Out of great tragedy comes great promise. That was some house cleaning. Was the plague local, or did it spread to other parts?
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It started in The Vale and devastated the whole of Westerose really...
Pov 033 Ser Valarr Aegatyger - 'We Sea Much'
Another one of those chapters I wrote under a 'strange mood'.
I hope it does not alienate ppl lol.
Extracts from the diaries of:
Ser Valarr Aegatyger the 'Sea Tyger'
Oceanhorn of Ramshore
Circa 101 A.C.
I delivered zhe invitation from Lord Master Myrmello myself. Crittark Ramshore was invited to a tournament in Pentos. I must admit, I really wanted to go, so I did not translate all of zhe invitation—zhe parts about it being a board game and poetry competition... Is it a lie? Since Lord Crittark started working out harder in preparation for zhe tournament, I consider myself helping his overall mental and physical health—a good lie, zhen.
Anything to get out of Westerose while zhe blight is roaming zhe land... I even managed to convince Lady Collianne to convince Crittark to go and visit Myr and Tyrosh after zhe tourney. Zhe journey was uneventful; if it was not for zhose constant ravens from zhe mainland bringing news of all who died, it could have been very enjoyable.
During zhe competition, Jacene Coincharmer got zhe idea from zhe locals to try and use leeches as a treatment for zhe Sunset Plague. Crittark approved, but it rapidly turned out to be a grave mistake. Zhe leeches seemed to do more harm than good, draining zhe life out of zhe already weakened bodies. It was not long before it ended up killing Jacene herself, and even poor Syrona and her husband Heward almost immediately after. Silly desperate woman—always chasing desperate answers. Zhe worst part is, Crittark's desperation drove him to allow it.
Zhe new Chancellor was a man named Gregor who married Meliana Kedge on zhe mainland. But alas, I never met zhe man—he died within a month. Zhe next Chancellor is Nolan Whiteye, a Stormlander who was sacked for being too honest, or so they say... Not quite sure about that one, if I am honest. He, too, married Meliana. That is her third husband. Poor Meliana, she is strong, but zhat much loss in such a short span of time—it would shatter a lesser spirit.
With Syrona's death, I was actually asked to join zhe "think tank" and suggest someone to marry Allyn Coppercount. Now, I know a guy, but... in truth, he scares even me. Donnel "Accidents" they call him—a man I met while trading in zhe North. A ruthless and godless, simple-looking man... but beneath zhat exterior, he is a cynical, paranoid sadist. You can sometimes see it in zhat cold stare of his. To my surprise, Crittark chose him, sending a raven back to appoint him as Judge. I am certain Donnel will love zhat; zhe man thrives on power over others.
Looks like Judge Donnel was already busy. His first piece of advice? To abandon zhe plot on our liege, Lady Hersy. Since zhe death of Syrona, it seems to be an open secret zhat we want zhe noblewoman dead. But Donnel—of all people—suggested we cease, lest it escalate to an official feud with our liege lord. Such an unexpected move from a man like him—cautious, almost diplomatic. Maybe zhere is more to Donnel "Accidents" zhan his ominous nickname suggests.
Judge Donnel zhen arranged for a somewhat public "accident" for zhe mayor of Ramport—Master Wayland—who, might I add, still insists on calling it "Anchorlight" in open defiance. Zhis was clearly meant to send a message, to remind zhe disobedient of who rules zhis land. But zhe result? Now people are calling Crittark a murderer openly, whispers growing louder every day. Crittark is livid, his temper like zhe roaring sea, but Donnel stands firm, insisting zhat such an accusation can be used in our favor—to instill fear, to keep people in check. Zhere is a twisted sort of logic to it, I suppose.
Donnel, to his credit, seems to have sniffed out two separate plots against Crittark! He even brought proof against one of zhe conspirators—Lord Petyr Piper of zhe Riverlands. Zhis lord apparently harbors a grudge from zhe days when zhe Hoofcrag Clan was busy quelling rebellions in zhe Riverlands. Crittark, in his fury, has decided to send zhe evidence through zhe Vale to publicly shame Lord Piper. It seems zhe game of politics grows more complicated with each passing day—zhe pieces shifting, but Donnel always seems a step ahead.
Zhe new mistress of Ramport, unfortunately, is not much better. Despite zhe Moon Clansmen now being zhe majority, zhe Fingermen managed to get one of zheirs into zhe position. However, at least zhe woman is craven and content—hardly a threat to us. Donnel, in his usual calculated way, recommended sparing her life for now. A coward, after all, is easier to control than someone who is bold. Zhe path Donnel takes is often dark, but it is hard to deny zhe man's efficacy.
Ah, zhe tourney! I must say, it was rather amusing in its own peculiar way. None of zhe clansmen cared to participate in zhe board game event—not surprising, really. Most of zhem did not even bother to watch, save for a few moments of curiosity. As for Lord Crittark... well, what can I say? He ended up in a drunken brawl with some local Pentoshi fool named Stanio 'zhe Unrelenting' Baharis. He beat zhe snot out of him, as zhey say. Zhat poor Pentoshi learned a valuable lesson—do not poke a drunk Moon Clansman from zhe Vale, especially one as restless as Crittark. He is no brute, but he grows bored quickly, and zhis event was hardly stimulating for his tastes. I might feel a little responsible for bringing him here, but honestly... zhe Pentoshi should have known better.
And zhen there was zhe poetry event. Naturally, none of zhe clansmen entered. Poetry is not exactly zheir forte, you see. Most of zhem barely understood what was happening, and by zhe time zhe final ceremony arrived, zhey were still confused. "Who won?" zhey kept asking me, thinking it was just another silly Pentoshi game. I cannot help but laugh. Zhe gap between our cultures is vast, no doubt, but zhey were there, zhey endured it, and zhey drank zheir way through it.
After zhe tourney, we sailed to Myr and Tyrosh. Ah, zhe clansmen seemed far more impressed by zhese cities. And why not? No one was forcing zhem to sit through endless games of strategy played by old men. Zhey could wander, explore, drink, and revel. I myself enjoyed zhe journey immensely. To bring everyone back home who did not shove leeches in unholy places, as was zhe case with Jacene, Syrona, and poor Heward—zhat is all zhat truly matters. Zhe sea treated us well, and now we are back, ready for whatever awaits us in zhis blighted land.
Ser Valarr Aegatyger the 'Sea Tyger'
Oceanhorn of Ramshore
Circa 101 A.C.
I delivered zhe invitation from Lord Master Myrmello myself. Crittark Ramshore was invited to a tournament in Pentos. I must admit, I really wanted to go, so I did not translate all of zhe invitation—zhe parts about it being a board game and poetry competition... Is it a lie? Since Lord Crittark started working out harder in preparation for zhe tournament, I consider myself helping his overall mental and physical health—a good lie, zhen.
