Evernight Guild Archive

Guild Name:


Created: 2004-03-11 02:06:06
Game: covenant
Faith: Barnabas


In the southern lands of Tonan, far removed from the fallacy that is preached from the city of Tismad, lies a region of fairly prosperous communities known collectively as the Greensward. It is composed of many small, hamlets that trade and interact with one another. Everyone is related to everyone and it is the last bastion of The Blood. It is here in a remote cabin that the return of the Blood begins with the birth of a man to be the King of Naslatha, Bran Feargahal.

He is born on the coldest day of the year at the winter solstice; a year that would be remembered as the Year of Cracking Ice. The first few years of his life are uneventful, it isn’t until he reaches puberty that the real changes begin to manifest themselves and the Blood began to sing. Overnight he seemed to grow surpassing the normal height of most Greensward males at 7 foot tall. His muscles rippled under his skin that had turned a brilliant, iridescent blue. His eyes shone forth from his face, with a golden inner light. If there had been any paintings left from the millennia before depicting the Lords of Naslatha, you would have sworn that before you stood a one such as they were.

The villagers who know nothing of the history that flowed in their veins saw the future King as a monster. Rumors began to circulate regarding Bran and other children across the Greensward that had been born since the Year of Cracking Ice. Along with their phenomenal growth, some evidenced strange powers and even stranger ideas. Some were even said to converse in a language strange to the ear, something that had never been heard before.

It was only a matter of time before it happened; the fear, the loathing. Bran was driven from his home, his mother crying in the house as his father stood between him and the mob of villagers. His father held them off long enough for Bran to grab a horse and some provisions before fleeing into the mountains that surrounded the Greensward.

Deep in the forbidding mountains, Bran discovered a secret. Perhaps it was the blood calling again perhaps it was blind luck; regardless of what or how, Bran discovered a crevice into the earth, that held a mysterious thing – a castle completely submerged beneath the tons of rock and dirt that made up the mountains.

The castle was obviously uninhabited for there was no sound surrounding it, lichens grew across the face of the stone and old, browned ivy clung to the wooden gates and stone façade. No smoke curled from its chimneys, no water flowed into the moat that surrounded it. As Bran walked around the castle he noticed that a portion of it had been severed by the rock of the mountain; as if it had been a piece of soft cheese and the mountain a knife. The concept awed him for the power it must have taken to cause such an event was unimaginable.

He made his camp beneath a natural chimney on a ledge that overlooked the gates of the subterranean castle. After putting his camp in order, and seeing to his horse, Bran approached the monolithic gates of the castle and stood for a moment discovering the hidden shadows of a thousand carvings that danced across its face. He could almost make out the story, for he was sure it told of a great battle or a series of battles but with nothing to reference it to, its meaning was lost to him.

The castle loomed above him as he stood before the gates; its metal portcullis seemed to be teeth poised to crash down upon him, devouring him where he stood. The gates themselves seemed to be made of iron wood and wrapped in bands of some sort of metal the likes of which Bran had never seen. He placed his hand upon the wood and pushed.

The gate swung open with out a sound. Bran stood for a moment and allowed his eyes to adjust to the light emanating from the inner environs of the castle. Hanging on the walls where torch scones should be where sculpted glass flames in a soothing shade of blue. As Bran advanced down the corridor, a new set of torches would alight while a set behind him would flicker and then dim to nothing. In this way, Bran traveled through the castles hallways to what was once surely the Great Hall.

The rafters soared up into darkness and Bran marveled at the immensity of the room. As he stepped across the threshold, the glass scones lining the walls lit as one, bathing the room in blinding illumination. The room was completely bare except for one thing in the middle of the room. Situated under the central chandelier was a stone sarcophagus.

The sarcophagus was ornate. It was covered in hundreds of carvings gilded in gold and silver. Bran was awed at the wealth that was there for the taking, but he had some reservations about taking anything from the sarcophagus. On top of the sarcophagus was the carving of a creature, both wondrous and frightening. Bran had seen something or rather someone like it before but only when he looked in a mirror.

