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10th of the Grand Harvest THE FINAL STRIKE Three strikes and you’re in the grudgebook is what the greybeards of our clan taught us as beardlings. Urguan’s race is doomed to be stubborn and grudgeful, but yet because of our devotion to the Grand Kingdom of Urguan we have forgiven many wrongs against our kin. We have worked for the greatness of the Kingdom, fighting in wars and participating in government, even after we’ve been wronged without compensation. All we ask for in return for our labor is respect. The first against our kin was when the most kind Urist Ireheart was mutilated and debearded at the hands of the wood elves of Sirammenor. Our Grand King at the time, Jorvin Starbreaker, refused to uphold his honor by defending his kin who was violated in the worst way possible, debearding. Instead, when the Irehearts honorably defended their kin they were branded as traitors and asked to come before the high courts for their actions. In the end, the Kingdom failed it’s duties to protect the sons and daughters of Yavok as they fought a long grudge war against the elves alone. The second wronging of our kin was in the election of Durorn Ireheart. The votes were counted at first 71 in favor of Durorn Ireheart and 48 in favor of Norli Starbreaker. Though when the council met, dishonorable schemers slowly discounted votes until it ended in a tie. And when the council was asked, how should we resolve this tie? The schemers answered “let the council decide” as they knew they held the council majority. A King was crowned by the council, but not the people of Urguan. The namesake of Urguan was wronged this day, but especially the descendents of Yavok. The third and final strike against our kin was in the meeting and consequential events after the meeting. As Ulfric went behind the backs of the Irehearts, making deals with Du Loc that directly affected our clan. Ulfric bent over to cannonism as he told Du Loc that he would sit idle as Du Loc had their way with the Irehearts. Once again the Irehearts would be doomed to fight without protection from their King, but now their King actively sided against them. What did we do to deserve this kind of dishonor? In defense of his “honor”, the Grand King called us traitors, even going so far as to threaten a former Grand King, Gror Ireheart, with treason. The King with all his “honor” denied an honor duel and fled the city of Urguan in shame. Let it be known that the descendents of Yavok are tired of being wronged. Even Urguan rolls in his grave as he hears those who represent him slander his name by turning their back on their kin. Three strikes and you’re in the grudgebook. But once again the Irehearts show their mercy by presenting these overdue demands as compensation of their multiple wrongdoings. For the idleness in the case of the debearding of Urist Ireheart: 1. The formal apology from the Grand King to Clan Ireheart. For dishonorably scheming to rig the election: 2. The immediate promotion of Gorlim Ireheart as Grand Marshal of the Legion. 3. The reformation of the council system, allowing votes to clans with higher populaces. For branding us ‘traitors’ and letting Du Loc have their way with us: 4. The granting of a plot of land in the lands of southbridge. 5. A grant of funding in the form of 3,000 minas to repay us for centuries of unwarranted mistreatment. We present these demands to the Grand King of Urguan. Signed,
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The Enemy of My Enemy Part 2/3 [!] A party of Rustlers, Ferrymen and Irehearts do good work on the roads of Oren. The sun, though beating down heat onto the land of men below, was met with a cool breeze that made for a comfortable atmosphere. The Rustlers, intending only to cripple Orenian supplies, could be found ambushing caravans and trade wagons alike as they sought refuge in the City of Burning Clocks. THUMP THUMP THUMP! The hooves of a horse echoed throughout the field only to be silenced by the driver wishing to stop and rest at a nearby tavern. A gust of wind caught hold of some brush near the side of the road, parting a few leaves and opening a line of sight. Piercing blue eyes stared through the brush, the gaze serious yet clouded with eagerness. With quick and intent movements, Elsil’Ceru sprung into action. The young elf let out a whistle, akin to that of a bird that was local to the region. The caravan looked around in a state of confusion, then interrupted as Iscesi ‘the Doorman’ leaped into action, firing an arrow into the chest of the caravan driver. With the same speed with which the Rustlers appeared, the lives of the caravan guards ended. As the Rustler band cleaned their weapons, they were set upon by a messenger loyal to their cause. The Orenians began their march. With haste, Elsil’Ceru ordered that birds be dispatched to some allies of the Urguan war effort. They set their quills to parchment and sent the messages off with haste. In a nearby forest, the elfish Ferrymen, Vydrek and Diome, walked idly by with their long time friend, Yonash. The trio strolled calmly, taking in the scenery of Orenian lands one last time before they were set to the flame, when a bird flew down and landed atop the shoulder of Vydrek. Yonash stepped forward, grasping at the bird and holding it tight as he removed the attached message. While the man silently read, the two elves readied their weapons. Between the two, they shared centuries of experience in war and knew what a bird sent from the direction of an enemy must mean. The three Ferrymen returned to their horses and made for the nearby Ferrymen camp. As