Anything to get out of Westerose while zhe blight is roaming zhe land... I even managed to convince Lady Collianne to convince Crittark to go and visit Myr and Tyrosh after zhe tourney. Zhe journey was uneventful; if it was not for zhose constant ravens from zhe mainland bringing news of all who died, it could have been very enjoyable.
During zhe competition, Jacene Coincharmer got zhe idea from zhe locals to try and use leeches as a treatment for zhe Sunset Plague. Crittark approved, but it rapidly turned out to be a grave mistake. Zhe leeches seemed to do more harm than good, draining zhe life out of zhe already weakened bodies. It was not long before it ended up killing Jacene herself, and even poor Syrona and her husband Heward almost immediately after. Silly desperate woman—always chasing desperate answers. Zhe worst part is, Crittark's desperation drove him to allow it.
Zhe new Chancellor was a man named Gregor who married Meliana Kedge on zhe mainland. But alas, I never met zhe man—he died within a month. Zhe next Chancellor is Nolan Whiteye, a Stormlander who was sacked for being too honest, or so they say... Not quite sure about that one, if I am honest. He, too, married Meliana. That is her third husband. Poor Meliana, she is strong, but zhat much loss in such a short span of time—it would shatter a lesser spirit.
With Syrona's death, I was actually asked to join zhe "think tank" and suggest someone to marry Allyn Coppercount. Now, I know a guy, but... in truth, he scares even me. Donnel "Accidents" they call him—a man I met while trading in zhe North. A ruthless and godless, simple-looking man... but beneath zhat exterior, he is a cynical, paranoid sadist. You can sometimes see it in zhat cold stare of his. To my surprise, Crittark chose him, sending a raven back to appoint him as Judge. I am certain Donnel will love zhat; zhe man thrives on power over others.
Looks like Judge Donnel was already busy. His first piece of advice? To abandon zhe plot on our liege, Lady Hersy. Since zhe death of Syrona, it seems to be an open secret zhat we want zhe noblewoman dead. But Donnel—of all people—suggested we cease, lest it escalate to an official feud with our liege lord. Such an unexpected move from a man like him—cautious, almost diplomatic. Maybe zhere is more to Donnel "Accidents" zhan his ominous nickname suggests.
Judge Donnel zhen arranged for a somewhat public "accident" for zhe mayor of Ramport—Master Wayland—who, might I add, still insists on calling it "Anchorlight" in open defiance. Zhis was clearly meant to send a message, to remind zhe disobedient of who rules zhis land. But zhe result? Now people are calling Crittark a murderer openly, whispers growing louder every day. Crittark is livid, his temper like zhe roaring sea, but Donnel stands firm, insisting zhat such an accusation can be used in our favor—to instill fear, to keep people in check. Zhere is a twisted sort of logic to it, I suppose.
Donnel, to his credit, seems to have sniffed out two separate plots against Crittark! He even brought proof against one of zhe conspirators—Lord Petyr Piper of zhe Riverlands. Zhis lord apparently harbors a grudge from zhe days when zhe Hoofcrag Clan was busy quelling rebellions in zhe Riverlands. Crittark, in his fury, has decided to send zhe evidence through zhe Vale to publicly shame Lord Piper. It seems zhe game of politics grows more complicated with each passing day—zhe pieces shifting, but Donnel always seems a step ahead.
Zhe new mistress of Ramport, unfortunately, is not much better. Despite zhe Moon Clansmen now being zhe majority, zhe Fingermen managed to get one of zheirs into zhe position. However, at least zhe woman is craven and content—hardly a threat to us. Donnel, in his usual calculated way, recommended sparing her life for now. A coward, after all, is easier to control than someone who is bold. Zhe path Donnel takes is often dark, but it is hard to deny zhe man's efficacy.
Ah, zhe tourney! I must say, it was rather amusing in its own peculiar way. None of zhe clansmen cared to participate in zhe board game event—not surprising, really. Most of zhem did not even bother to watch, save for a few moments of curiosity. As for Lord Crittark... well, what can I say? He ended up in a drunken brawl with some local Pentoshi fool named Stanio 'zhe Unrelenting' Baharis. He beat zhe snot out of him, as zhey say. Zhat poor Pentoshi learned a valuable lesson—do not poke a drunk Moon Clansman from zhe Vale, especially one as restless as Crittark. He is no brute, but he grows bored quickly, and zhis event was hardly stimulating for his tastes. I might feel a little responsible for bringing him here, but honestly... zhe Pentoshi should have known better.
And zhen there was zhe poetry event. Naturally, none of zhe clansmen entered. Poetry is not exactly zheir forte, you see. Most of zhem barely understood what was happening, and by zhe time zhe final ceremony arrived, zhey were still confused. "Who won?" zhey kept asking me, thinking it was just another silly Pentoshi game. I cannot help but laugh. Zhe gap between our cultures is vast, no doubt, but zhey were there, zhey endured it, and zhey drank zheir way through it.
After zhe tourney, we sailed to Myr and Tyrosh. Ah, zhe clansmen seemed far more impressed by zhese cities. And why not? No one was forcing zhem to sit through endless games of strategy played by old men. Zhey could wander, explore, drink, and revel. I myself enjoyed zhe journey immensely. To bring everyone back home who did not shove leeches in unholy places, as was zhe case with Jacene, Syrona, and poor Heward—zhat is all zhat truly matters. Zhe sea treated us well, and now we are back, ready for whatever awaits us in zhis blighted land.
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More horrible losses! At this point, most of the characters I know besides Crittark have passed.
I did like his drunken tirade at the game competition though. I wonder why he didn't call out the Sea Tyger on the missing details surrounding the competition?
I did like his drunken tirade at the game competition though. I wonder why he didn't call out the Sea Tyger on the missing details surrounding the competition?
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So much death! Pridespur, Greedkyn, Jacene, all gone.
It's understandable why Crittark didn't take to poetry, but perhaps someone can tell him that the board games might help with his military campaigns. He might enjoy that.
That image of the leech bloodletting was suitably unsettling. I'm creeped out.
It's understandable why Crittark didn't take to poetry, but perhaps someone can tell him that the board games might help with his military campaigns. He might enjoy that.
That image of the leech bloodletting was suitably unsettling. I'm creeped out.
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Pov 034 Castellan Norwin Rockham - 'Good Foundations'
Extracts from the diaries of:
Norwin Rockham,
Castellan Norwin Rockham of Ramshore,Circa 102 A.C.
