TheCzarsHussar

Compilation of Old Ros Skaldic Orals The Sea-Berserker It was so, that twain favored winds beget the Tribes of Oarcrafters to take the whaleskin sails and whalewood oars to sea. For Kaan's storms blew hard and furious towards the Far East and all the coast-tribes smelt good salt in the watery air. Taken far and broad by the monsoon's furious breath was a sea-tribe, whom's name eponymous with the saga, of which crunched-and-munched the jellyfish. The sea-tribe was clever and unbound by wood, and whale, and bone. Their chieftains breathed into the world great ice-fortresses to freeze the whales and willed the wind to blow, of which the monsoon needed little willing. Like which the ice-fortresses float and sail, they found themselves shuttled farther north than what was desired to raid the scale-demons. For no amount of battle-roars and harsh tongue can convince the ice not to be with fellow ice. And so the sea-tribe drifted beyond Kaan's monsoon and sailed through northern currents. Assailed like all raiders are, the sea-ghosts wailed and casted their numbing misfortune. Trying to melt the ice by warm currents, or whisper deceits of good whale hunting in dread-whirlpools. Yet to one of the tribe, maddened and wide of eye from suckling on the jellyfish at birth did one sea-ghost wisp and attempt ail. And yet ail did the sea-ghost make. For the madman breathed cold winter upon the spirit and froze it with form. As madmen oft do to creatures of the sea, a morbid beauty was seen in the frozen form-given sea-ghost. Overpowered with strength of arm and word he bedded the thing. Immediately as the ice melted in their passion the sea-ghost gave birth and drifted away in their otherworldly fashion. A stillborn cockle harder than any stone or noble-iron left behind. The madman voice-hewed the shell into a mace greater than any that Ros may hold. The cockle-mace would never crack nor dull, and stubbornly defied devil-magic-woven-armor. The sea-tribe no longer ailed by northern currents nor sea-ghosts set sight upon the frozen shores of Boreal-Far-East. Their chieftains fuming and red of face at the sight of other tribes, bound in kinship, sailing back with riches and good meat, for none of the kinship tribes sailed in ice-fortresses, as we know now that ice will not set sail south. Beached in corral reefs the tribe burst from the ice and swam the distance to shore, of which is incredible as we are poor swimmers. So did the madman feel an all too familiar sensation envelop his body under the frigid sea. Submersing himself under the water to see what challenged him, so did he see a great maned jellyfish with it's uncountable tendrils about his body. "What manner of snow-devil are you?" Asked the jellyfish who's vicious poison could not harm the madman. But the madman knew not the language of jellyfish and so grasped the thing in hand and dragged it to shore. The sea-tribe was in awe at the madman's prey so enveloped around his body, that one went and approached the maned jellyfish and was struck and slain by it's poisonous tendril. Furious and, even further mad stricken, at the loss of a tribesman the madman slew the maned jellyfish. Furious that the blood-price was poorly paid, as death is a poor substitute to pay, the madman ripped apart the jellyfish's translucent, yet hued with a lovely blue, head and fashioned it to his round shield. Yet not enough, the madman tore apart every tendril that wrapped about his body and voice-hewed it into a whip of endless tails. Still unhappy with the blood-price the madman cloaked himself in the jellyfish's mane. Finally satisfied at the blood-price and set of arms, of which the jellyfish-hide round shield repulsed all manors of devil-magic, bouncing off it's moist body. The uncountable tendrils fashioned as an endless splitting whip could strike anything dead with it's piercing poison, even finding paths through the tightest of chainmail. And the maned-cloak drove him further mad with a battle fury from it's constant prickling and little burns. So was the madman called Sea-Berserker, and in raids with the scale-devils they asked in terror as their magics bounced off his shield, arms pierced by jellyfish tendrils and battle-cries drowned out by his fury. "What manner of snow-devil are you?" But the madman was a berserker, and talked not to the foes that soon lay dead and stripped. For the sea-tribe returned not with good meat and riches, but the stripped arms of iron and steel from those that lay dead at the hands of the madman. So that is why if all you coast-tribes pray really really hard on your raids, that the ghost of the Sea-Berserker will drift dreaded maned jellyfish to your longboats to strip the head to your shields, unhinge the tendrils into endless whips of poison and don the manes of which will drive you into battle-fervor.

@The Good Doctor AllInAll posted an unlisted video of a drawing process for his next animation. Caught a frame perfect easter egg in it.

Saw those cosplays on your tumblr, they were very well done.

Not out of the woods yet but it looks like the worst has passed and it wasn't even bad here. Nick said things got real scary at his place for a little while, yet I barely heard or saw anything as it passed through macon.

Hey heads up. One of the worst storms Georgia has seen in years is hitting Macon. We've made a makeshift bunker, but worst comes to worst that's what happens.

@BigBossBalrog

Just you wait until they break out the deadliest of all weapons. A giant swinging censer.