the reinforcements made their way to the roads of Oren, the ISA readied themselves as well. They had received reports that their caravans were being attacked and their supply chain cut off. With their usual haste, the ISA made for the roadside tavern, mounted on the finest steeds the Empire could muster and armed to the teeth. As they arrived, they were met with the host that they sought out. A coalition of Ferryman and Rustler stood at the ready, their numbers lined across the road, ready to meet the ISA’s finest. The two sides stood at a standstill, neither making the first move, but both ready to draw first blood. Silence befell the terrain as the two small armies stood there, offering nothing in the way of words to each other. Diome eyed the mounted men of Oren, his eyes flickering between the groups as they usually did when he was formulating a strategy, when his focus was broken by a sudden shout. “Narvak oz Kjellos!” a voice shouted, booming through the fields as Bakir Ireheart charged in, mounted atop a mighty ram. Bakir swept between the two groups, his warhammer spinning wildly before he swung it at the head of an ISA recruit, his head coming clean off. With the valiant acts of Bakir, the silence was finally broken, replaced by the clashing of steel and flesh. The Ferrymen and Rustler coalition strode forth, their shields tight together as they forced the ISA back toward their hamlet. Yonash stopped as he looked about the battle field. The man watched as the Orenian troops fell to the blades of the allied forces one by one, “Diome!” he shouted toward his comrade “Press the attack! They fall to our blades!” With the rallying words of Yonash, coupled with the charge led by himself and Vydrek, the combined army of Ferryman, Rustler and Ireheart cut down the last of the sixteen ISA soldiers. Bakir turned to Elsil, offering a nod to the Rustler as he blew into his warhorn, signaling for the band to regroup on the roads. Iscesi limped from behind the treeline, wounded but not yet beaten as he returned from slaying several of the Orenian party. Diome and Vydrek returned together, supporting their comrade Yonash as he triumphantly returned to the group alive. The men, elf and dwed all looked around. Led by Bakir, they all began to chuckle lightly with relief. It was comforting to see that all twelve of their group had returned to the place that the battle began, alive and well. Diome made his way up the road, the coalition of forces bonding from the tales they had made during the battle. He found himself beside Elsil as the duo walked. “A fine show we put on didn’t we Ferryman.” said the Rustler. Diome groaned, in annoyance or pain, none could say for certain. “The enemy of my enemy, Rustler.” uttered the veteran Ferryman. [OOC] The information/names used in this post is not public information. This post is a recount of events that occurred in-game and is not to be used to influence RP. The purpose of this post is to share the events of the road skirmish in an RP friendly manner. Thank you.
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A Tombkeeper's Diary "Return" ~o.O.o~ [Music] A bright, sunny day washed the dwarven mountains with gentle warmth in contrast to the cold and crisp air morning air, birds sang their songs and boars drank from the many fresh water lakes Urguan's valleys held. Any remaining early dew clung to the tall grass as afternoon was fast approaching, though the time of day was not the only thing making a return. Far below the cloudless, sun scorched sky trudged a lone dwarf hauling a cart of hewn stone blocks. His green war paint glistened as beads of sweat streamed down his mighty forehead and onto his thick black eyebrows. Angr Ireheart, a dwed of Dreek's bloodline, marched up the winding Urguani roads with an orange and gray banner mounted to his cart flapping in the breeze, his eyes spoke of growth and grief as his few year departure into the expanse of untouched wilds had surely moved him. His beard was longer, his body had been refined and his wrists though bruised, were bandage free once more. His gaze flicked up at the sound of a distant scuffle further along the road, and Angr could see it. A bandit, while he wasn't a Ferryman he was human, and in typical human fashion was preying on anything lesser than them. As he approached, the injured elf cried out for help and was promptly bashed in the head with the hilt of the bandit's shortsword, though Angr would pay no heed to the situation as it was not of his concern. Once he had passed, the human had called out to him. "Hold it, just where do you think you're going, short ****?!" Angr again chose to ignore the petty thief and continued to lug his cart towards a crossroads further down the road. "Don't tell me you're as dumb as this knife-eared scum! I'm talking to you!" He persisted, walking after Angr with his sword still drawn. "Shut et, boy. Ahm buseh." The Ireheart growled as the crunching of gravel under their feet continued to fill nature's otherwise blissful silence. The bandit immediately charged him with a scream and swung just short of Angr's cloak, though he would not be given another chance to slay his opponent. In a swift motion, Angr's rugged hand reached up and grabbed the man by his family jewels at which point he yanked the bandit down by his balls and onto his knees. The dwarf uttered no words and offered no remorse as he wrenched the shortsword free and drove it through his forearm. "No! No please I-" He begged as he was cut off by a solid crack to the temple. Angr silently got up and approached his cart, briefly browzing the selection of giant stones before settling