stating. "Fire ah'nd damnation, someone needs tae keep ah'n eye oan tha' half-blind, self-absorbed gloreh 'og. Where's my axe?"

Former Grand King Jorvin 'Godslayer' Starbreaker ruminates on the situation momentarily, palming the pommel of his sword as he mused. After several moments of silence, he spoke. "It seems nae but yest'dae thae my armies broke tha' pompous bastards, ah'n stood 'fore tha' gates o' Helena itself.... Thar be nae n'aerborn hosts to spare those damnable reprobates from Dwarvish ire this time! Narvak oz Urguan!"

thats not how the force works

"ULLLLLFRIC!" A Roar echoes throughout the halls of Kal'Darakaan as Jorvin Starbreaker returns from his retirement home, a flyer holding the results angrily in his hand, he'd march up to the Obsidian Throne before barking in order. "GET THE ******* BOOK!" @Terry

"Bring glory to the Fjordmenn, kinsman." Says Warlord Zharrtýr Rykhässon, not understanding even slightly how this so-called 'Bâesketböllr' works, and presuming it to be some sort of bloodsport.

Jorvin Starbreaker, having just discovered the sport, strongly considers using the remainder of his plundered Orenian gold to purchase Kal'Darakaan Miners merchandise. "'aven't tha' foggiest how tha' game 'es played, but ah'm sure ah're lads will come out on top." Godred Eiriksson follows with great interest, finally having something to pass his time ever since the farm was bought out.

"Ah'm nae War Criminal. T'were nae crime tae follow orders...My own orders tae be fair, but orders na'aertheless." says known war criminal Jorvin Starbreaker.

Thank you safety admin noobman

[!] The following letter is sent by messenger to the beleaguered city of Varhelm, to be delivered directly into the hands of King Vane Freysson and his council. This letter is written in the common tongue of Almaris by the servants of Great Jarl Zharrtýr Rykhässon so you might comprehend, and take heed of its contents. By will of the Dark Gods of Svarland and all the Gods of the South may this letter reach you or your servants, so you might reply posthaste. For over ten years now the warriors of the Svarlandic Great Army have bought ruin to these shores, sending hundreds to the depths of Nárgrindheim, to where all warriors of Svarland will go at the end of days. We honor our dead, and even now a number of the living are envious of their glory. Nevertheless, those who yet still live have earned great accolades in battle against your folk, and I now reward my warriors with the fruits of their bloodletting. It is your folk as well to whom I give recognition and praise, for a weaker people would have already surrendered themselves before me. Your revered elders are dead, the one Halvar Edvardsson slain honorably by my hand, and your wisewoman passed beyond the veil, your allies are disorganized, and many now concern themselves with matters relating to the Dragon of the South, you are at a disadvantage, and you tire of endless war, while me, my people flourish from it, for a worthy death in battle is sought tirelessly, not avoided. Because of this, I pose you now with an offer. I seek to reward my warriors for their valor, and so I demand this of you. A Svarlgeld in exchange for a cessation in the fighting, until such a time where I shall come to subjugate these lands. My warriors who now dominate the lands north of Varhelm shall retreat to that land which we have seized and consolidated, the warcamp of Vesturtjörnbúðir, and the former lands of the Skanarri tribes. Likewise the crowned helm of Halvar Edvardsson, now in my possession, shall be returned to you. In exchange, two hundred and fifty six gold bars shall be delivered into my possession, along with twenty five kegs of mead, and one hundred and twenty six pounds of meat and fish, as well as a hostage to serve in my court for the duration of the ceasefire, which shall last five years, unless extended through subsequent payments. You shall be given two years to gather the payment, during which time my warriors will make no attack against you. I also bid you extend this offer to the Snow Elfen and Haneslandic Kings.

Zharrtýr Rykhässon clutches the crown of the once-king in his hand, having pried it from Halvar's helm. He had slain a beloved and courageous king this day, and it was a small sign of respect towards his foe that the body was left unmutilated. A Demon-slayer warranted more respect than those cowards arrayed against him now. As Zharrtýr mused over Halvar's crown, he contemplated the future of his conquests, and the will of his dark gods. He set the crown upon his belt, beside the hanging skull of the Skanarri chieftain, and set out to speak with his captains... Too much dawdling, he was growing impatient, but he would not voice his annoyance. The Dark Gods would provide.