Cradled in the hands of the woman, Bran had no clue why he thought of the carving as that of a woman, was an opaque sphere. As he looked at it the inside seemed to move, to flow, as if a cloud was trapped inside. He reached out his hand to touch it and something, something scaly and red brushed against the interior of the sphere. He jerked his hand back with an oath to the three gods and stared at the sphere for a long time.

The inner cloud of the sphere whirled and eddied within the confines of the sphere, swirling hypnotically around until Bran found himself reach once again to touch the outer skin of the sphere. He thought of it as skin, as if the sphere was a living creature and the lizard thing inside it was some kind of parasite or symbiote. His fingertips brushed the sphere and it was as if a tidal wave had crashed down upon him, erasing him from his own awareness.

For a time he floated in darkness, darkness so complete that there was no direction, silence reigned in the void he found himself to be in. Softly at first but building in volume he heard a voice. The voice modulated beautifully as it translated from gibberish to operatic singing. He felt a hand on his cheek and then a rush of light.

Bran awoke to find himself still in the Great Hall, but a very different Great Hall. There was light streaming in through the windows, colorful garlands were roped from rafter to rafter and there was no sarcophagus. A woman stood on a raised dais in the middle of the room she was singing. Bran approached her cautiously, as he got closer her singing faltered and she turned her piercing yellow gaze upon him.

“Kyllio, tyrun lo kupoindy alloin.” She said with a smile and wave of her hand.

Bran did not understand a word she said but her gesture was unmistakable. Move closer. Come here. Nearer. It was an irresistible calling, regardless of the language. Bran was mesmerized. As he got closer her look became more feral, hungry even. She placed her hands upon his shoulders and leaned down till they stood eye to eye. A smile graced her lips; Bran returned the smile not knowing what was to happen next.

“Jymillia jorin, kyptorin.” She said as she leaned closer and placed her mouth on his.

Bran was too surprised to do anything. She bit his lip hard, breaking the skin and licked the blood from his chin as she stood back up. Bran rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth; it was like coming out of a dream. The singing had stopped and a fog had lifted from his mind. Things seemed to slow; a thrumming noise filled him.

“My name is Jymallia, I was a Lord of Naslatha like you are. Welcome to the last bastion of a once noble species. I welcome the leader of the returning Bloods to Castle Greymalken.” The woman said with a flourish of her arm to indicate the castle that surrounded them.

Before Bran could talk to her, or ask a question she began to fade away. In moments she was gone. Her laughter echoed through the chamber as it reverted back to the way it initially looked when Bran had first entered the Great Hall. The garlands vanished, the windows were dark and lightless.

“You saw the world as it was for me at the end. You stand beside all that is left of me, my tomb. You are the first of them, you are of the Blood, and more specifically you are of my blood and that of the last King of Naslatha, my Beloved, and my brother.” Jymillia’s voice echoed throughout the room, caressing Bran’s senses and filling up his mind.

“This last bit of magic I placed in the crystal sphere that my likeness holds in its hands. As the last of my kind, I was buried alive – my life force giving the power to make this last of the magic’s available to us work. I have one last thing to show you, one last history lesson for you to learn, learn it well….”

The blood sings. It calls out to those who have the hearing of it. In times long past, the ability to hear the call of the blood was one possessed by many, today that ability is rare. For millennia beyond imagining there had been one of The Blood to rule – one of the Lords of Naslatha. That was before the coming of the three, the rise of the usurpers, as defined by those of The Blood. Those that would be gods should be aware that the true gods should not be mocked, or ignored. To be godlike is not to be a god, and the Lords of Naslatha learned of their prideful folly in that long ago time.

Foret, Isonia, and Darden cast their long shadows across the land and combined they did make war upon the Lords of Naslatha. Magic’s were unleashed that reshaped the lands; mountains rose and fell in a single breath, oceans crashed down into what had once been farmlands and pastures, desert wastelands appeared over night and the very fabric of time was torn asunder.

When the dust had cleared, the Lords of Naslatha were no more. Triumphant, the triumvirate of gods (Foret, Isonia, and Darden) banished the remaining true bloods to the void of creation, locking them away for eternity in a limbo of nothing, and nowhere. The last King of Naslatha flung a curse towards the three, his parting gift to those who had destroyed his family, his followers, and his life.