Father squandered it all—lands, respect, and the very title he pretended to uphold. A noble birthright, tarnished by foolishness and weakness. He was a lord in name, but not in deed. I refuse to follow in his disgraceful footsteps. My appointment here in the Vale, under the most unexpected of lieges, is my chance to rebuild what he lost. Lord Crittark—this ambitious Moon Clansman who dares to claim a lordship—is surprisingly more of a lord than my father ever managed to be. He has the iron will and raw strength my father lacked. Yet, for all his drive, he has cracks in his foundation, flaws that could cost him dearly. But I am here to see those flaws mended, to ensure his rise is my rise. The world may scoff at him, but I see the opportunity they do not. I will not let this chance slip through my grasp.
At last, the Sunset Plague loosens its grim hold on the Vale. Its devastation, while harsh, seems to have forced a kind of stability on the realm. King Aemon II, the so-called 'Boy King,' now stands as a 16-year-old adult, officially in command. His enemies—chief among them Baelon the Bold and his cohort—have escaped punishment, which leaves a bitter taste. Yet, what is done is done. The inconclusive end to the war has left Aemon on the throne, and the Vale, for all its suffering, is finding its footing again. Times of uncertainty reward the cunning, and I intend to take full advantage of this fleeting calm. If the boy king can steady his kingdom, then I can certainly steady the ramshackle lordship I’ve been tasked to oversee.
We convened the first small council of Ramshore today, a collection of the strange and disparate. At its head sits Lord Crittark, the savage Moon Clansman, and beside him, his wife—a woman who once turned spits in some forgotten kitchen but now styles herself as "Lady." Their boy, who claims to lord over us all, carries the fire of their heretical Old Gods in his veins. A curious council, indeed, where every seat is occupied by the unpolished and the improbable. Yet, here I am, the one to bring order to this chaos, to shape it into something resembling governance.
Speaker Nolan Kedge and I might be the only ones here with a grasp of civility. But even he is an oddity—his dead white eye gives him a spectral presence, a reminder of the brutish world that surrounds us. The irony of it all? The former master of these lands, one of the few born noble among us, has been reduced to a zealot of their Old Gods. A prophet for heathen whispers, presiding over the ashes of her own downfall. How fitting. I will have to ensure I outshine them all, for no one else here can lay claim to dignity or reason.
And then there is my wife. Noble by birth, yes, but one would hardly believe it to hear her speak. Her tongue is sharp, her words often coarser than the rugged cliffs of the Sisters that birthed her. They say the Sisters swear like sailors, and by the gods, they may be right. Yet beneath that weathered exterior lies a woman of remarkable strength. She is generous, perhaps too much so, and trusting where she shouldn’t be. But she is steadfast, and a mother beyond reproach to our little Elsa. For all her flaws, she is a partner worth having, and one I can rely on when the tide turns rough.
Our steward, another in the long line of lowborn climbers here, earned her place through tragedy—her husband’s untimely death left her with his duties, and to her credit, she has managed to keep them well in hand. She’s sharp, I’ll grant her that, with a head for numbers and planning that surpasses most of her ilk. I can’t deny she was instrumental in organizing the construction of the new keep in Ramshore, though I’ll never say it to her face. Respect is earned, not given, and her station is still far beneath mine.
Naturally, our lord decided to name this new keep after himself—or rather, after his son, who bears the staggeringly creative name of Crittark son of Crittark. The boy is meant to inherit one day, so the symmetry of ruling from “Crittark Keep” was too much for our lord to resist. I hate to admit it, but there’s a certain ring to it, a blunt charm that suits the Moon Clansmen’s peculiar tastes. Still, I would’ve preferred something more dignified, but who am I to argue with a man who sees his name as a legacy?
The land surrounding the keep remains restless, plagued by not one but two death cults clinging to their warped beliefs. My wife has taken it upon herself to suppress them, stationing the clansmen warriors in their territory as a deterrent. She trusts their wild ferocity for such a task, leaving the heavily armored knights to hold Ramshore Keep as our true seat of power. Her instincts in this matter are sharp, even if I worry her generous nature might leave her too lenient with those who deserve no mercy. I’ll ensure we keep the balance and crush these cults before they take root again.
The Seahorn, as these clansmen like to call their admiral, was not what I expected. The title conjured images of some hulking brute more suited to bashing oars than commanding ships. Instead, I was greeted by Ser Valarr Aegatyger—a knight, no less, and a Valyrian with a tongue as sharp as his sea-scarred armor. His accent is thick, but his command of naval strategy is sharper still. They call him the Sea Tiger, and it’s a name well-earned. I’d wager even the Iron Throne itself struggles to boast an admiral of his caliber. For all the savagery and disarray in Ramshore, it’s a small miracle to have a man like him steering our fleets.
And then there’s Judge Donnel—last in importance and least in presence. A dour Northman with a dead-eyed stare and a penchant for whispering into his wife’s ear, he barely qualifies as a shadow in the council chamber. I often wondered why he was even there until Ramsport’s late mayor met his unfortunate end—his skull crushed beneath a giant stone ram statue. Coincidence? Hardly. That grim smirk of Donnel’s said it all. He doesn’t make waves, but he ensures those who do are drowned. A sinister, silent cog in this peculiar machine.
Norwin Rockham,
Castellan Norwin Rockham of Ramshore,Circa 102 A.C.
Father squandered it all—lands, respect, and the very title he pretended to uphold. A noble birthright, tarnished by foolishness and weakness. He was a lord in name, but not in deed. I refuse to follow in his disgraceful footsteps. My appointment here in the Vale, under the most unexpected of lieges, is my chance to rebuild what he lost. Lord Crittark—this ambitious Moon Clansman who dares to claim a lordship—is surprisingly more of a lord than my father ever managed to be. He has the iron will and raw strength my father lacked. Yet, for all his drive, he has cracks in his foundation, flaws that could cost him dearly. But I am here to see those flaws mended, to ensure his rise is my rise. The world may scoff at him, but I see the opportunity they do not. I will not let this chance slip through my grasp.
At last, the Sunset Plague loosens its grim hold on the Vale. Its devastation, while harsh, seems to have forced a kind of stability on the realm. King Aemon II, the so-called 'Boy King,' now stands as a 16-year-old adult, officially in command. His enemies—chief among them Baelon the Bold and his cohort—have escaped punishment, which leaves a bitter taste. Yet, what is done is done. The inconclusive end to the war has left Aemon on the throne, and the Vale, for all its suffering, is finding its footing again. Times of uncertainty reward the cunning, and I intend to take full advantage of this fleeting calm. If the boy king can steady his kingdom, then I can certainly steady the ramshackle lordship I’ve been tasked to oversee.
We convened the first small council of Ramshore today, a collection of the strange and disparate. At its head sits Lord Crittark, the savage Moon Clansman, and beside him, his wife—a woman who once turned spits in some forgotten kitchen but now styles herself as "Lady." Their boy, who claims to lord over us all, carries the fire of their heretical Old Gods in his veins. A curious council, indeed, where every seat is occupied by the unpolished and the improbable. Yet, here I am, the one to bring order to this chaos, to shape it into something resembling governance.