Years ago, when the Svarlings first arrived in the lands of Almaris, the first to meet them in battle were neither the noble knights of Haense, nor the stalwart northguard of Norland, but simple tribesmen who themselves were once roving hordes. The Skanarri were fierce, like all northern peoples, and zealously guarded their independence. Which made the day four Svarling retainers slaughtered nearly fifty of their number all the more infamous. Though the crimson-plated lord of the Svarlings had shown himself few times since that day, his presence loomed like a shadow over the north ever since. For the Skanarri, it was like a spectre of doom hung over them, even as peace with the Norlanders was declared. Venturing into the northern mountains, where game had been caught for many-a-year, was no longer viable, as hunters returned with mutilated corpses more often than they did with game, and only the land immediately on the southern shore of Lake Ikarus was viable for farming. Because of the threat from these sea-raiders, the Skanarri had bolstered their defenses as best as they were able, fighting men patrolled the perimeter of the village day in and day out, and thankfully, no further attack had come from the raiders. The Skanarri had no way of knowing, however, that the Svarlings had been gathering their strength, and had since been fully mustered... Galti Ketillsson huffed and puffed as he brought firewood to the townsquare, and his nerves were shot. He didn’t mind the hard work, after all that just came with tribal life, but venturing out to collect wood at sundown? That was a risky thing these days, especially with rumors of monsters lurking in the nearby forest. More monsters than usual anyway. Just his luck for drawing the short stick, he thought. Nevertheless, his father was appreciative, especially as it would no doubt leave a good impression of the boy on Grejon, their High Chieftain, Ketill knew that since he was one of the few fighting men left among the northern tribes, it wouldn’t be long before his boy would join him. Galti was almost to his sixteenth summer after all… Those Skanarri who were not on patrol like Ketill gathered by a bonfire in the center of town, Galti’s mother and sister among them. To call the spring celebrations this year a ‘feast’ wasn’t entirely accurate, as food was scarce this far in the north even at the best of times, but it was still a celebration, which was dearly needed to lift everyone’s spirits of late. Galti looked over the food as everyone gathered around the fire. Mead from the Nords was the highlight of the menu, while most dined on rye bread and lakefish, what little venison there was had been saved for Grejon and his family. Galti didn’t mind it much, he preferred fish in truth, deer didn’t have much meat on them these days. Galti took his place by his family, his mother raising a brow at him. “You were almost out past sundown.'' She reprimanded, much to Galti’s frustration, the boy responded raising his hands as if to say ‘not my fault’. In effect, that is exactly what he did say. “The logs were heavy, I came back as quickly as I could!” This answer didn’t seem to please his mother, but before she could chastise him further, a ringing sounded throughout the townsquare. Grejon sat at his seat by the fire, tapping his seax against a gold calice to garner everyone’s attention. “Some of you might question my judgement in throwing a feast this year, in fairness I will grant you that acquiring game has been tough, what with the northwood being off-limits. But, we have food enough, I assure you, and with how bleak everyone’s moods have been as of late, is that not all the more reason to celebrate?” He marched around the fire as he spoke, moving to the table where the kegs of mead were held, and filling his chalice, moving back to his seat as he did so. “These have been a bleak few years, but we have survived worse. Famine, disease, the war with the southerners, we have persevered so far, and that, I think.” He remarked with a raise of his drink in toast. “Is something worth celebrating.” Galti was passed a drink by his mother, and mimicked the gesture. Though as he looked towards his Chieftain, he couldn’t help but shake the feeling Grejon was putting on a face for his people… A storm brewed among the peaks of the Kaldrfjells, the Svarlandic name for the range which separated northwestern Almaris from the arctic wastes beyond, and Svarlandic Warlord Zharrtýr Rykhässon looked down at the hinterlands below in brooding silence, ice webbed up his armor as if spun by a spider, and his breath formed a frozen mist beyond the visor of his horned helmet. He was not the only figure whose gaze loomed upon Almaris from those frigid northern peaks, Vikne Kjeldsdóttir stood beside him. Silence reigned in this part of the world, animals no longer lingered in this part of the range, but that did not mean it was dead. Below, nestled in the valleys the Svarling