“I may be cast aside, and torn from all that I have ever known. In my pride I may have stood in the way of gods, but stand I did. You think it is over. You think wrong. The blood sings.

“In ages to come, the Lords of Naslatha shall rise anew under the call of the blood and stand against you, one against the other. Conflict shall haunt your steps as in your pride you tear this world apart. Forget not your transgressions against my brethren or me for the same shall come to pass on you as well, old gives way to the new.

“The blood sings!”

Time passes and the cosmos spins around the vertical axis of creation. Waves of entropy sweep through the galaxies, even that of the world of Tonan and time waits for no one. The past is forgotten; the Lords of Naslatha were forgotten. Their cities fell to dust till the land itself could no longer remember the tread of their feet upon the soil or rocks.

The blood sings, it calls each to each and one to one. The last King of Naslatha had envisioned a time when the Lords of Naslatha would rise up against the gods, he had not counted on the passage of time or the form the rebirth of the Lords of Naslatha would take. For time is a friend to no one and in time, many things are forgotten.

Those who remained after the triumvirate’s successful banishment of the Lords of Naslatha were those with barely a drop of The Blood between them; the bastard children of erstwhile trysts between the Lords of Naslatha and the mortal hordes of Tonan. Although scattered across the newly remade lands of Tonan, those with The Blood managed to discover one another and began to procreate. Unknowingly, of course, they were recreating the Lords of Naslatha in their children. Each child born to a union of bastard Bloods was closer to the genetic makeup of the Lords of Naslatha then their parents had been.

Generation after generation passed and the bloodline remained true, it grew stronger and its song soared. Occasionally there would be a throw back, a true Lord of Naslatha. The priests and magistrates of the triumvirate destroyed the communities that this early manifestation was discovered in out right. In time that all changed, as the conflict predicted by the last King of Naslatha came to pass and the triumvirate crumbled.

How the mighty have fallen, the triumvirate dashed beyond any conceivable reconciliation as each of the three gods battled for supremacy. What had brought about this discord? What was the impetus behind the wars of faith that now griped the lands of Tonan so completely?

Greed. Greed unfolded its monstrous head and insinuated itself between the gods. Peace had reigned for eons until the discovery of one fundamental truth - gods need to be needed. So the gods brought war to the lands of Tonan, erasing all that they had built together in a vain attempt to have it all. The time was ripe for the return of the Blood.

Bran’s mind reeled; it was too much information to take in at one time. He didn’t recall falling to his knees, but he found himself hunched over the floor stones of the Great Hall, retching.

“It’s too much Jymillia….to much pain, to much suffering.” Bran said as he rocked back on his heels and laid his head against the cool sides of the sarcophagus.

Jymillia’s ethereal laughter echoed through the Great Hall. “The last I have to show you is the most important; the lesson is not complete without others to share the burden that is upon your shoulders!”

Bran’s mind exploded. He found himself floating in the void again. Time seemed to no longer exist as he hung there, he couldn’t move his head or body – if he even had a body anymore. Suddenly a far pinpoint of light appeared. It raced towards him with blinding speed, engulfing his total being. Light devoured his essence and then slowly faded to an image of a girl washing laundry in a stream.

The girl was tall, really tall. Her golden skin glowed with an inner light as her hands worked deftly to wring the water from the clothing and with a casual flick of her wrist she set the shirt upon a string that hung above her. In the corner of Bran’s vision there appeared a crude map superimposed over the image of the girl washing clothes.

“She lives here.” Jymillia’s voice said from around Bran as a flashing dot appeared on the map. Strange symbols and letters appeared beside the image of the map while the image of the girl faded. Bran assumed it was coordinates or directions, but he could not read it.

For an eternity Bran was showed image after image, always followed by the map and the flashing lights. There were hundreds of them. Bran had no idea how long it took, how long he hung in the void, it seemed to last for ever. The last image was a surprise to Bran because it was the last. Instead of returning to the void and seeing another image, Bran found he was slumped across the sarcophagus; sweat dripping from his forehead to puddle on the floor beneath him.