Speaker Nolan Kedge and I might be the only ones here with a grasp of civility. But even he is an oddity—his dead white eye gives him a spectral presence, a reminder of the brutish world that surrounds us. The irony of it all? The former master of these lands, one of the few born noble among us, has been reduced to a zealot of their Old Gods. A prophet for heathen whispers, presiding over the ashes of her own downfall. How fitting. I will have to ensure I outshine them all, for no one else here can lay claim to dignity or reason.
And then there is my wife. Noble by birth, yes, but one would hardly believe it to hear her speak. Her tongue is sharp, her words often coarser than the rugged cliffs of the Sisters that birthed her. They say the Sisters swear like sailors, and by the gods, they may be right. Yet beneath that weathered exterior lies a woman of remarkable strength. She is generous, perhaps too much so, and trusting where she shouldn’t be. But she is steadfast, and a mother beyond reproach to our little Elsa. For all her flaws, she is a partner worth having, and one I can rely on when the tide turns rough.
Our steward, another in the long line of lowborn climbers here, earned her place through tragedy—her husband’s untimely death left her with his duties, and to her credit, she has managed to keep them well in hand. She’s sharp, I’ll grant her that, with a head for numbers and planning that surpasses most of her ilk. I can’t deny she was instrumental in organizing the construction of the new keep in Ramshore, though I’ll never say it to her face. Respect is earned, not given, and her station is still far beneath mine.
Naturally, our lord decided to name this new keep after himself—or rather, after his son, who bears the staggeringly creative name of Crittark son of Crittark. The boy is meant to inherit one day, so the symmetry of ruling from “Crittark Keep” was too much for our lord to resist. I hate to admit it, but there’s a certain ring to it, a blunt charm that suits the Moon Clansmen’s peculiar tastes. Still, I would’ve preferred something more dignified, but who am I to argue with a man who sees his name as a legacy?
The land surrounding the keep remains restless, plagued by not one but two death cults clinging to their warped beliefs. My wife has taken it upon herself to suppress them, stationing the clansmen warriors in their territory as a deterrent. She trusts their wild ferocity for such a task, leaving the heavily armored knights to hold Ramshore Keep as our true seat of power. Her instincts in this matter are sharp, even if I worry her generous nature might leave her too lenient with those who deserve no mercy. I’ll ensure we keep the balance and crush these cults before they take root again.
The Seahorn, as these clansmen like to call their admiral, was not what I expected. The title conjured images of some hulking brute more suited to bashing oars than commanding ships. Instead, I was greeted by Ser Valarr Aegatyger—a knight, no less, and a Valyrian with a tongue as sharp as his sea-scarred armor. His accent is thick, but his command of naval strategy is sharper still. They call him the Sea Tiger, and it’s a name well-earned. I’d wager even the Iron Throne itself struggles to boast an admiral of his caliber. For all the savagery and disarray in Ramshore, it’s a small miracle to have a man like him steering our fleets.
And then there’s Judge Donnel—last in importance and least in presence. A dour Northman with a dead-eyed stare and a penchant for whispering into his wife’s ear, he barely qualifies as a shadow in the council chamber. I often wondered why he was even there until Ramsport’s late mayor met his unfortunate end—his skull crushed beneath a giant stone ram statue. Coincidence? Hardly. That grim smirk of Donnel’s said it all. He doesn’t make waves, but he ensures those who do are drowned. A sinister, silent cog in this peculiar machine.
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Thank you for resetting the characters for us. Nicely done.
I especially like the sigil of Crittark's family (clan?): the rams head precariously balanced on something that looks like the Tower of Pisa. And thus the "accidental" death has all the knowing symbolism attached. Well done.
Is that sigil in-game or a custom design?
I especially like the sigil of Crittark's family (clan?): the rams head precariously balanced on something that looks like the Tower of Pisa. And thus the "accidental" death has all the knowing symbolism attached. Well done.
Is that sigil in-game or a custom design?
Got to love a Spymaster with the nickname 'Accidents'. And Petyr Piper? Was that you, or in the game? Crittark Keep has a nice ring to it. And am I right in thinking there's been about 20 years of game play so far? Anyway, another couple of great posts.
Was that you, or in the game? Crittark Keep has a nice ring to it. And am I right in thinking there's been about 20 years of game play so far? Anyway, another couple of great posts.
Yes... the line is blurry... The Clan is the Hoofcrag clan (used it as the Dynasty), the Family is now Ramshore.
Yes, it's a custom design. And I forgot the AGOT mod rewrites the coa's with your family one... so its work that is going to be reworked very soon.
It was me, I just thought it fits. He soon becomes one of my favorite characters.Got to love a Spymaster with the nickname 'Accidents'. And Petyr Piper?
Yes, its just 21 years - I have written up to 35 as I am posting this (Book 5: Pov 35).
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Pov 035 Crittark son of Crittark - 'A Knight About Town'
Extracts from the diaries of:
Ser Crittark son of Crittark,
Heir to Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
Despite knowing since 97 A.C. that the giant hare had fled Ramshore for the neighboring land of Eventide, Father insisted on organizing another hunt. He has been plagued by dreams of that hare, and though the elders dismiss it as folly, I wonder if the Old Gods of the Vale are sending him visions. Their ways are often strange and subtle, speaking through omens and dreams. Perhaps the hare is not merely prey but a sign yet to be understood—a trial of endurance, or perhaps a test of faith.
The Old Gods work in ways beyond our grasp. During the hunt, which yielded nothing but a few confiscated spoils from some wretched poachers, Father grew somber. His disappointment clouded the air, but it was in this gloom that I found an opening to speak with him about my own failed hunt—not for game, but for Herria, the Pentoshi girl. I told him how I might have won her favor had we lingered longer in Pentos during the competitions. The Old Gods must have willed this conversation, for it was a moment of honesty and reflection, even if Father seemed distracted.
As I described Herria, her golden hair and the grace with which she carried herself, Father gave me a strange look. His gaze sharpened when I mentioned her father—the Grand Marshal of Pentos and organizer of the tournament. The connection seemed to weigh on him, though whether it was concern or intrigue, I cannot yet say. The Old Gods, it seems, have set more wheels in motion than I can yet see.
I could never have imagined the surprise Father and Ser Valarr had prepared for me. Three meetings with Herria, carefully arranged to bring us closer. The first in Pentos, where I could see her in her home and among her people. The second in Ramshore, a meeting of our families, where the ties between our houses would be tested. And the final meeting at Crittark Keep—just the two of us, with Ser Valarr as our chaperone. Both my father and Herria’s father, the Grand Marshal of Pentos, trust Ser Valarr implicitly, and their confidence in him only deepens my gratitude.
