TheCzarsHussar

Also @The Good Doctor

As y'all know about the big retcons, I wanted to make a short but poignant post that gets the ball rolling for chapter 4. A farewell gift to Roscrea 1.0

Roscrea Middland Plateau Traveling the midst of an arctic meadow valley a procession roamed it's way from the Kingdom of Ecoriobriga, an oddity of native power in a land seized and quartered by southern men. The warrior caravan marched with morbid gifts for the Nords. Their destination was not the longboats long set sail to the south, with many a' crusaders in toe, but the vast oasis-land stubbornly defying the permafrost landscape of Roscrea. The Old Dowry, once the seat of many native chieftains with nary a man to lord over them. Now, seated firmly with goatish stubbornness were petty jarls of Nordic stock. Haafingar-Folk thought themselves masters of good native folk, the Dowry-Oarcrafters were debt-slaved to the land, the Bone-Wreathed reindeer herders which so opposed the settled life embarked eastward into the tundra and so were lost, the very native chieftains once sworn to a distant nagging voice of far-south were taxed by hungry wolf banners. And all natives suffered horrid tribute to lesser men. But those were golden days of Haafingar-Folk, once the bright men of Skyrim with all it's ten thousand thousand axes and spears to force natives to shrink and give tribute of furs and copper, and amber and gold. But the golden days of long distant heard mead drinking and feasting have dimmed and lessened. The long stretching spear has eroded and broke, leaving only splinters in Roscrea. Spears and axes and ring-mail of the south brought fear to the natives, but Atmoriants have little fear of splinters. And in the little world of Roscrea the splinters are soon to be pulled and snapped. For eighteen grim gifts and a parting farewell axe from the king himself, hoary with the memories of old, King of the Middle Roscreans, to the Dowry Hold, to the petty Jarl. And so the procession, the warrior caravan hauled these nineteen morbid partings southward and westward, through the oasis-land of the Middland Plateau. They cried and wailed, and begged and cursed. Leading the procession was the finest of the favored nobles, a relative of the king himself. The favored noble sat in comfort in his finest clothing, a vibrantly blue over-robe atop hidden coat of mail, his robe was decorated with brilliant white patterns of volcanic veins swirling underneath the world and the sleeves and chest were embroidered with trimmed gold thread, in monastic reverence to Aka-Tusk. Several rings adorned his hands, a brilliant golden torc at his neck, hanging from his neck and sitting proudly on his chest were iconographic amulets to ward against Nord-Throat-Curses and show reverence to the Dov. Even the proud noble's mount, the hearty and heavy of foot mammoth was as decorated as rider. It's pelt was sheered down and a cushioned saddle adorned it's back. Protected by ring-mail underneath a richly decorated rug-pelt. All knew this lofty figure lived without want of mead, gold and loyal retainers. All knew he sat at the inner circle of the feasting table. For he was a gift giver and his retinue that ever loyally followed on foot reaped the rewards of companionship from their lord. The noble's retainers all to an Atmoriant and all wore the rewards atop their clothing. Torcs and rings all, mail and helmets all, not one among the procession were burdened with stone tipped weaponry. Nay they bore the tremendous honor of iron. Iron tipped spears and iron headed axes. Their lord and most noble Atmoriant armed himself with composite bow slung in quiver at the mammoth's side, armed in glass tipped spear and steel headed axestaff. Several heroic antennae swords hung at his side, a mark of the tremendously wealthy, or king-favored. The retainers carried the mundane spear and mundane javelins though this most noble of patrons would wield both in battle. And again there was crying and wailing, begging and cursing. And blood trickled the meadow. The procession traveled a cobbled road, past village and farm, past hill fort and keep. All Haafingar-Folk who laid eyes upon the procession fell to despair and fled from the gift-bringers. All lowly native Dowry-kin who laid eyes upon the procession quivered, some with fear at the coming storm, others with clarity and longing for the day to join the coming storm. Gifts were passed on to the kin who would follow the road to Ecoriobriga, the city of the procession. The warrior caravan was single minded, both noble and retainers would not seek nightly warmth and shelter, they fasted through the night and feasted on bread and ale on foot in the cold light of day. Mounted colonist-warriors followed from afar, weary of the procession. At last the mighty walls of Boiliobris, home to the Petty Jarl Frithuwald, was reached. The tyrant, the despot, the hated, the now-weak, the now-isolated. Boiliobris was a mighty hold, powerful in ancient times before the conquest, lust for power led the Haafingar-Folk to extend and expand the city, into the now hold capital. It was stone-walled and rivaled Ecoriobriga in size, exceeded her in population but without Solitude, her wealth was crippled and her power stagnant. For the final time there was crying and wailing, begging and cursing. And blood trickled the crucifixes. Eighteen grim gifts were held upon the shoulders of the retainers. Colonist tribute collectors, advisers, nobles and their thanes were horribly wrought to the crucifixes, carried throughout the journey like standards of war. Each cross was planted within full sight of the coastal stronghold. The noblest of the procession dismounted with the farewell axe in hand, each of the suffering men were disemboweled, their innards ran down their legs, down the wood and saturated the earth. With his fine clothing, and fine jewelry sullied by Haafingar-Folk blood this favored noble took the farewell axe to the closed wooden gates and parted. Leaving the mark of war embedded into the wood.

Oh yeah while I was talking with Doc last night, autocorrect revealed how thirsty it was

AIght so I'm caught up and holy hell not only was that a fucking amazing post, but looks like I missed some super sweet commissions and Doc's drawings. @Tdroid A man of ancient antiquity has returned to the RP, I'm a bit more busy than I used to be but I'm always up for Elder Scrolls posts. If you need someone to write with in your posts, hit me up. I have folks in Kyne's Watch. @ColonelKillaBee The Rebec commission confused me with them them big old eyes. @The Good Doctor My dude, your Ubbe drawing radiates that PELINAL energy, good shit

Clearly they're just having a bad hair day.

There's one left, hidden for thousands of years awaiting his final Mkay.

Hottest debate of 4E

UESP on the Blue Palace. Interestingly, Elisif's throne is marked in the Creation Kit as belonging to Ulfric Stormcloak. That shade though

Well blow me down. They made another one. Not as funny as Matt the radar technician though.

Old Rise of Skywalker spoiler. But this shit is stupidly funny.

That should also work with the lore. If I'm correct, you're only the Nerevarine once you follow the steps of said prophesy, but you were also the Nerevarine all along. Weird ass quasi-meta shit.

I was having a ton of fun too but ended up not playing during the quest where I had to convince the great houses to fucking recognise me. Now I have to start all over if I want to play again. Fucc

Doing me dirty man.

I'm so fucking confused and losing my shit. I go turn my pc on and select my internet when I see a network I've never once seen before. BootyButtBoy Why is there a traveling band of fuckboys through Macon?!

@Witchking of Angmar lol well our post is gonna be on hold longer.

Imperials automatically give out the free M pass. Milkdrinkas.

Baldur got the diplomatic N pass straight from Hammerfell.

Lol I'll get around to watching the video. Frost hag lookin ass

Suck. My. Baaaaaalllllllssss.

Lol why do Eastern Europeans make the craziest/best Elder Scrolls art?! It's like they're all about as insane as MK.