For a moment he gathered his strength then stood and saw that the sphere was broken, a crack ran through the center of it. As Bran watched the sphere began to crumble, slowly falling away to reveal a sword’s hilt. The sword had to be stabbed through the body in the sarcophagus, it must have been the conduit for the magic’s from Jymillia to the sphere. The trap that had waited for him, planned for him, cast itself upon him and bound him to a path not of his choosing.

He reached his hand into the hole and pulled the sword out with a might exhalation and a powerful cry of rage and warning echoed off of his lips. Savagely Bran attacked the sarcophagus, lashing it with his tongue as well as his sword.

“I will not be a pawn to the dead! I will not be a tool for your forging, I will not allow you to do this to another!”

Bran destroyed the tomb, scattering the fragmenting bones and tatters of cloth that had been the skeleton of Jymillia. Around him, pounding at every inch of his being was the disembodied maniacal laughter of Jymillia.

“You are what you are! There is no escaping the truth! You will be the sword against the triumvirate! You will be forged in fire and pain!”

Bran lurched to his feet, the sword point dragging against the stones as he stood breathing in short and hard gasps. The laughter echoed around him, growing to a cacophony of noise and power before slowly fading away.

“You are the one….the one….the one…..one….” Jymillia’s voice faded away to nothing and Bran was left in the silence that was more profound then anything he had ever heard before. For a moment he stood, only his ragged breathing letting him know that he lived. The he heard the clapping.


“Bravo, Bravo. You are indeed everything that my Lady said you would be. Oh yes you are, and so much more.”

A man dressed all in black with a deep cowl pulled up over his head, stood leaned against the doorway leading back the way that Bran had originally entered the keep from. All Bran could see of him was his smile, bright and chilling all at the same time.

“I have waited a long time for you to arrive. You are not the first, to be sure, but you are the one who survived. Castle Greymalken knows its master and it allowed you to pass freely. With that passage the wards have come down.” Said the man as he approached closer to Bran, stopping a few feet out of reach.

“Who are you? What do you want?”

The man laughed, it was an airy laugh, full of promise and undisguised mirth. “I am who I was made to be, the Watcher of Greymalken. My Lady showed me the way here and here I have been waiting and watching for you.”

“Your Lady?”

“Isonia, Battle Axe Maiden, Daughter of the Moon, the Queen of Dreams, she is the Princess of Harmony. She sent me here with a message for the King of Naslatha, which you are.” Said the Watcher.

“I am no king. The Lords of Naslatha are long dead and gone, as you well know apparently. I want none of this, none of it I tell you.” Bran said as he took a menacing step toward the man.

“I see. Very well then, perhaps the gods play a cruel trick on both of us, but I doubt it. I have lived in the favor of Isonia for many years and I think I shall continue to live in much the same way as I always have.” Said the Watcher.

Bran circled around the man in black, the so-called Watcher of Greymalken. He kept his sword between them as he worked himself around, keeping the Watcher between himself and the remnants of the sarcophagus.

“You said you had a message for me, deliver it now for I am leaving this place and all its cursed knowledge.”

The man smiled his smile again. “Your parents, your friends, those like you. Look to the churches of Darden and Foret for a reason to live in the now, as you are, with your new knowledge. Look to your parents.”

“My parents, what do you know of my parents?” Bran said through clenched teeth as he lifted his sword once again.

“Look to your parents for your truths, and then return to me here so that I can show you the place you hold in my Lord’s plans. Even now the cursed Dardenites and Foretians harass those like yourself, even now they persecute those who protect you.

“People like your parents.” He said as he turned from Bran, bent down and picked up one of Jymillia’s fragmented bones from the floor.

“All things turn to dust, even those we love.” The Watcher said.

Bran stood for a moment while his mind worked around what the Watcher had said. What it boiled down to was that his parents were in trouble, and he was not there to help them.