Well, I proposed! And she accepted! Herria did have a few stipulations, though—she insisted I get a “proper haircut” and wear “proper clothes.” Ser Valarr, ever the steady guide, made quick work of both. I will admit, I did feel a touch transformed by the end of it, as if I’d stepped into the role the Old Gods had long prepared for me.
The wedding was a grand affair, one that will be spoken of in both Ramshore and Pentos for years to come. Not only did I marry Herria, but I was officially knighted as well—a moment of pride and purpose, a testament to the Old Gods’ blessings. Of course, compromises had to be made. Our Seer, Karene Wiltwood, the Seer of the Golden Leaves—may the Old Gods grant her wisdom and prosperity—was not permitted to attend, nor were the Pentoshi priests allowed their silly rites. Now that we are back home, my true mission begins. I must guide Herria, gently but firmly, to leave behind her old faith and embrace the Old Gods of the Vale. The thought fills me with anticipation—may they grant me the strength and wisdom to lead her to their truth.
Ser Crittark son of Crittark,
Heir to Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
Despite knowing since 97 A.C. that the giant hare had fled Ramshore for the neighboring land of Eventide, Father insisted on organizing another hunt. He has been plagued by dreams of that hare, and though the elders dismiss it as folly, I wonder if the Old Gods of the Vale are sending him visions. Their ways are often strange and subtle, speaking through omens and dreams. Perhaps the hare is not merely prey but a sign yet to be understood—a trial of endurance, or perhaps a test of faith.
The Old Gods work in ways beyond our grasp. During the hunt, which yielded nothing but a few confiscated spoils from some wretched poachers, Father grew somber. His disappointment clouded the air, but it was in this gloom that I found an opening to speak with him about my own failed hunt—not for game, but for Herria, the Pentoshi girl. I told him how I might have won her favor had we lingered longer in Pentos during the competitions. The Old Gods must have willed this conversation, for it was a moment of honesty and reflection, even if Father seemed distracted.
As I described Herria, her golden hair and the grace with which she carried herself, Father gave me a strange look. His gaze sharpened when I mentioned her father—the Grand Marshal of Pentos and organizer of the tournament. The connection seemed to weigh on him, though whether it was concern or intrigue, I cannot yet say. The Old Gods, it seems, have set more wheels in motion than I can yet see.
I could never have imagined the surprise Father and Ser Valarr had prepared for me. Three meetings with Herria, carefully arranged to bring us closer. The first in Pentos, where I could see her in her home and among her people. The second in Ramshore, a meeting of our families, where the ties between our houses would be tested. And the final meeting at Crittark Keep—just the two of us, with Ser Valarr as our chaperone. Both my father and Herria’s father, the Grand Marshal of Pentos, trust Ser Valarr implicitly, and their confidence in him only deepens my gratitude.
Well, I proposed! And she accepted! Herria did have a few stipulations, though—she insisted I get a “proper haircut” and wear “proper clothes.” Ser Valarr, ever the steady guide, made quick work of both. I will admit, I did feel a touch transformed by the end of it, as if I’d stepped into the role the Old Gods had long prepared for me.
The wedding was a grand affair, one that will be spoken of in both Ramshore and Pentos for years to come. Not only did I marry Herria, but I was officially knighted as well—a moment of pride and purpose, a testament to the Old Gods’ blessings. Of course, compromises had to be made. Our Seer, Karene Wiltwood, the Seer of the Golden Leaves—may the Old Gods grant her wisdom and prosperity—was not permitted to attend, nor were the Pentoshi priests allowed their silly rites. Now that we are back home, my true mission begins. I must guide Herria, gently but firmly, to leave behind her old faith and embrace the Old Gods of the Vale. The thought fills me with anticipation—may they grant me the strength and wisdom to lead her to their truth.
- 3
And so, the next generation moves forward. We'll see who wins the religious tug of war though.
More hunts for the Giant Hare, I say! Crittark needs a challenge.
More hunts for the Giant Hare, I say! Crittark needs a challenge.
These obsessions with the Giant Hare remind me of CK2's White Stag. Crittark faces a tall order if he wants to capture it.
Good to see Crittark II get married. Is Lord Crittark soon to be a grandfather? How are his other two children doing?
Good to see Crittark II get married. Is Lord Crittark soon to be a grandfather? How are his other two children doing?
Pov 036 Warmaster Elly Rockham - 'Killing the Dead'
Extracts from the diaries of:
Elly Rockham,
Warmaster of Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
War again. Aemon the Bold, or maybe the Reckless, has decided to vassalize Dorne. What a little tyrant he’s shaping up to be, finishing what his kin couldn’t. The Dornish are doomed, though—they might have sharp spears and stubborn sand, but what they don’t have is dragons. No amount of grit can stop fire from the skies. Still, I’ll give them this: they’ll make the crown bleed for every bloody inch.
Aemon went and claimed Timerion, the red dragon. A runt of a beast, only eleven years old and barely a menace yet. But a dragon is a dragon, and even a young one can burn armies.
The war's off to an uneven start. The Dornish managed a victory at Footway, which probably had their spearmen puffing their chests. But that didn’t last long—Bonewatch shattered them. Prince Anton Wyl isn’t a fool, it seems, but the weight of fire and steel might still crush him. Time will tell if he’s clever enough to survive what’s coming.
The stench of war must be contagious because now the local death cults are getting bold. They've rallied behind Rherd Bigmane, of all people—a damned Moon Clansman. That kind of betrayal doesn’t just cut deep; it festers. Crittark looked like someone had shoved a blade in his ribs when he heard. But leave it to that stubborn goat to turn his hurt into fire. He’s taken command again, rallying the army to fight for the same patch of land we ripped from the Wiltwoods. It’s almost poetic, if you like grim poetry soaked in blood and spite.
Bigmane’s little cult scraped together 810 men, a match for us in numbers. That’s where the similarities end, though. Their lot are as green and shabby as the rags they probably wear. I wouldn’t trust them to win a fistfight, let alone a war. Still, it’s the principle of it—letting this rabble challenge us is a stain on our pride. Crittark won’t allow it, and neither will I. Let’s see how long Bigmane lasts when his ragtag rebels get a taste of real warriors.
**Prepared by: Warmaster Elly Rockham, 102 A.C.**
- **Elly Rockham** — Age 37, Prowess 46, 6 Years in Service
- **Meliana Kedge** — Age 32, Prowess 36, 6 Years in Service
- **Olyver 'Bendsword'** — Age 43, Prowess 31, 2 Years in Service
- **Esgred 'Saltstorm'** — Age 43, Prowess 30, 5 Years in Service
- **Matryn 'The Giver'** — Age 46, Prowess 29, 2 Years in Service
- **Faye 'Pathbreaker'** — Age 35, Prowess 22, 4 Years in Service
- **Berdys 'The Blamed'** — Age 52, Prowess 20, 18 Years in Service
- **Qyle 'The Mummer'** — Age 30, Prowess 20, 8 Years in Service
- **Elene 'Passwarden'** — Age 39, Prowess 20, 5 Years in Service
- **Cassiel 'Sandturner'** — Age 59, Prowess 19, 7 Years in Service
First things first, I was told to put together my first military report—what a thrill. We've got 10 captains now, leading a regiment of heavily armored foot soldiers divided into four squads. On top of that, we’ve got two squads each of our elite fighters: the Moon Clansmen champions, who actually know how to handle themselves, and the armored cavalry, who are as intimidating as they are loud. It’s not the worst setup I’ve seen, but we’ll see if they’re worth their weight in steel when the time comes.
