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With the new awesome plugin that @Aesopianand others (probably) have made, NOMAD RP can truely thrive. Which is why I made this discord; https://discord.gg/Btn7qkbgmc in hopes of reviving nomad RP, with the help of everyone that likes it. Though RPly they might not be allies, the NOMADS of this server should join together OOCly to make the RP more possible.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Night quiet fell upon Bodbwodz, a starry veil glimmered overhead. Cunimund closed his eyes as he felt mountain air buffet his mantle drawn across his shoulders. The cold feels good against my head after my feet walked the hot ash of the Fiendlands. He stood watch in the tallest of the thatch-roofed towers, striding from one end to one end; keeping watch across the valleys of the Reinmaren and the Crownlands. A cruel death that Um'thraka warned me about is farthest in this serenity. His head swiveled, looking over the meadhall to Sendrenx's woodwork shop, pausing and facing a figure pacing between crannogs capped with fur walking in from the north. "Ormar bjarga mér, this is the most civilized place I've seen!" the figure exclaimed, lofting a hand up as Cunimund made a motion with his carnyx warhorn in hand. "That is a first ta' hear, most find us ta' be on ta' precipice af' savagery compared to ta' Heartlanders who live in ta' valleys below from Lemon Hill ta' Whitespire," Cunimund remarked with an inoffensive chortle before greeting, "Wæshæl! No harm will come ta' ye' here." Cunimund looked the man up and down, dressed in thick Highlander garb more suited for winter than for temperate clime. He saw the man drum his fingers nonchalantly against a belt-purse laden with goods near to spilling out. "Ogbiju andlet oiman! We can sit in ta' meadhall down ta' hill a few paces so ye' can unpack wot' goods an' belongings ye've brought an' kick yer' feet up fer' a spell," Cunimund suggested, opening a palm in the direction of the establishment and waving the man through with the other. They both went downhill and reached the meadhall, the pair shuffling through stone mugs until two were found clean and filled them up with spiced metheglin. "Skál!" the man excitedly cried before downing an entire mug's worth of mead. He wiped his soaked beard with the back of a hand and began to undo knots along his belt purse; he had seal pelts, Hyspian bracelets of gold and sapphire, and octagonal coins of no distinct minting. In response, Cunimund stood up and fetched polished fragments of amber, rounded beads of precious coral, hides from bighorn rams, bronzen torcs, and a few books. The two sat at their table, sliding different goods across from one another as they negotiated an exchange. "The goat hide interests me, as does the amber, and the armhringr too," the man said, pointing to the bronzen torcs at the end of his statement. "I'll take ta' seal pelts an' ta' bracelets af' gold an' sapphire," Cunimund said with a tone of agreement. The two exchanged goods for goods, three seal pelts and three Hyspian bracelets for two pieces of amber, two rolls of hide, and two torcs with terminals shaped in the form of crows. "I have one question for you o' member of the Cingedoz tribe" the man began, leaning his head forward and removing his fur cap. He rested it gingerly on the table, the oblique bill facing Cunimund. Cunimund nodded, smiling with the exchange of trade and words. "I want to fight one of your tribe, is this possible?" the man asked, as matter-of-factly as he spoke while trading. Cunimund eyes lit up with full attention. "Would ye' accept me as duel-partner?" Cunimund asked in return. The man nodded. "Let us agree to an arm, a shield, an' a sidearm. Neh' armor an' we shall fight upon ta' earthenwalls facin' Merryweather," the two men nodded as they stood from the table in the meadhall. They went one after the other outside and towards the walls. "I assume like most southlanders, you are disinclined to a fight to the death?" "By mine honor, I accept t'is duel ta' be one to ta' death. Let it naught be known that a Cingedoz warrior flees ta' prospect af' perishing," Cunimund responded. By then, the two stood face to face, ten paces from one another. Cunimund, having chosen a falx as his main arm, brings the blade to rest flat against his nose and his lips embraced against frigid steel. "You are the first one down here to gain my respect o' Cingedoz," the man conceded as he removed his lamellar hauberk and woolen undershirt. His torso glistened in the moonlight with a dozen freshly healed-over scars; his arms and legs seemed like vine-stakes with swirling blue tattoos winding around them shaped in serpentine iconography. He held out a round-shield and held a spear underhand. The Baron began the duel with a single step, crouching slightly and holding his scutum shield forward to afford him coverage from neck to knee. He kept his falx-blade upright and behind the shield. His opponent stepped forward in unison, the two soon coming to clash. Metal against metal, Cunimund's opponent thrust his spear forward and struck against the boss of the scutum shield and worked it over the top of Cunimund's shield. The Cingedoz warrior ducked, pressing his