Bran raced down the hallway, leaving the Watcher alone in the Great Room. Scrambling over the debris that lined the hallways, Bran flew through the gapping doors of the castle, over the precipice that surrounded it and to his meager campsite that he had not seen in what felt like two lifetimes.

He slung his pack over his shoulder and ran back through the caves and out into the night. The stars wheeled above him and from his vantage point he could see across the entire Greensward. Fires raged across the valley. Each a mirror image of the night sky, as if the stars had fallen from the sky to crash to the earth burning all that they touched. Thick smoke plumes rose into the sky, a dread omen of worse to come.

Three days later Bran stood in the middle of what remained of his parent’s modest home. Splintered wooden beams and piles of ash were all that remained of his childhood. The pens had been destroyed and all the livestock scattered or taken by the marauders. He stared in horror at the destruction around him, not comprehending what he was seeing. He did not have to look far to find his parents, and it was then that it became obvious who had been behind the attack, this uncalled for butchery.

They had nailed his father to two posts driven into the earth. The horns from their big ram, Elias , had been attached to his head, the blood from the ram poured across his body. His hands had been nailed to the posts, a great spread-eagled X. Then they had set it on fire. His father’s burnt corpse still hung there, around his neck – unburnt – was the symbol of the church of Foret. This was an example of their so-called justice.

Bran retched into the burnt grass that surrounded his father’s grisly remains. His cry rent the night as he savagely attacked the posts and the nails that kept his father suspended above the earth that he had loved. He cradled his father’s corpse in his arms, his tears falling on his open eyes. The fog of grief hung thick about Bran, not so thick though that he did not hear the cry of his name, the sound of his mother’s voice – weak, but still his mother’s voice.

Bran set his father’s corpse on the ground and ran toward where he thought the voice was coming from. He rounded the stone fence that had surrounded his home and found his mother, crawling in the dust toward the gate. Blood caked her face. Branded into her forehead was the symbol of the church of Darden. With one hand she reached and clawed a hold of the soil as she inched her way down the path. Bran could see the path, the distance she had traveled, cut into the dust of the road away out of sight.

“Mother! What have they done to you!” Bran said as he knelt down beside her.

She caressed his face with the dirt and blood incrusted hand, the other hand cradled close to her body. Tears shone in her eyes as she filled her vision with the sight of her boy. Her breathing was erratic and shallow. She tried to speak but it was too much. It was obvious what had happened. She had fled from the farmhouse, seeking help for her husband. Before reaching anyone who could help, she had been set upon by one of the bands of Dardenites who traveled across the Greensward.

“Mother, don’t speak. Save your strength, I will take care of you.” Bran said as he scooped her up in his arms. As he lifted her from the ground she screamed. Her right hand latched onto his face while the other fell from her body, releasing what it had been holding.

Bran stood in the middle of the road, his mother cradled in his arms like a child while her entrails coiled from her body to land at their feet. Tears streamed down her face as Bran cried and gnashed his teeth at the horror of what had been done to her.

“Bran…..” Said Bran’s mother as the light left her eyes, her hands fell limp towards the ground and her life force escaped into the unknown.

Bran cried into his mother’s shoulder, squeezing her lifeless body close to his heart. For an hour he stood unmoving, painful sobs wracked his body and his soul. Gradually the tears dried up, the sobbing stopped and a new determination appeared on Bran’s face. He carried his mother over to what remained of their home. Bran scrounged around in the debris and made a pyre from half burned wood and sticks. He placed his mother’s body upon it and then fetched his father’s corpse to lay along side it. He lit the fire for his parents using a still burning board that had been a part of the barn. He stood silently and stared into the flames until nothing was left of his parents’ bodies.

Bran turned his horse back toward the mountains and as he galloped across the Greensward a single column of smoke rose into the midday sky. His face betrayed no emotion, determination was etched into his flesh scoured there by pain and ash.

The next thing Bran knew he was back in the cavern, back at Greymalken, back in the Great Hall with the Watcher.

“Teach me what I need to know. Tell me of your Lady. I would seek to bring an end to the horror that plagues our land. If I must, I will accept my heritage, I will take up the mantle of the King of Naslatha and march in the name of Isonia against the marauding hordes of Foret and Darden.” Bran said as he stood in the doorway.