Of course, we had to shuffle things around after the Sunset Plague of 99 took a few captains from us. Now we’ve got two new faces. Olyver Bendsword is one of them—a greedy sellsword who looks like he’s always scheming his next payday. And then there’s Martyn the Giver, who’s so generous and kind it almost makes me sick. They’re like night and day, really. One’s in it for himself, and the other’s too soft for his own good. Let’s hope they both survive long enough to prove useful, or at least entertaining.
We only lost six men! Just six! And we captured Rherd Bigmane, the backstabbing fool who dared to call himself a leader. Crittark didn’t waste any time—he executed the traitor on the spot. Honestly, I’ve never seen the man so furious. Can’t blame him. Betrayal stings, especially when it’s from your own kin.
During the chaos of the battle, the giant white hare—yes, the same one Crittark’s been chasing in his dreams—was seen hopping around the fighting. What a sight! It’s like the beast was mocking all of us. After the dust settled, hunting grounds were built in its honor, turning that hopping menace into a symbol of our victory. It’s ridiculous, but I’ll admit, it’s giving the locals something to rally around. Legends have to start somewhere, I guess.
This battle was a first in a lot of ways. Cassiel, who’s been with us for seven years now, finally fought *for* us instead of against us. Funny how the tides turn—he used to swing that blade for the Wiltwoods. And speaking of firsts, I “popped my cherry,” as they say, killing ten men in the thick of it. Feels good to finally prove myself as the first among captains. Let’s see any of them try to take that title from me now.
Elly Rockham,
Warmaster of Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
War again. Aemon the Bold, or maybe the Reckless, has decided to vassalize Dorne. What a little tyrant he’s shaping up to be, finishing what his kin couldn’t. The Dornish are doomed, though—they might have sharp spears and stubborn sand, but what they don’t have is dragons. No amount of grit can stop fire from the skies. Still, I’ll give them this: they’ll make the crown bleed for every bloody inch.
Aemon went and claimed Timerion, the red dragon. A runt of a beast, only eleven years old and barely a menace yet. But a dragon is a dragon, and even a young one can burn armies.
The war's off to an uneven start. The Dornish managed a victory at Footway, which probably had their spearmen puffing their chests. But that didn’t last long—Bonewatch shattered them. Prince Anton Wyl isn’t a fool, it seems, but the weight of fire and steel might still crush him. Time will tell if he’s clever enough to survive what’s coming.
The stench of war must be contagious because now the local death cults are getting bold. They've rallied behind Rherd Bigmane, of all people—a damned Moon Clansman. That kind of betrayal doesn’t just cut deep; it festers. Crittark looked like someone had shoved a blade in his ribs when he heard. But leave it to that stubborn goat to turn his hurt into fire. He’s taken command again, rallying the army to fight for the same patch of land we ripped from the Wiltwoods. It’s almost poetic, if you like grim poetry soaked in blood and spite.
Bigmane’s little cult scraped together 810 men, a match for us in numbers. That’s where the similarities end, though. Their lot are as green and shabby as the rags they probably wear. I wouldn’t trust them to win a fistfight, let alone a war. Still, it’s the principle of it—letting this rabble challenge us is a stain on our pride. Crittark won’t allow it, and neither will I. Let’s see how long Bigmane lasts when his ragtag rebels get a taste of real warriors.
**Prepared by: Warmaster Elly Rockham, 102 A.C.**
- **Elly Rockham** — Age 37, Prowess 46, 6 Years in Service
- **Meliana Kedge** — Age 32, Prowess 36, 6 Years in Service
- **Olyver 'Bendsword'** — Age 43, Prowess 31, 2 Years in Service
- **Esgred 'Saltstorm'** — Age 43, Prowess 30, 5 Years in Service
- **Matryn 'The Giver'** — Age 46, Prowess 29, 2 Years in Service
- **Faye 'Pathbreaker'** — Age 35, Prowess 22, 4 Years in Service
- **Berdys 'The Blamed'** — Age 52, Prowess 20, 18 Years in Service
- **Qyle 'The Mummer'** — Age 30, Prowess 20, 8 Years in Service
- **Elene 'Passwarden'** — Age 39, Prowess 20, 5 Years in Service
- **Cassiel 'Sandturner'** — Age 59, Prowess 19, 7 Years in Service
First things first, I was told to put together my first military report—what a thrill. We've got 10 captains now, leading a regiment of heavily armored foot soldiers divided into four squads. On top of that, we’ve got two squads each of our elite fighters: the Moon Clansmen champions, who actually know how to handle themselves, and the armored cavalry, who are as intimidating as they are loud. It’s not the worst setup I’ve seen, but we’ll see if they’re worth their weight in steel when the time comes.
Of course, we had to shuffle things around after the Sunset Plague of 99 took a few captains from us. Now we’ve got two new faces. Olyver Bendsword is one of them—a greedy sellsword who looks like he’s always scheming his next payday. And then there’s Martyn the Giver, who’s so generous and kind it almost makes me sick. They’re like night and day, really. One’s in it for himself, and the other’s too soft for his own good. Let’s hope they both survive long enough to prove useful, or at least entertaining.
We only lost six men! Just six! And we captured Rherd Bigmane, the backstabbing fool who dared to call himself a leader. Crittark didn’t waste any time—he executed the traitor on the spot. Honestly, I’ve never seen the man so furious. Can’t blame him. Betrayal stings, especially when it’s from your own kin.
During the chaos of the battle, the giant white hare—yes, the same one Crittark’s been chasing in his dreams—was seen hopping around the fighting. What a sight! It’s like the beast was mocking all of us. After the dust settled, hunting grounds were built in its honor, turning that hopping menace into a symbol of our victory. It’s ridiculous, but I’ll admit, it’s giving the locals something to rally around. Legends have to start somewhere, I guess.
This battle was a first in a lot of ways. Cassiel, who’s been with us for seven years now, finally fought *for* us instead of against us. Funny how the tides turn—he used to swing that blade for the Wiltwoods. And speaking of firsts, I “popped my cherry,” as they say, killing ten men in the thick of it. Feels good to finally prove myself as the first among captains. Let’s see any of them try to take that title from me now.