right ear against the back of his shield and swiped his falx from edge to edge against the top lip of the shield; his opponent's spear clanked against the side of the shield as the falx pushed its shaft from over the top of the scutum. The opponent sidestepped as Cunimund pressed forward. Cunimund felt the boss of his opponent's round-shield drum him in the right shoulder, he continued with the momentum of his falx-swing and the opponent's hook to spin completely around and bore down falx-steel against spear-shaft. The Cingedoz took the opportunity to press his scutum shield against his chest as the opponent's spear was thrown back. He is smiling. The opponent hiked up a boot and kicked Cunimund with all his northern might. The shield whined, wood warping slightly, as the boot squarely met the shield and sent Cunimund wheeling backwards. The Baron winced, feeling a sharp pain in his back as he was sent flying into the earthenwall parapet; up and over the Baron fell off onto the other side. Um'thraka warned me that death would give chase to me upon accepting his grimoire, but this is a good death. A hale death dictated by honor. Cunimund gasped for breath as the wind was knocked out of him, having fallen off the wall and onto the snow caped ground below. Strong breath came to him before clear vision, a blurry figure grew to nearly encompass his sight. His hands reacted instinctively, gripping a cold shaft of wood that stuck out of his chest. Yellow-green eyes met his as his face froze, a death mask set in rigor. "Thank you good warrior. . ," the opponent bore witness. 𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 Men, women, and horses streamed up through the Langkette Mountains towards Bodbwodz. Ser Ferdinand Barclay led a troop of Minitzers towards the Cingedoz village as towers of smoke teetered with the carrying winds lofted above. The first to arrive crossed themselves and bowed their heads with modesty. A decapitated body with an impalement wound bounced with all its dead weight, having been strung up from the earthenwalls that faced Merryweather. Scattered belongings including two books written by the Baron laid around a slight impression in the ground below. The firefighters passed through the walls and found crannogs, hovels, and towers crumbling in on themselves in a burning inferno. A single set of footprints and drag marks from stools dotted a beeline from the meadhall to the centre of the village. Only the runestone circle stood unaffected, though scorch marks from flame flashes and coughed embers streaked the limestone.

𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅘𝅥𝅮𝅗𝅥𝅘𝅥𝅯𝅘𝅥𝅮 OOC Note: This particular roleplay instance is restricted in-game knowledge, not to be meta-gamed. A step through the threshold and Cunimund felt his foot plant, but saw the arch of his foot span towards the visible horizon. His breath caught as he visually experienced himself lurch forward into an archway filled with colorless black. In a split second, he felt a hand against his chest hold him in place as he and Um'thraka shunted through to a new plane. A second after, Cunimund felt himself lean forward half-expecting to fall and his breathing become agitated, excited. The elder Ork appeared next to him, still with his arm braced against Cunimund's chest, unflinching and unaffected by the sojourn between the mortal plane and where they stood now. The first step after the sojourn tossed fresh embers and smote wood up as if the earth beneath him belched the fiery remains of a forest fire. Cunimund's breathing grew exasperated as black dust choked him; his eyes welled with tears agitated by the odious air beneath a forehead already smearing with dust and debris. He closed his eyes and batted his lashes as ash blew with forge-bellowed winds and danced across the ground in front of him in little dust devils and harmattans. The surface of the ground both Cunimund and Um'thraka stood on spread unevenly, alternating in color between pitch black and a rich, striated orange one might see when an ember is fed a blown breath. The firmament above them ran the same alternating colors; the two of them had shunted into a cavern. Um'thraka bade Cunimund to follow, having found a solitary exit from the chamber they just arrived in. The two approached the mouth of the cave by shuffling against the cavern walls towards both sides of the opening. A dull, grotesque drumming echoed into the cavern they shared; its sound low enough to indicate a far distance. They both peered out and onto an expansive plain whose sky glowed a sickly pink and towered overhead starless and unremarkable. The Ork grunted and jabbed a thumb to the horizon where the sky and the open plain met. Cunimund's face sagged with the weight of forlorn and regret. Two-hundred yards from them marched a wicked host. The demons that comprised this host varied in size and in form; some marching on two feet while beasts of burden pulling unwieldy siege engines dragged them on four or eight feet. Some carried polearms and zweihanders with two hands while others carried smaller arms in four hands total. Their bodies were scored with eldritch tattoos and jewelry, some had grotesque horns and appendages of bone jutting out from their heads.