“Do you accept Isonia as your Mistress? Will you accept her as the Patron of your soul, the answer to your prayers? She only asks for your prayers and the sword you hold wielded against her enemies.” The Watcher said from his seat on Greymalken’s ornate throne, a throne that had not been there previously.

“I accept Isonia as my Mistress. I shall bring order down upon the Dardenites and Foretians. They will abide!” Bran said as he knelt in the middle of the room where Jymillia’s sarcophagus had once stood.

“Arise servant of Isonia, arise! Tell me what is the first thing you would do?” The Watcher said as he stood down from the throne, and Bran took his place there on its steel seat.

“First I would see about a laundry woman.” Bran said with a smile.

“Then we can see what the rest of the world will make of us, the Lords of Naslatha.” Bran laughed as he sat back in his throne.

The watcher dropped to his knees before Bran and prostrated himself on the Great Hall’s stone floor, “Long live the King!”

Bran began to assemble the Lords of Naslatha very quickly. He went at night to the villages and hamlets that Jymillia had shown him. The stories were all the same, some were worse than others, persecution by the churches of Darden and Foret.

Soon the halls of Greymalken were ringing with sounds of life, as those of the Blood once again took up residence in the ancient keep. They explored it from top to bottom, inside it they discovered many marvels but the most important was the map room.

It had been made soon after the banishment of the original Lords of Naslatha. It detailed the lands of Tonan from the ice shelf in the far north to the Sea of Ice to the south. Blue crystals were set in the map at various places, most located around the Greensward but some sprinkled around the other lands of Tonan. One of the scholars who had joined them figured out the symbols on the map and discovered that the crystals were the locations of the ancient Lords of Naslatha’s castles.

The reclamation of the ancient citadels began soon after, as Castle Greymalken had become crowded with the all of the Blooded that had joined them along with their families. Some left the Greensward and went in search of the keeps and castles that were shown to lie outside of the Greensward. Many returned to Castle Greymalken disappointed to discover that the castles they had gone in search of were long gone; torn down to build a house for a farmer, or to build a new keep for some human lord. Others discovered hidden keeps in the deep valleys of the mountains, untouched for hundreds of years and quickly made habitable.

So the Lords of Naslatha spread out across the land, gathering their strength to bring down upon the heathens a just retribution for all of the travesties that had been visited upon them. In 1290, the Year of Tossed Dice, the Lords of Naslatha marshaled their gathered strength and marched upon the heathens that populated the lands of the Greensward.

They offered the heathens a choice either join their cause or flee because if they stayed then they would be purified by the axe. Chaos reigned for over a year as the various Lords and Ladies of Naslatha traveled the length and breadth of the Greensward. Mages tested the children for traces of the Blood. Those who passed the test were taken to one of the Citadels high in the mountains to be taught their history.

In this way the Greensward was cleared of all heathens and was claimed in totality for the Lords of Naslatha. Once the Greensward was theirs, the chaos subsided and peace reigned in the Greensward. Out of Chaos comes Order and this was no different. Bran and his Council of Princes met and decided the economic policies for the Greensward. Trade flourished from the river ports of Gryndalflats and High Market.

In 1292, the Year of the Grand Harvest, a meeting of the Blood was held in the central city of the Greensward, Ferrul. Every member of the Blood was there as were many who were not. Each of the Princes of the Blood stood and addressed the crowd that had gathered in the meeting hall. Each gave his or her reason for being content with the Greensward or for moving beyond the Mountains and using their skills to liberate others from the oppressive churches of Foret and Darden.

It was at this meeting that the Watcher of Castle Greymalken revealed his identity for he was the last to speak and his words carried much weight with all who had gathered for he was their initial link to Isonia, even though the priesthood had grown he was the titular head of the new Order of Greymalken.

The Watcher stood in front of those who were assembled and removed the cloak from his shoulders revealing his identity to all who had worked so closely beside him for the past three years. He was of the Blood! An audible gasp echoed through the room and then silence as he stood before them unmasked.

