In those days, the citizens of Diskord were debating among themselves, for many of them had concerns about the state of the Confederation.

"There should be a circle of Writin," many said, "so we may properly worship the gods again."

The Dizzy Chords and even the cities of Borrd (for there had been some worry there about the Diskorders weakness of faith) rang out in support of this idea, and then the Mords made it so.

Then, through his stone, Sir Tomash spoke, saying "We should build a hall of welcome at the port of Landen-zon, so that foreigners coming to our land may hear of the customs of Plort before venturing too far inland." The people of Diskord agreed this was a good idea, and the Mords made it so, setting aside a place for the hall, which was built and richly decorated with illustrations from the Efawkews.

Then, another proposal arose from the distributed crowd. "We ought create a circle for discussions of the Marizu, so we may better prepare ourselves for battle." The Mords heard this, and, since they thought the proposal a good one, made it so. The new circle was named Badvik, after the mountains in which many of the knights of Plort had trained over the long years.

Since some discussion was going on, Baroness Juliette, who was speaking while traveling to the council, said "Shall we elect new Mords? I often watch the stones alone, and this is wearying. There is also rarely any Mord awake when I sleep, leaving our fair land unwatched." The citizens chattered amongst themselves, and wondered who would make a good Mord. "Not I" said just about everyone, for their own reasons. Within the chatter came a shout, "Akrinor for Mord!".

This proved to be a rather popular idea, since Akrinor was well-respected within the Confederation and often awake when the Mords slept. So the initial shout grew into a chant of "AK-RIN-OR! AK-RIN-OR!"

Akrinor was reluctant to take the power offered to him at first, but eventually he declared "I will do it, for now. If, within the month, anyone objects to my rule or I realize I do not want the robe, I will step down."

Hearing this, Baron PC, who held the Master Stone, which could raise Mords, brought Akrinor to his castle. There, he draped a fine purple robe, the symbol of the Mords, over Akrinor, and stood before his stone, proclaiming: "Ahteverione," he began, the magic words causing stones to glow or vibrate throughout Plort, "behold Akrinor, the Mord you have chosen!"

And thus, Akrinor joined the ranks of the Mords, kicking off a round of celebration and feasting throughout the land.

(( Since recent Discord stuff needing Plortifying.
Everyone with lines has approved of them.

- Tomash ))

'I can smell the blood on ye, hound! Ye blasphemous wolf, dripping in the blood of the innocent and the wretched! Away, away, I say!' Larf J. Stockins waved his crossbow, his trusty Finch, in the air. It groaned and whined and was a single knock away from exploding into woody shards. This was fine for Larf J. Stockins, who tended to have more various injuries on his body than he did clean water. But it certainly wasn't for the courier.

'Errrrrrr,' said the courier, clutching the message, hunching down. It had actually not been particularly difficult to track down Larf J. Stockins, on account of the small battalion of carnivores that always seemed to follow him everywhere. You had a lot of things to follow - tracks, signs of destruction and struggle, blood, horrified villagers.
It was these signs that he followed, to here - a desolate coastal field, the wind battering the thin grass, sea mist swirling around the knifelike grey stones at the bottom of those warped layered cliffs. His hair was flowing, and his tunic, and the message flapped in his hands, trying to escape. It didn't seem very baronial. It might have made a good spot to dump the body of a baron you didn't like very much, but that was it.

'Don't make me shoot! I will do it, sir! And even though I am entirely unable to restock my supply of bolts, for sheer lack of resources, shoot I will, if I find it necessary!'

The messenger was trying to sweat, but the wind kept pulling it off his face. 'Sire, uh, Larf, I have a message for you.'

'And I to you!' he, again, waved the crossbow at him. It groaned like a dying man.

'You have become a baron, sire.'

'Er?' Larf J. Stockins tilted his head.

'It says so right here,' said the messenger. The note spasmed in the wind, but it could be clearly seen that it included the word 'Baron', the name 'Larf J. Stockins' and the seal on it. It was a collection of things Larf J. Stockins was certain he would never see together. It looked unjust, somehow.

'Really? Why?'

'I don't know!'

'But - why?'


((La Wunj is still an abandoned city sort of thing, isn't it? I could picture him scavenging for bare survival living around there, at times. Shack and all and such.))

I've not seen such colours captured on mere fabric before! The reds and pinks, as burning as the evening sun, the green and brown, as the fields of dry grass beneath it, billowing in the wind - in a sort of, sandwich of nature's sublimity!

Hopefully I won't have to pawn it off for food for too long!

(Scape you absolute champ, mate. I couldn't have come up with a better concept for a flag. Goooood stufff!)

"Lords and Ladies, knights and civilians of Plort, I don’t know even half of you half as good as I should, and I don’t like half of you even half as much as you probably deserve – nah, wrong canon."

Hieronymus the hermit stood on the highest top of the Auriantym Chain, practising the address he hoped to get away with never actually delivering. He didn’t quite remember how he had gotten there. This was probably the price he had to pay for delving into magic, bartering the ability to stay in one place – and visible – over an extended period of time for the ability to travel instantly to any place he wanted to visit, and go unnoticed until he revealed his presence.

Last he knew, he had been at Los Taelis, thinking about some constructive details of the Halley-Talia-Barracks and the Echo-Kat-Shooting-Range. There they got onto him – about a dozen knights and barons with an odd civilian in the mix. He didn’t stand a chance, and his boss didn’t help at all. Might she even have been part of that conspiracy, sending him to Los Taelis in the first place? Nah, he thought, that’s paranoid. Mylady Neshomeh has always been benevolent.

So now he was a baron, looking over the land that had been thrust into his hands, and strange thoughts whirled through his mind. Far to the east, beyond the fructuous fields and lush meadows of the Riding of Sittorese, a dark line loomed above the horizon – the edge of the Kar'eer Forest. I thought I had that left behind. For Kanun’s sake, I’m retired! If Baroness Juliette wants to keep the Southeast of the Riding, she can have it.

(to be continued)

I finally get to hold all of Wechi, and then my loyal apprentice jumps up and snatches the bit I only just got under control, not to mention my holdings in Sittorese that are just now beginning to bear fruit from the fields I sewed. Sheesh.

But you know what? It's fine. I'm sure he'll hold it very well, assuming he can be bothered to set foot outside his shiny new hermitage now and then.

At least I've still got my other loyal apprentices, who definitely aren't on any sort of path to renown in their own right any time soon what with all the effort they've put into Diskord and Borrd and Geymez and...

...

It's fine.

Dammit I'm so proud.

(( ^_~ ))