AFFIRMATION OF THE BARONY OF BODBWODZ Issued & Confirmed on 11th of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1940, Merryweather Over the past few years, our attention has been drawn to Master Cunimund's activities within our United Kingdom of Aaun. Working for the royal court and transcribing many documents by hand has made him famous among my countrymen. I always believe that honest work should be paid for, and especially if that payment can make someone very happy. The Cingedoz have had no home since Vistulia was destroyed back in Almaris. They wandered around the continent of Aevos with no place to which they could always return after their distant wanderings - to rest, eat and set out into the world again. In recognition of Cunimund's deeds, I am granting him a piece of land at the top of Langkette, where he and his brothers and sisters in culture will be able to build a home that, if merciful God allows, will last for many years and host many generations of Cingedoz. From this eleventh day of Godfrey’s Triumph in the year of our Lord 1940 I name Cunimund the first BARON OF BODBWODZ. With the granted title, Baron Cunimund is allowed to form a local militia consisting of other Cingedoz in order to guard the land granted him in this document. He is expected to pay a yearly tax of fifty Mina. In addition to that, as an official subject within the Principality, Cunimund is granted a seat in the Fürstenrat of Merryweather. All men and women living within the Barony of Bodbwodz are allowed to promote their culture and freely teach and use their native language within the Principality of Merryweather. GOTT MIT UNS, HIS HIGHNESS, Heinrich II von Alstreim, Prince of Merryweather and the Rhine, Landgrave of Alstreim, Baron of Corwinsburg, Lord of Blackwater, Lord Vandalore

A NEW STONE RAISED NIUJUS KLUKA HARVIAGH ♪♩♫♩♪ Artorius travelled around a great lake, his stomach giving out roars and grumbles as if it were a hungry wolf. The young man went underneath great and tall trees, over bridges, over little rivers, and over mighty hills. Upon reaching the great shire of King Cyris and his fellow halflings, Artorius began carving a stone in their wood. From the great stone, a great circle was cut. Artorius continued to carve into the waystone so any of his travelling tribe members could read its history. I call upon you, my brethren, my kin. I call on you to return and band together for our future and for our children. I call upon the great Cingedoz of this land to raise our banner in pride, and let us embed ourselves into history once more! Meet at the great waystone and let us meet. Let us speak of our future plans atop the great stone and hill by the shire. Let us speak of our future as if it were bronze! Adsor swesoroz ok brātīroz , adsor! DISCORD: https://discord.gg/GtYAYWtWDF

THE CARVING OF A NEW STONE ♪♩♫♩♪ A young boy journeys through the high mountains of the north, his father's blood still coating his evergreen cloak. They called his father "The Red", for the colour of his long mane. Now all that remains of him, his memory, his blood, is all on Artorius Ambiorix hal’Cingedoz, "The Red's" son. Artorius still remembers the roar, but is unsure whether it was his father's or the bear's that slayed him. He attempts to forget in the cold. But the nightmares always return once he hides within the fur for warmth. They always return, leaving him awake, terrified to close his eyes, afraid that he will spot his father’s mauled corpse again. Yet the boy continued, moving far over the mountains, finally finding refuge and shelter within the forests, no longer within the barren lands of snow. He hunts, with his father's spear. Though the forest is a whole mountain range away, he still fears the bear and carries his father's shield with him on every hunt. It became worse. He could not even hunt anymore. Every creek caused by the great wind guiding the trees would cause him to jump and look behind his shoulder. He moved on to fishing. With fishing came patience and peace. He found himself a good rock by a river and began to think and meditate. Artorius began to build a stronger mind. He forged his thoughts to be as tough as steel and as beautiful as bronze. Thinking was all he had done between fishing and cooking, and as a result, his nightmares had stopped. The boy even began to go hunting again. Step by step, he began becoming a man and a warrior. He saw every challenge before him as a trial to prove his worth to the Creator. He began to explore. His young mind was now not blocking his childish instincts, and his level of curiosity was unbeaten. But for every city he had come upon, his joy faded and faded. For in every city, village, and little river, there was no great stone or Cingedoz in sight. His biggest challenge was set. He was now to find and reunite his people.