“My brothers and sisters I stand before you now revealed. I have not purposely deceived you, I allowed you to draw what conclusions you would from my appearance and in that way I may have deceived you but no more.

“May Isonia bless us all; she has granted me my wish to reveal myself to you and to join my voice to yours in this great journey we are on. My name is Dirge and I was the last of my kind. I was one of the few who had seen the writing on the wall all those years ago and I pledged myself to Isonia early on in the Blood Wars.

“When the wars were over, there was no place for me in this new world. I retreated to the Temple of Isonia in the capitol of Tismad and there I slept. Isonia cast her cloak of dreams upon me and I slept as if dead, matter of fact I was placed in the crypt.

“I awoke on a date familiar to all of you, my awakening happened in the Year of Cracking Ice! Bewildered at first and weak from my long sleep I sought nourishment from the priests at the temple and it is there that I received a vision from Isonia, a vision of the chance for the Blood to rise up again under the banner of Isonia!

“So I became the Watcher of Greymalken and there I waited for the one who would awaken the sorceress Jymillia and take his birthright as the King of Naslatha. As you all know that man came, it was Bran Feargahal and we shall ever be grateful to him for his courage and his curiosity.

“Now my time of hiding is over. At this meeting of the Blood I must stand as one of you and give voice to my vision as Lady Isonia has seen fit to cast her eyes upon me again and fill my head with what may be.

“We must travel across the mountains into the lands of Tonan what some call Maxim. We must take the sword to the heathen and release those of the true faith from their bondage to the demons Darden and Foret.

“If we remain in the Greensward everything we have accomplished here will be for naught as the forces of our enemies shall crush us like a heel crashing down upon the head of a snake. I tell you what I have been shown. I tell you what I feel we should do. I tell you what you all know is true, we will not be safe until the threat to ourselves, our children and those we care for is annihilated. We must march across the mountains!” Dirge stood for a moment longer on the stage until the roar of applause had died down and then Bran strode on to the stage.

“My friends I was going to speak of my own feelings of what we should do. Of my own vision for the future of the Blood, but I cannot share my paltry vision when Isonia has seen fit to bestow the same vision on the most holiest of our brethren. I ask you one and all, those gathered here and all you Princes of the Blood – do we march across the mountains?”

The answer was deafening…

The following is a journal entry discovered during the excavation of he Field of Flowers, a place that holds a prominent place in the history of a battle that took place in 1301. It is assumed that the journal page is authentic. How it came to be there, is one of the mysteries that will never been solved.

August 23, 1293 (The Year of Burning Sands)

We have begun our assault on the lands of Tonan.

It is not an easy thing to contemplate, this war of faith and ideology. My parents would look at me now and wonder who I am. I wonder that myself sometimes. I have the memories of Jymillia and the history of the Lords of Naslatha crammed in my head to assault me at times. I never know when a word, a smell, or something else entirely will trigger one of the memories that Jymillia gave to me.

The Watcher Dirge says it will pass as I gradually make the memories my own, but then he is not the one having to deal with the problems that this causes.

Dirge is still a mystery. Who is he really? He comes and goes as he pleases no one knows where he goes; I have even had him followed to no avail. It is enough for now that he speaks with the voice of Isonia. He is our conduit to that radiant Lady. He is our priest, confidant, and sometimes inspiration.

These past two years have been consumed with the conflict in the Greensward. Brothers have risen against their fathers; sisters against their mothers, entire families have been destroyed in an effort to “save” themselves from the monsters as they call us. I knew the cost would be high, I accepted it without a thought. I still think the cost is negligible.

I laugh sometimes at the thoughts that run through my head. I am becoming the King of Naslatha in word and deed. I wonder about my humanity at times but then humanity is a luxury that I have no time for. Eventually perhaps I can find the place in my heart that is buried under so much pain.

The Lords of Naslatha now number in the hundreds of thousands. Many of our newest members have come from areas outside of the Greensward, even as far away as the capitol of Tismad. I fear that knowledge of whom and what we are is traveling faster than I would like it to, but that cannot be helped.

We do what we must.