on a fairly heavy piece. He hefted the torso sized brick to the dazed man and took in his features, noting that he was easily no older than twenty as he raised the stone over his head. "Please! N-" And that was that. A sickening squelch echoed into the surroundings as part of the bandit's brain was ejected from his now crushed skull. He looked up to the cowering elven woman and gave her a slow nod, this was not to say she was safe, but rather, to run. She needed no explanation as she immediately scrambled to her feet and took off in the other direction. With solitude restored at last, Angr's single eye settled on the young thief as he sighed, undoing the ties to an iron mask on his work belt. Angr shoved aside the large stone and began carefully tieing. The mask to what was left of the man's face and once he was done, hefted the body to his cart. "Yu were sadleh mesguided, may Dungrimm see t'es beacon and gentleh bring yu tu yur rest, young'in." He muttered. Many hours later, Angr would arrive at the capitol of the Grand Kingdom, his absence seemingly unnoticed. He would pass by many dear and familiar faces as he loaded his stone cart onto a rickety lift and sent it below towards the Worker's Guild. While descending the stairs, something caught his eye that was nailed to the bulletin board, a paper recently published regarding a competition for Grand Architect. "Tae fock es t'es shoite?" He grumbled, tempted to remark on how the only other able builders he knew were Grudgebeared and Magni. "T'es ain' ah competition, ye daft focken Frostbeard, ye need tae foind tae best, nae tah most ambitious!" He shouted, tearing up the announcement written by Azkel. "Ye wannu kill 'alf ov Urguan by 'avin teir focken new triangle 'ouses fall ontu t'em, ahm not gonna let t'at 'appen..." He grumbles, continuing to complain as he retrieves his cart at the lower section of the city and tugs it towards the processing area. "Ah keep tellen t'em Frostbeards ain't good fer anehfing otha t'an treason..." Angr lets another huge and stressful sigh escape him as he slumps into a seat within the Worker's Guild headquarters, unfurling blank parchment out in front of him as he begins to draft new designs he may be able to use for the competition. After a while though, an idea would stick with him, one that was sure to prove just how qualified he was for the job.
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A Tombkeeper's Diary "The Time I Drowned" [Music] Beneath a trickling underground stream, cold mineral rich water pours entropy over top Angr's head. The chaotic pitter patter screaming out into the cavern's silent expanse as the dwarf's naked body is soaked in liquid solitude. Though strange, Angr had routinely done this, seeking to quell his indomitable spirit which often thrashed with a primal rage. He hoped this time would be different, as his body was struggling to keep up with the demand of an Ireheart's bloodlust, as evident by his stitched breast. Most of his brethren already knew how to utilize their Ire like second nature, but Angr's reservations allowed this quality to run rampant. Around him, many hundred spiders of varying sizes watched from their burrows, some even daring to reveal themselves a few meters away. They would go no closer, staring at the apex predator of their ecosystem with a paralyzing hesitation. It was no secret that these arachnoids were timid due to the land's history, but Angr lived down here. He had slaughtered countless amounts of their kin prior simply because he could, he hunted them. Angr had planned on their visit, using their presence as temptation for his hunger to kill as he quietly waited to ****** it and pull himself back in. The Ireheart's skin was washed in stony grays and faded greens as he patiently sat for hours, internal turmoil simmering just beneath. He knew he couldn't rush his restraint, he needed to make sure that he could differentiate between himself and his bloodline in the heat of battle. The stirring darkness ahead gave way to lapping waves, thoughts crashing into his mind's cliff. He dwelled on how badly he wanted glory, the triumph of victory. Daily work dulled his direction, he grew more and more lost the longer he went without scratching the itch. He had dedicated himself to the tasks nobody else would do, but he didn't want to be left out because of it. This made him angry, no, this made him furious. He had put in the work, he had offered himself to preform the services of Dungrimm, why should he have to suffer the curse of incompetency? In a blinding movement, Angr bolted up and roared as he hurled his fist to the spider in front of him. And yet he stopped. He had stopped himself mere centimeteres away from the fuzzy head of a mid sized spider, allowing it the chance to scurry away with its life. He panted as his blood seethed in his veins, and he understood what he was missing. Nothing was owed to him, his performance, his results were his own. He had a long way to go before he could swim in his ancestry instead of drown. He scoffed as he plopped back down into his puddle. "Yavok yu bahstahd..." Angr grumbled. If he ever wanted to do his clan proud, he would need to continue to practice under various methods. He wondered, how could anyone ever hope to be on the level of Yavok, a legend who learned to master his fire. Perhaps that is why he was declared Irehearted, because he had found a way to channel his anger physically into his pumping arteries, rather than the annexes of his brain. Once more, he fell back into his trance. His psyche lulled ever deeper underwater where he could again try to swim, rather than drown.