- 3
Interesting to see Crittark's forces put down this revolt amidst the wider war in Westeros.
However, this one still has some Monty Python style humor with the appearance of the Giant Hare! Definitely getting the vibes of The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog. Is it time to see the Holy Hand Grenade too?
However, this one still has some Monty Python style humor with the appearance of the Giant Hare! Definitely getting the vibes of The Killer Rabbit of Caerbannog. Is it time to see the Holy Hand Grenade too?
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I can't believe Rherd betrayed Crittark like that with his revolt, thankfully you have many great commanders under your employ. It's always good to keep sword blades sharp.
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Pov 037 Judge Donnel - 'Berdys Has Turned'
Extracts from the diaries of:
Donnel ‘Accidents’,
Infamous Judge of Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
I told Crittark, as I always do, that his court is a den of snakes coiled and ready to strike. Already, I’ve uncovered whispers of three murder plots: one against him, one against his wife, and one against Speaker Nolan Kedge. Now, wanting to kill Nolan is almost understandable; the man has a talent for making enemies at an alarming rate. I loathe him myself. Bendsword’s open disdain for him doesn’t help matters either—what kind of chancellor lets their own captain despise them so publicly? This court is as volatile as a cask of wildfire.
The evidence against Esgred Saltstrom is undeniable. She’s not only a captain but also Ser Valarr’s wife, which makes her involvement in the plot against Nolan all the more dangerous. I advised confronting her privately, levying a hefty fine, and releasing her—but under strict surveillance. A snake is best left to slither, provided you keep a close eye on where it goes. If we’re lucky, she’ll lead us straight to the rest of the conspirators, and then we’ll have the entire nest in our grasp. Cold calculation beats rash punishment every time.
Lord Crittark’s demands grow more audacious by the day. As if unraveling plots within our own court wasn’t enough, he has now tasked me with securing young Lord Edryn Belmore—his most hated rival. I hold no illusions about the difficulty of this task; the boy is heavily guarded and suspicious of any approach. Still, I proposed a strategy that was as unorthodox as it was calculated. I suggested enlisting Lord Ondros Ernter, of all people, to assist us. The very man Crittark once tried to kill for his lands. It was a gamble, one I did not expect to pay off. Yet Ondros, displaying what I can only call unnerving reasonableness, agreed to let bygones be bygones. Whether this is genuine or a ploy remains to be seen, but it gives us our way in. Now the burden falls on me, Warmaster Elly, and Luceon Hersy to execute this operation once we’re inside. Much planning remains, and there is no room for error.
In addition to this precarious endeavor, I facilitated an alliance with Lord Urlon Morgryn of Eventide, our neighbor to the northwest. A pragmatic arrangement, this ensures our borders are secured, and our attentions can remain fixed on the more pressing threats that surround us. Morgryn’s cold demeanor and sharp mind make him a suitable ally—for now.
The hunt was, as I expected, a spectacle of Clansman fervor and unrelenting obsession. Lord Crittark, fixated on the now-legendary white hare—a creature that first appeared during the battle against the death cult—insisted on organizing a grand hunt to capture the beast. It was a dazzling display of misplaced priorities, yet undeniably captivating in its scale. That hare has become more than an animal; it’s a symbol, and Crittark seems determined to claim it for himself, as if conquering it will somehow cement his authority over these lands.
During the chaos of the hunt, Colianne managed to seize the moment. She brought down an enormous rabbit, and for a fleeting instant, the Clansmen were convinced it was the fabled one. However, closer inspection revealed it was simply another grotesquely large specimen—this land’s unsettling penchant for breeding monstrous rabbits never ceases to baffle me. Still, the catch was impressive and might have been enough to satisfy most lords. But not Crittark.
The hunt took a darker turn when Colianne was nearly killed—not by the elusive hare but by Captain Berdys the Blamed. The fool made his move amidst the confusion, almost succeeding in his treachery. It was Crittark himself who intervened, nearly cutting Berdys down before the traitor managed to flee. Word has it that he’s slunk off to war-torn Dorne, likely hoping the chaos there will provide him cover. While Crittark remains fixated on the hare, I’ve been tasked with a hunt of my own: tracking Berdys in Dorne and ensuring he pays for his betrayal. Our plans for the Belmore boy are now shelved, as vengeance has taken precedence. And so, the calculations begin anew.
The chatter surrounding Berdys’s betrayal has consumed the court. Twenty years of loyal service, only to end with him trying to kill Lady Colianne—what could have driven him to such madness? Some whisper that he was guilty of the poisoning that got him sacked from Vaernon Keep all those years ago, and perhaps he feared exposure. Others wonder how a man could so callously abandon his wife and child, the latter now a ward of Ser Crittark son of Crittark. None of this speculation holds any real value; motives matter little when the deed is already done. Still, I cannot help but observe how easily the court indulges in gossip while more pressing matters await resolution.
Amidst this distraction, the hunting party accomplished what seemed impossible: they captured the legendary hare. And what a beast it was. Even I, a skeptic to the core, found myself impressed by its size. This was no ordinary rabbit but a creature that seemed plucked from the Old Gods’ wild imagination, a dire rabbit if ever there was one. The sight of it silenced even the most boisterous Clansmen, and its capture has already become a tale they’ll pass down for generations. As for its pelt, the practicality of its use quickly became a subject of debate.
Lord Crittark was appalled when I suggested selling the pelt, especially to a rich Pentoshi acquaintance of Ser Valarr’s. The very idea seemed sacrilegious to him until I explained the potential gains. With the fortune we’d receive, we could build a new castle and expand the hunting lands at Crittark’s Keep. The thought of another castle to bear his name softened his resistance, and in the end, the deal was made. The funds have already been secured, and I must admit, it was a coldly calculated triumph. While others see only a symbol of glory in that hare, I see opportunity—a fitting end for a creature of legend.
Donnel ‘Accidents’,
Infamous Judge of Ramshore,
Circa 102 A.C.
I told Crittark, as I always do, that his court is a den of snakes coiled and ready to strike. Already, I’ve uncovered whispers of three murder plots: one against him, one against his wife, and one against Speaker Nolan Kedge. Now, wanting to kill Nolan is almost understandable; the man has a talent for making enemies at an alarming rate. I loathe him myself. Bendsword’s open disdain for him doesn’t help matters either—what kind of chancellor lets their own captain despise them so publicly? This court is as volatile as a cask of wildfire.
The evidence against Esgred Saltstrom is undeniable. She’s not only a captain but also Ser Valarr’s wife, which makes her involvement in the plot against Nolan all the more dangerous. I advised confronting her privately, levying a hefty fine, and releasing her—but under strict surveillance. A snake is best left to slither, provided you keep a close eye on where it goes. If we’re lucky, she’ll lead us straight to the rest of the conspirators, and then we’ll have the entire nest in our grasp. Cold calculation beats rash punishment every time.