Granger has just entered with my nightly beverage of herbs and spices. He is one of the newest recruits from near the capitol of Tismad. I have asked him about his journey and his past but he is reluctant to discuss it. He will in time, I am sure.

On the morrow we begin our march from Castle Greymalken. We are to meet up with the Princes in the hills to the north of the mountains, in the lands beyond the Greensward. We go to bring our message of truth to the heathen masses.

May Isonia bless us in all we do, it is in her name that we conquer, and it is in her name that we convert. It is in her name that we do all.

Bran Feargahal
King of Naslatha


GM: King
AGM: Prince
Squad Leader: Chronicler
Full Member: Guard
Member: Apprentice
Newbie: Initiate


This is our first age, new players and old alike are welcome


Temper’s ball Rules:

Maxim Forum Board Rules:

  • Only Admin created threads may contain OOC information.
  • All posts in Maxim not done in OOC threads, must be in character, and in roleplay format.
  • This forum now has a three strike rule. You are given two opportunities to make mistakes both in the game and on the boards. If you violate the rules three times, you are then removed from both the Maxim forum, and the Maxim game. You will have to contact an administrator to discuss the possibility of returning.
  • There will be specific threads setup for out of character, or OOC comments. Questions and Answers. Maxim Offenders. Meeting Notes. They will all have strict rules governing what will be found inside of them. Please read before you post.
  • A common rule of thumb is one paragraph of roleplay as the minimum allowed. A paragraph is composed of at least four sentences.
  • Glowtext or Shadowtext is STILL not allowed in roleplay posts- only in signature lines.
  • You must make the majority of your posts in English. Should some of your characters speak Elvish, orc, or any other fantasy type language- you must supply a translation.

Posting Requirements for the Guild:

  • You must post twice (2) a week.
  • Failure to post will result in disciplinary action.
  • Failure to follow the rules of TB or The Maxim Forum will result in disciplinary action.
  • Have fun and enjoy the game, the Role Play and the people.
  • If there is a problem, do not harass the Administration. Follow the guidelines for contacting them about problems.


  • First Offense: Warning
  • Second Offense: Demotion or booted
  • Third Offense: Booted

To Apply to the Guild send the following information to terranfox@futura.net:

Anyone may apply the Lords of Naslatha.

  • Kingdom Name
  • Kingdom Number
  • Type of Kingdom
  • A short one page RP
  • Any guilds you may have previously belonged to
  • ICQ#, if you do not have ICQ then get it. (Download ICQ here: http//:www.cnet.com )

Guild Policy:

We will not engage in any kind of conduct that will make our guild or our faith look bad.

We will attack any guild, dropping any and all wars, plans, etc., if that guild is guilty of abusing their numbers, the boards, or the golden rule.

Before posting in another guilds thread, please contact the author and make sure it is ok.

Communicate with each other and the other players.


King: The ruler of the Lords of Naslatha, the ultimate authority on everything pertaining to the Lords of Naslatha.

Prince: The ruler of the Lords of Naslatha when the King is not available. The Prince coordinates all war efforts for the Lords of Naslatha. This includes separate Princes in charge of all infiltrators, sorcerers, warriors, and other duties as seen fit to be bestowed by the King.

Chronicler: The overseer of the histories. It is the charge of the Chronicler to see that all members are reporting their travels to the histories and thus to the Great Library.

Guard: The Guard is a respected member of the Lords of Naslatha with a say in all policies and procedures. The Guard protects the interests of the Lords of Naslatha.

Apprentice: The Children of the Blood are the newest adherents to the Return. As such they my voice an opinion on anything but are bound to abide by the rulings of their superior officers.

Initiate: The Initiate is a new member who knows nothing of the ways of the Blood. They are totally ignorant of their heritage and the vision of the future that the Lords of Naslatha hold in their hearts. They watch, they learn.

Promotions are granted on a case-by-case basis. The Princes of the Blood will make recommendations to fill any vacant positions below them and the King will take those recommendations into consideration. Only the King may appoint a Prince.

Missing GM:

If the King is killed or kidnapped, then the Princes will decide among themselves who shall lead the Blood.

The Golden Rule

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.