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[!] A rough depiction of the corpse of a man not many have cared to notice. The day was fresh and new. A man trudged along the northern forests smelling of fish and doo, holding nothing but his old, original, fishing pole and a twisted leaf filled with green. There was a strange feeling in his stomach. Something wasn’t right. . . He was hungry! It was another day, another krawn for the young fisherman apprentice. He was fourteen, alone, homeless, and stunk of fish guts. As the highborn children played games and gossiped in the old tavern, the alienated teen slammed his heavy net of fish of all sorts onto the table. As time went on, and the apprentice rid the fish of their entrails in public view, all of the children left. All except one. All except her. Fish. Reliable, high in protein, and sustainable. When living alone in his youth, nobody ever gave him a second glance. No one ever offered him water to drink, or fish to eat. Eventually, he even resorted to thievery. He stole not food, but a simple stick with a string and hook attached to it. It was not enough to feed a town, but plenty for the starving child. “Those were the days”, relented the now sixty year old man. This day marked the 50th year he was alone. Perhaps he didn’t need a companion, perhaps he only needed fish and orcish kief. A long journey lay ahead of the now experienced fisherman, now turned salesman. It was a new city, new opportunities, and a new image. He called it ‘The Dream’. His debut came on the day of debutantes. Royals and peasants alike loved his recipe of fish. However, the prospect of free cod roused suspicion, and apparently, enough suspicion to have him removed from the palace premices. They all sneered, whispered, and gossiped about the outcast. All except one. All except her. Fire popped and embers rose from the pit. For some odd reason, it was warmer in the north. How strange. . . Has spring come early? It didn’t matter. All that mattered to him now was that the war that plagued the once cold land had come to a bloodless conclusion. With that messy ordeal done and the war over, he could rest easily knowing that his friend was safe. That she was safe. “Politics? You want me to get into politics?” The royal fisherman looked up towards the Duchess of Valwyck in confusion. He was not an educated man, let alone a smart one. His short time spent in libraries was used to sell snacks for the younger scholars. Perhaps he was meant to be more than just some fisherman. Perhaps he was finally going to escape his endless pit of loneliness. No longer would he have to sit alone for hours on end at the side of a bridge. When the day came, the man nearing thirty collected the most votes. It was astonishing. How could a random fisherman dominate an election with many educated individuals running against him? Who knew? Who cared? “It’s probably nothing”, the fisher thought. After all, business was poor and his pockets even poorer. In the end no one truly cared about him. No one ever talked or conversed with him, or others like him for that matter. No one did. All except one. All except her. Cactus Green. It was the orcish variety. The normal stuff was tame, too tame. The elder needed something to take the edge off from the stresses of the world. It was a poor addiction his old friends, now long dead or forgotten, warned him of. Regardless, he was still an avid user of the herb. It was exhausting his retirement funds, exhausting his health, but he still yearned for more. It became a dangerous obsession, but he was obsessed with many things. The green. . . fish. . . h- Suddenly, his head snapped as he noticed loud noises in the distant hill south of his position. Curious. . . What was going on today? The Peoples Duma. A failing institution settling into a new world. Somehow, and in some way, a fisherman not only landed himself into politics, but found himself leading it. The Grand Alderman was once a homeless fisher boy from Karosgrad. Despite the honors of holding such an office for over a decade, he despised it. It caused him much stress to a worrying degree. His personal habits became worse and even impacted his performance. At one point, he found himself running the fastest general election in the Kingdom’s history, with candidates being chosen, votes being cast, and results being announced all within the span of an hour. It didn’t help that there was a session to be held afterwards. It was too much for him. By the grace of it all, his worries would soon be resolved as the true leaders, the likes of Lord Speaker Otto Ludovar, took control of the situation. It was a resounding sigh of relief for him and the kingdom. Who could blame him? He was, afterall, just an ordinary man. Not even educated informally let alone to the highest degree. The man spent more time in the royal kitchens and developing menus than he did writing bills that would impact the lives of the population. It was a calm and relatively normal life. The man could not handle that sort of stress all at once. He’d rarely ever seen that kind of resolve in anyone. All except one. All except her. The screams resounded and the madman dashed as fast as