host awaited in a silence which was only broken by the screams of the sacrificed, which echoed throughout the mountainside, and the crowing of carrion birds… “Tell me Vikne…” Zharrtýr began, addressing the other, though he did not lift his gaze from the valleys beyond to face her. “Why do you follow me?” He asked plainly. Vikne looked to Zharrtýr, a surprised expression invisible beneath her helmet. “Pardon, my Lord?” She asked, seemingly caught off guard by the question. Zharrtýr spoke once more. “You have followed me to this end of the earth, and for what reason? You know I am no seer by birth, you have no reason to believe I commune with the Gods, and yet you still follow me loyally. Why?” The question Zharrtýr posed was a loaded one, but he said it as if making idle conversation, if he was concerned about his servant’s motivations his tone of voice did not betray as much, only...Idle curiosity. The woman pondered the question posed for a moment’s time, her gaze gast skyward for the moment. After some few seconds of silence, she replied in a direct, honest tone. “Because you are the one with the strength to rule, my Lord. The people of this land- many of the people in our land, even- they are weak. Their supposed unity is built on ill-made foundations; when circumstances become dire, they will turn on each other, because they lack a leader with the strength to guide them. Why else would they cling to the teachings of their silent, distant gods? They lack the willpower to do otherwise.” She stated, her arms folding across her front as her gaze turned back to the crimson-clad warlord. “I follow you because no other is worthy of my loyalty. The rest are weak, arrogant, or just overall unimpressive.” Zharrtýr simply nodded, seeming satisfied with her answer. “Spoken with honesty.” He remarked admirably, turning to leave their perch by the cliffside. “That is why I count you a friend, Vikne Kjeldsdóttir, thank you.” He remarked before finally descending into the valley below, where his warriors awaited. Four Svarlings struck fear into the hearts of the Skanarri, he would be bringing four dozen to finish the job…. Galti protested at having to eat the river-eel, and only did so at the insistence of his mother. Good meat was growing harder to come by after all, and if he didn’t fill his stomach with that, what else? Half-rotted fruits from the south? The boy needed to eat. For Grejon, his mind during the feast was...Occupied. Long were his nights with his most trusted warriors, planning potential avenues for when Ikarusburg became uninhabitable, but of the few choices there were, none were particularly great. His people could integrate with the Norlanders, but then again, did he not fight a whole war against those people? A long and bloody war no less, but migrating south was equally unrealistic. If they fled into the southern realms of men, they would be treated no better than bandits and brigands, Imperials were hardly known for their tolerance of tribal cultures. None of this troubled his tribespeople though, only a few, the elders and his trusted warriors knew how dire their situation was, and all of them, especially the elderly, preferred to stand and fight rather than flee, but Grejon wasn’t so sure. All this and more distracted him from much of the banter among the feast, he spared a few moments to speak to Ketill’s boy, whose coming of age was less than a week away, Galti did his best to be respectful towards the High Chief, it was clear the boy wasn’t sure what to say without his father. “Best prepare yourself my boy, you’ll be a fighting man soon, it’ll be up to you to protect your family, and the tribes.” Galti didn’t really have a grasp of how soon those words would become a reality, perhaps neither did Grejon. It was under the cover of the setting sun and snowfall that five boats set out from the northern shore of Lake Ikarus, moving silently save the batting of their oars against the water, this was not a marauder rabble, nor horde of maddened berserkers. Zharrtýr’s Huskarls, the men and women who followed him from the beginning of his conquests, were the most disciplined in his hosts. Clad in black armor, engraved with the icons and runes of Old Svarland, each one shielded from the cold by cloaks of wolf or bear pelt. Some carried axes, others swords, and many clasped shields likewise decorated with tribal talismans and engravings. Skard Hæfnirsson, one of Zharrtýr’s captains, discarded the heavy armor of his compatriots in favor of cloth and fur clothing, to move light, and properly wield the longbow over his back. Skard looked to the shoreline rising in the distance, then to Zharrtýr, but neither broke the silence. Soon, buildings grew visible through the snow, and at the dock, sentries on watch. Zharrtýr raised his hand, the rowing of the ships ceased, and within moments Skard had put an arrow in each guard before an alarm could be raised. The Svarling warchief nodded in