City of Ecoriobriga, Roscrea Hymnal Shrine of Ald-Tusk 4E 201 Across all of Roscrea, never was there anything to excel in the power and grandeur of Ald-Tusk's Hymnal Shrine. No temple, nor any alter, or mead-talk dedicated to the foreign near-enemy Nine greater then which has been dedicated to the brother of Shor. In the heart of the ancient once-ruins of the old priestly seat of power in Roscrea, it's untouched radiance belike the Dov themselves was greater than even the king's palatial-citadel, as should all things divine and wondrous above the mundane are. Natives and foreign colonists alike are awed by it's majesty. It's rich interior was forthwith crafted by the pinnacle of holy sciences, and while the voices of gods have long left mortal ears deafened, they are yet still praised within. Priestly voices chanting in holy tongues echo with infinite brilliance and perfect tonal reverberance. So the faithful within hear the mighty voice of dragons echoing past mortal throats, affirming the grandeur with rites and holy edicts, they await and praise the return of the Ald-Tusk. The Epoch Mural, illuminated by the burning balefires and swinging candel-censers of priests showed a near perfect painted mural of the sky and clouds at the cusp of sunset, centered by the splendor of an wing-outstretched Ald-Tusk. Red of eye, immaculate of tusk, and black of wing, who's coming form promises a new dawn encompassed the shrine, from entrance to alter with the form of Ald-Tusk covering the brilliance of dawn behind his dark form. The words Eternity, Kalpa, Creator, were inscribed beneath Ald-Tusk in the old tongue of gods. Thousands of years of reverence has come to fruition, visions of the communal priesthood foresaw the Return. They dreamed of annihilation and woke to the destruction wrought onto the sinful Nords in the far off land of Skyrim. And while the Nordic world panicked and cried for the beast to sleep, the faithful Middlanders took to celebration and the preparation of funerary rites. They had their Kalpic salvation, accursed hall of Shor forsaken. Adorned in full priestly garb, the Lord of Processions Alduacer Horned-of-Hymn, great great grandchild of the still-living King Cassivelogenos partook in holy sermon within the Hymnal Shrine. "The promised end come, King of Dawn who's fire-stomach creates the succeeding world, we welcome you." He spoke first in the language of the nobility. The communal priesthood chanted praise to Ald-Tusk in the language of gods, the faithful attendants of the nobility bowed their heads as the echo-voice took to the path of vocal ascension. Ald Awaken, break every seal, bestow your rite upon every being which existed as you willed it. We will burn and bleed for you, for you save us all. "The funerary rites are preformed, we the righteous followers of godly writ have accompanied your will from earliest breath, to our final of which will be in your praise." The communal priesthood whispered fire into the censers, it's incense and ghostly purple hue shone light upon the Epoch Mural, and smoke mingled with the clouds. Again the priesthood chanted praise to Ald-Tusk in the language of gods. The adhering nobility partook in chant by invoking Ald's name, and it rung with the power of ancient kin who's echoes preserved in the shrine. Ald Take Flight, spread your maw and clamp hard upon the snakes that betray your purpose. We will sing your war-glory into the afterlife. "As father governs son, as lord governs father, as priest governs lord, as god governs priest. We adhere to the ancient writ, we the last of your faithful. Carry the souls of our forebears gently in maw, let us not slip into your stomach." The communal priesthood rumbled a chant in song, perfectly tuned their voice became one, the voice likened of a higher Dov. Ald World-Eater, fly into the afterlife and release the warriors of yore from maw, sunder the hall of Serpent. We will carry the spear engraved ALD. "As the sun sets upon this Kalpa, do not beget forlorn thoughts. It is but a short and passionate death, and then we shall live a new dream altogether. Pass your blessing Ald, to the darkened void and from your voice birth a new Kalpa. The memory of death will be but a distant thing, as we see the sun set on the old Kalpa, and turn to face something brilliant and new." The very shrine shook at the communal priesthood's invocation, their chant in the old language of gods were perceived not only as a higher Dov, but a divine hearsay-glimpse of Ald-Tusk's voice itself and all knew his will would not fail. Ald Immaculate, come divine breath in full and carry the dawn anew. We witness your light of creation, blessed by your divine mandate. Destroyer and Lifegiver, God above all Gods, We welcome you, carry us to Kalpic Salvation.

Sorry I always forget, but what year is it currently in the RP? Wasn't it around 202-3?

When you put it like that, aye Minas Tirith does have a greater parallel to istanbul than Osgiliath.

Wouldn't Osgiliath be a better likening to Constantinople? Or do you think that draws more of a Rome parallel?

Took you that long have ye? Of course I don't blame you, the movies don't give that off. You'd have to look either into the books or just delve about online to see that influence.

Considering the Red Year, if they're even still roaming then it's under ash and magma.

I realized my mistake when I said their 'armor' from Morrowind. But I was talking about the armor the spectres wear.

WAIT I just found the actual Dwemer armor from Morrowind, nah I'm talking about the armor the spectres themselves have.

Loved most of the concept Dwemer armor though.

I know it's super petty too, but ever since I saw Morrowind's Dwemer armor (worn by spectres but admittedly probably was a mage-craftsman armor) I started finding Skyrim's lackluster. It went from spooky Mesopotamian armor with ornate clothing to something more generic.

How was proper course of action too weird for Colonel?

What was it?

Too late Colonel, too late

While we all know you'd stick your dick into an eldrich horror if she was slimy enough, some of us aren't all too excited about lewd Argonians