JustChristian Posted January 27 Report Posted January 27 (edited) It is the year of our Lord 910, a great invasion from unknown peoples have swept from the East, burning down everything from Kiev to Eire. A great migration has taken place to an new land far to the West, not many survived. His Holiness Pope Sergius III, and Patriarch Euthymius died, and left no successors, leaving the bishops to quarrel among themselves, with no clear hierarchy. It is not known which peoples made it to the new lands, which lords fled in cowardice, or what these new lands bring, but it is a new home nonetheless. We invite you to join us on this server using the Conquest mod to build a world that comes from a historic time, but builds off into its own. Share a unique story, or partake in the stories others are building, and create a land that is truly living. You can join the discord here: https://discord.com/invite/gmVbdB2YAM Check out the website here: https://randomvsstuff.github.io/site/ You must be whitelisted to join the server for the time being, you can either message me: quietgarth@proton.me Edited January 27 by JustChristian Discord Link
JustChristian Posted January 29 Author Report Posted January 29 The people of the old land set forth, a new world waiting, waves glistening; blood lay behind us, a world burning, a lord starving. The ship stood ready in the gray before sunrise, its sea-wood creaking under rope and iron, as though it felt what lay ahead. We shoved from the strand without song or blessing. Behind us were hearths and hand-shakes, names spoken for the last time. Before us lay the whale-road, broad and cold beneath low cloud. No man asked of return. The sea gives no answer, and fate bends for no asking. Days passed without count. Wind struck us as a foe strikes, sudden and hard. Wave-walls rose, and the ship groaned as the gripping flood took her ribs. Salt burned the eyes. Hunger gnawed. Sleep came thin. Each man learned the sound of his own breath and the weight of his thoughts, for there was little else to hold. At night the sea grew cruel. Spray froze on beard and lash. The swan-road stretched empty, star-lit and wide. We were landless men, oar-bound and word-poor, held between water and sky. Some spoke of God’s keeping, some of wyrd’s net, but both felt far off on that dark water. When land came, it came without joy. Forest rose from mist, dark and unwelcoming. No smoke lifted. We hauled the ship ashore and stood silent, knowing the crossing was done, but the judgment still waited.
Recommended Posts