approval, and lowered his hand once more, as the rowers brought the boats to the southern shore, at a small dock which led into the village. As the sun began to lower behind the houses of the Skanarri village, several torches were lit among the Svarlings, and Zharrtýr reached to his belt, drawing his broadsword from its sheath as he dismounted from the boat, crimson greaves thudding upon the wooden dock. As the boats disgorged their fell passengers. Zharrtýr moved forward, stepping over the corpse of one of the Skanarri guards, before finally breaking the silence, his voice was low, but it carried in the deafening night, and even those who did not hear him understood the reaction of those who did. “Spare not one living thing, man or beast. Put them all to the sword.” At once, nearly fifty weapons were unsheathed, the hiss of metal being drawn, before finally, Zharrtýr’s huskarls marched for the townsquare, where the Skanarri now gathered... The scene that engulfed Ikarusburg, home of the Skanarri tribes, could only be described as a nightmare ripped from the depths of the Ibleesian netherworld itself… Black-plated juggernauts set upon the Skanarri as they feasted, or slept in their beds, and the screams of women and children gathered in the townsquare were deafening. The few men present, Grejon’s guards, and the elderly did their best to resist, but were utterly unprepared for what set upon them now. None had expected the Svarlings to set off across the frozen lake, least of all Grejon, and the fact that he hadn’t had the mind to set more guards at the dock would haunt him as long as he lived… Which, if he had to guess, would not be very long. They had broken through the northern half of the village in a stream, torching the thatch-roofed houses, only after marching inside to butcher those occupants who hadn’t attended the feast, or had and retired early. The screams awoke those in the next row of houses, though they rushed outside only to be met by the silent Huskarls, or worse, hid within their homes as they were put to the torch. Grejon rallied those he could, though a handful of his band were unlikely to do more than slow down the horned monsters in armor. Grasping a greataxe from one of his band, he moved to face down the Svarlings as they rushed down from the north-face of the town square. He arrived just in time to see a handful of elderly shield-warriors put to the axe, fathers, grandfathers, and wisemen all. Behind Grejon, the alarm was rung, calling the warriors on patrol back to the village, though he had a feeling they would not arrive in time. His axe was raised, finding itself hooked under the helm of one of the Svarlings, he wrenched it back, violently as he could, digging the beard into, and likely breaking the Huskarl’s neck as he crumbled to the ground. He reared the axe back, and brought it down on the bulky pauldron of another, causing the warrior to stagger. Though as he swung it down a third time, a hand reached out above the shieldwall, and clasped the haft of his axe, which he tried to pull back to no avail. Through the rapidly disintegrating battle-line, a crimson plated giant emerged, standing a good head and shoulders above the tallest man Grejon had ever met. His bulky, immobile armor only added to this effect, though were it not obvious enough, the color of his armor denoted this man as the leader of the Svarling warband. As Grejon jostled for his axe from the Svarling, his eyes met the other’s from beneath the t-shaped visor. Zharrtýr’s bloodshot, ice-blue eyes locked onto Grejon for a moment...Before driving a broadsword into the Skanarri’s gut. Grejon wished to say some last words of defiance, but quickly found his voice lost in a torrent of blood. His thoughts were a daze, and as Zharrtýr ripped the sword from Grejon’s stomach, the last thing the Skanarri Chieftain felt was rage at being denied the chance to even wound the man who took his life… Elsewhere in the village, Galti ran. He ran faster than he’d ever ran before. He ran for dear life as the demons from the sea set upon his neighbors, his kinsmen...His mother. There was little he could do to stop them, after all. Fully grown men tried and failed to halt the slaughter, to strike back against, or even just tackle the warriors. He did not stop when the warriors from patrol rushed to the village, his father among them, he did not stop when his family home, the only home he’d even known was set up in flames. He only stopped from exhaustion after what felt like hours, though was likely only a few minutes. Beyond the outskirts of the village, along the treeline where those who ran now fled, he finally heard something new over the sounds of butchery, of slaughter, and the screams of his kin. The warriors began to chant. “Skeggǫld, skálmǫld skildir ro klofnir vindǫld, vargǫld áðr verǫld steypisk.” [!] For days after, the citizens of Varhelm would see fire and smoke rise from the northern woods.

That's metal.