Lord Crittark’s demands grow more audacious by the day. As if unraveling plots within our own court wasn’t enough, he has now tasked me with securing young Lord Edryn Belmore—his most hated rival. I hold no illusions about the difficulty of this task; the boy is heavily guarded and suspicious of any approach. Still, I proposed a strategy that was as unorthodox as it was calculated. I suggested enlisting Lord Ondros Ernter, of all people, to assist us. The very man Crittark once tried to kill for his lands. It was a gamble, one I did not expect to pay off. Yet Ondros, displaying what I can only call unnerving reasonableness, agreed to let bygones be bygones. Whether this is genuine or a ploy remains to be seen, but it gives us our way in. Now the burden falls on me, Warmaster Elly, and Luceon Hersy to execute this operation once we’re inside. Much planning remains, and there is no room for error.
In addition to this precarious endeavor, I facilitated an alliance with Lord Urlon Morgryn of Eventide, our neighbor to the northwest. A pragmatic arrangement, this ensures our borders are secured, and our attentions can remain fixed on the more pressing threats that surround us. Morgryn’s cold demeanor and sharp mind make him a suitable ally—for now.
The hunt was, as I expected, a spectacle of Clansman fervor and unrelenting obsession. Lord Crittark, fixated on the now-legendary white hare—a creature that first appeared during the battle against the death cult—insisted on organizing a grand hunt to capture the beast. It was a dazzling display of misplaced priorities, yet undeniably captivating in its scale. That hare has become more than an animal; it’s a symbol, and Crittark seems determined to claim it for himself, as if conquering it will somehow cement his authority over these lands.
During the chaos of the hunt, Colianne managed to seize the moment. She brought down an enormous rabbit, and for a fleeting instant, the Clansmen were convinced it was the fabled one. However, closer inspection revealed it was simply another grotesquely large specimen—this land’s unsettling penchant for breeding monstrous rabbits never ceases to baffle me. Still, the catch was impressive and might have been enough to satisfy most lords. But not Crittark.
The hunt took a darker turn when Colianne was nearly killed—not by the elusive hare but by Captain Berdys the Blamed. The fool made his move amidst the confusion, almost succeeding in his treachery. It was Crittark himself who intervened, nearly cutting Berdys down before the traitor managed to flee. Word has it that he’s slunk off to war-torn Dorne, likely hoping the chaos there will provide him cover. While Crittark remains fixated on the hare, I’ve been tasked with a hunt of my own: tracking Berdys in Dorne and ensuring he pays for his betrayal. Our plans for the Belmore boy are now shelved, as vengeance has taken precedence. And so, the calculations begin anew.
The chatter surrounding Berdys’s betrayal has consumed the court. Twenty years of loyal service, only to end with him trying to kill Lady Colianne—what could have driven him to such madness? Some whisper that he was guilty of the poisoning that got him sacked from Vaernon Keep all those years ago, and perhaps he feared exposure. Others wonder how a man could so callously abandon his wife and child, the latter now a ward of Ser Crittark son of Crittark. None of this speculation holds any real value; motives matter little when the deed is already done. Still, I cannot help but observe how easily the court indulges in gossip while more pressing matters await resolution.
Amidst this distraction, the hunting party accomplished what seemed impossible: they captured the legendary hare. And what a beast it was. Even I, a skeptic to the core, found myself impressed by its size. This was no ordinary rabbit but a creature that seemed plucked from the Old Gods’ wild imagination, a dire rabbit if ever there was one. The sight of it silenced even the most boisterous Clansmen, and its capture has already become a tale they’ll pass down for generations. As for its pelt, the practicality of its use quickly became a subject of debate.
Lord Crittark was appalled when I suggested selling the pelt, especially to a rich Pentoshi acquaintance of Ser Valarr’s. The very idea seemed sacrilegious to him until I explained the potential gains. With the fortune we’d receive, we could build a new castle and expand the hunting lands at Crittark’s Keep. The thought of another castle to bear his name softened his resistance, and in the end, the deal was made. The funds have already been secured, and I must admit, it was a coldly calculated triumph. While others see only a symbol of glory in that hare, I see opportunity—a fitting end for a creature of legend.
The Ballad of the White Hare Hunt
When shadow crept and hearts stood still,
The lady rode with iron will,
But loyalty turned to bitter plight,
As Berdys struck beneath the night.
A blade of treachery in his hand,
A trusted knight, now outlawed man.
Yet Colianne, though grazed and torn,
Was saved by Crittark’s wrathful scorn.
The traitor fled through vale and glen,
His name a curse on the lips of men.
Through bramble, frost, and ancient lair,
They tracked the trail of the fabled hare.
A dire beast with fur of white,
It leapt through chaos, evading sight.
But spear and net and skill prevailed,
The mighty hare at last curtailed.
Its pelt, a treasure, rich and rare,
Built castles high and lands to spare.
A hunt of legend, sung in halls,
Where shadows fell and triumph calls.
When shadow crept and hearts stood still,
The lady rode with iron will,
But loyalty turned to bitter plight,
As Berdys struck beneath the night.
A blade of treachery in his hand,
A trusted knight, now outlawed man.
Yet Colianne, though grazed and torn,
Was saved by Crittark’s wrathful scorn.
The traitor fled through vale and glen,
His name a curse on the lips of men.
Through bramble, frost, and ancient lair,
They tracked the trail of the fabled hare.
A dire beast with fur of white,
It leapt through chaos, evading sight.
But spear and net and skill prevailed,
The mighty hare at last curtailed.
Its pelt, a treasure, rich and rare,
Built castles high and lands to spare.
A hunt of legend, sung in halls,
Where shadows fell and triumph calls.
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Love the poetry, even if this means the end of the Mighty Hare. Excellent new chapters. The artwork is top notch as usual. Well done!
Also, I like seeing more of the intrigue in this court. Surprised that Crittark continues to survive given all the plots against him and his family.
Also, I like seeing more of the intrigue in this court. Surprised that Crittark continues to survive given all the plots against him and his family.
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I can't believe Berdys would turn on you like that? He served loyally for so long. Then again, he was also not given many promotions for his years of loyalty, while other, younger faces have risen to the top. Perhaps he was resentful.
Selling the hare's pelt so Crittark can vainly add his name to another castle might get him in trouble with the gods. It depends on how petty these deities are.
Selling the hare's pelt so Crittark can vainly add his name to another castle might get him in trouble with the gods. It depends on how petty these deities are.
That rabbit was dynamite! I imagine if it hadn't been captured then next step would have been Brother Maynard and the Holy Hand Grenade of Antioch. And congrats on young Crittark and Herria's marriage. It's nice to see she was already dressing him before the actual nuptials. The Ballad of the White Hare Hunt was a nice touch, as was the graphic of the feral oversized bugger.
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