he could! Armed with nothing but a sword, a fishing rod, and cactus green, the fisherman chose to hold the pole in one hand and green in the other. He was clearly mad, he knew he was risking his life, but he ran towards danger regardless. And then, he saw. . . Retirement. It was the only way he could ever escape into a life he wanted to live. The life of foraging and living off of nature’s grace. There were successors lined in his place, as now he was an old man. A young Marian Blackwood, now Weiss, continued politics. The Boy Baron Henrik Amador took his seat in the unified Duma. Finally, his days of public service were over. In what he thought would be his final act of any importance, the unknown man raised a boy from homelessness after a daring fishing trip, and transformed the lad into a fine chef in his own right. This was it. This was his lasting legacy. He would abandon it all for a life of calm and tranquil simplicity. All of it. Well. . . All except one. All except her. -A mass of poor and desperate bandits fought atop the hills of Waltonburg. The Triumphant King himself rallied a tired band of warriors in the hopes to drive the men off, and rescue his Queen. The fisherman was furious. After peace arrived to all of humanity, she was still a target. Still in danger. . . Shouting on the edge of the hill, the common man under influence screamed towards the mighty King at top of his lungs “WHAT THE F-” This wasn’t the expected outcome. A victory? In a duel against the leader of warriors? He was an old and retired fisherman. The Veletzian townsfolk and warriors looked at the man in awe, as he helped up the defeated Marshal Hendrik Van Aert. By the sheer grace of either luck or newfound skill, an unimportant fisherman single-handedly rescued the beloved People’s Queen. He did it, not for reward, or for whispered rumors of affection, but because his closest friend was in danger of death. There was nothing beating him that day. He would kill a thousand Marshals if he had to. No one could have stopped him. All except one. All except her. -UCK IS GOING ON?! ONE JOB!” The audacity. . . And to a King no less? Well, no one really taught him courtly manners, and the man was so far gone from society he doubted if he would ever be let back at all after a comment like that. He didn’t care, nor plan on it. His victory in politics. . . his triumph against the enemy Marshal. . . his very survival to sixty years of age. . . all of it was just luck. For his entire life he relied only on luck and lived on it. In that desperate battle for life, the man somehow impacted lives, inspired bards and poets. . . he even made a few friends along the way. None were closer to him than her. He would soon find himself close to her one, final, time as a bandit sought to slay the Queen in his dying breath. There were no sounds of glory. . . No screams or warnings. . . There he stood, a man who either had nothing to lose or nothing at all, as he lept towards his world. In the end, as he tumbled down the hill with a sword in his lung, alongside his wounded friend, he died as he lived. . . Homeless Filthy Unknown Unimportant And- [!] A note would be found bloodied next to the dead fisherman’s wound. By sheer luck, it seemed the letter’s envelope was only bloodied, but not the parchment itself. When opened, it read simply: “Ami, In my lifetime of knowing you, I realized that you were always the one saying thank you to me, and not the other way around. Today I return from my fishing trip, and I hope this letter finds you well. Thank you, for everything. Know that if I had to do it all again without a single word of gratitude, that I would work just as hard. It was never for me, or for the Kingdom. It was just you. It was always only for you. Your far, yet close friend, Timmy” For her. -=-=-=- REST IN PEACE TO A LOYAL FISHERMAN KNOWN AS TIMOFEI “TIMMY, THE KING WHO STAYED AND EMPEROR OF FISH” PETROVICH

[!] An artist recreation of a Glaiveguard before the battle 5th of The Deep Cold, Year 68 of the Second Age The Elvendom Glaiveguard had been summoned by their Elysian allies, so they had answered their call. One hundred and ten Elven soldiers had rallied to Elysium's aid, ready for whatever awaited them. Upon entering, an Orc tribute party had entered the square, with Elysian soldiers confused to the situation. The Elven Glaiveguard faced insult after insult, each one braved and every soldier unmoving at the threats. As the diplomatic proceedings began, the Elves went from insulted to assaulted, one orc of the tribute party pushing Vydrek Volaren down the stairs as he tried to pass the orc blockade. Swords began to be drawn, Blood was ready to be spilt on the stairs of the palace. Led by Prince Kosher Daesmon, Vallein Vuln’miruel, and Vydrek Volaren of Elvenesse, all the orcs were slaughtered, some even saying massacred for their actions by the Elven forces and his might, with the Elysians staying out of this conflict of interest, even in the place they called home. Crimes and wounds of tribute not forgotten, but forgiven, now laid reopen, waiting for the swords to be drawn once more by old enemies. The Orcs paid in blood for their sins. For Elvendom, for the West.