BlackBishop — Roleplayer Guild

Spring of the 1999th year of Dreagonn's Fall

As the winter of the previous year fades to memory, and the spring thaws send snows into retreat, word comes to the Jarls of Norsia of the fate that has befallen their king. Beron The Bard was a popular king, earning his place at Jarlmoot upon the death of Hjarrir the Old. He respected the autonomy of the Jarls throughout his reign and was known for his honeyed words and gift for song. In the early years of his reign, Beron led raids along the coasts of Nirn, attacking Elven, Dwarven and Southrons at his pleasure. His expeditions were greatly renown throughout the realm, as each raid brought more wealth in gold and thralls to Norsia.

Ten years ago, the reach of the Kingdom of Gothra began to threaten Norsia. The Goths marched north in a fury, intent on laying waste to the kingdom. Their tenacity in battle was unexpected, and all the south-east of the Norsia burned. King Beron raised his banners and marched south to meet the Goths in battle. Set back after set back marred the King's army. Beron, however, would not be deterred. Using his knowledge of Norsia, the king was able to set traps and ambushes and demoralize the armies of Gothra. With the aid of the Jarls, the forces of Norsia pushed back the Gothra horde and crossed the border with steel hearts.

Beron was able to infiltrate the walls of Wallachia, the northern-most city of Gothra and put the ruling Duke there to the sword. Fearing the Nord onslaught, King Vlad of Basarab, the self styled Lord of Men, finally knew fear, and eagerly proposed a white peace. The war had been raging for five long years and Beron was now at the age of forty and five years, Beron pressed terms of his own, demanding tribute from Gothra which was quickly accepted.

Five years have passed since the war, and a tired Beron made moves to bring Norsia to a state of peace, ending raids and beginning diplomatic relations with the Therons of Galadriel and the High Kingdom of Highathar. In recent seasons, Beron grew restless of peace and led an expedition across the Shivering Sea, to find the mythic land of Everwinter. Gone for over a year, and with no word from the king, the Jarls feared the worst...

A scroll is sent out across the realm, to the halls of the twelve Jarls. It is sealed by the wing of a moth, burned in hot wax...

Rejoice sons and daughters of Norsia, for our king is in the embrace of Odin, the All-Father. May the Valkyrie speed his soul to Valhalla, to sing, feast and battle forever more. Our great king, he whose steadfast defense of the realm protected us all from many dangers, has fallen to the greatest of enemies; the storms of Odin. Such was the way of Beron the Bard, to sail heedless into danger for the glory of Norsia. Though Everwinter remains a mystery we cannot forget the greatness our king achieved, and learn from his failures.

As we remember the deeds of King Beron and pour libations to the Gods, let us also give thought to the times ahead. We approach the second millennia since Dreagonn's fall, he who thought himself a god, and the land is in need of a king. Come hither to the season's Jarlmoot with wills of stone, and bring all your wisdom. May Loki give us keen sight in this time of uncertainty. May Thor fill us with strength and courage. May Odin favour the strongest wisest of the Jarls and so name him king.

~ Otrygg the Wise, High Moth of Norsia, Keeper of Thor's Hammer, Protector of the Realm

* * * * * * * * * *

The Pale Wing Hall is not unlike any typical mead hall within Norsia. It is built upon a foundation of stone, cut low into the rheag. A small village of revelers propped up around the hall, as is common in Norsia. What sets this hall apart from the others, however, is the importance of what dwells within the catacombs below; the mythical Thor's Hammer, said be a gateway to the spirit realm, as well as the weapon of the God. Inside, a fire burns hot and bright in the central hearth, bordered with tables and benches where warm food and mead sit aplenty. Haunches of bread, simmering broth, flanks of venison atop beds of grilled leeks welcome the Jarls and their emissaries as they file into the hall. One side of the hearth is naked, free of the tables and chairs that line the other sides. It is here that Otrygg stands, his head bowed, but his keen blue eyes peek out of the hood of his plain grey robes, watching the Jarls as they walk past him to find a seat. Across from the old man, one chair is prominent above the rest, only a high back setting it apart. It is the seat reserved for the king of Norsia, and it stands empty.

Otrygg clears his throat as he tilts his head up to face the lords of Norsia. His hands remain clasped together at his waist, resisting the habit of letting them run through his snow white beard, as he tends to do. The voice of Otrygg belies his old frail frame. His was a voice of strength and wisdom. Ever it spoke to guide the Jarls on Odin's path, and steer the kingdom to greatness, and yet it was one that had been ignored all too much as of late.

"We approach two thousand years since the fall of Dreagonn. The man who called himself god, and drove Odin and his Sons from the world. As we use the gifts of the Gods to walk their path, rather then for selfish needs, as Dreagonn had done, let us be worthy to find ourselves in Valhalla, in the All-Father's embrace."

The old monk takes a moment to let his eyes rest upon the faces of the Jarls. There was Henrik, whom he knew well. Ever faithful of Beron he was, even in the face of his misgivings. Koval the Greater, who unlike Henrik, could not forgive the shortcomings of the late king. The piercing blue eyes found Ragnar of Coldmarch. Despite the mystery that surrounds the man, the old eyes could not question his loyalty to the realm. Otrygg gave himself a moment to look on Bertil the greedy. His rule in Escgor was absolute, this man who bought his crown. Searching the faces, he came upon Eyildr, the Jarless of the Vale, whom like him, had a strength to her eyes that betrayed her frail stature. There was Zarathustra whose thirst for battle could not be quenched, He then found Myriane Ashgold, a new face to the moot, whose inexplicable rise to power makes her a force to be reckoned here. Otrygg would have gone on to the others, but his hesitation was becoming noticed.

The monk cleared his throat once more. "Not a fortnight ago, a lone ship of the King's fleet returned from the Shivering Sea, speaking of a horrible storm that sent them to scatter and ruin. Lost they became in their quest to find the edge of the world, where winter reigns always. One by one, the ships sunk or ripped asunder by the storm-children of Odin. Cursed Beron was, for he led us astray late in his reign, great though his deeds may have been years ago. The body of Beron has returned and burned in a great pyre here in the Pale. Glory to him in Valhalla.

"Now we must give thought to the present, mourn the king and those lost on that perilous quest hereafter. Norsia, is without a king. The treasury is empty, Gothra has turned aside its obligations for tribute, and strife and unrest, born from an uncertain future, are prevalent in all corners of the kingdom. One of you, Jarls of Norsia, must be named worthy by your peers, to lead this kingdom to glory. Let wisdom take hold, and speak a name that will set darkness in flight from our hearts. Speak, my Jarls. Speak!"

With a bent back, the man of sixty winters found his seat among the moot, and watched earnestly for a Jarl to stand before the hearth and speak.

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