Bran Astor

Cambria's Queen by Karl Kask In Cambrian vales where ancient mountains rise, And ocean’s roar meets with the morning’s sighs, A realm exists where freedom’s spirit gleams, And sovereign grace in people’s hearts it dreams. No tyrant’s rod, no despot’s iron hand, But equal rights across a bounteous land. A queen there reigns, whose will is nature’s force, Whose love, a sunbeam on life’s darkened course. Her wrath, a tempest, shakes the earth and sea, Yet tender mercies flow from her decree. For in her heart, a boundless ocean swells, Of empathy for all who hear her bells. A democracy, where voices find their way, And common good illuminates the day. No caste, no creed, to dim the human spark, But unity in purpose, bright and dark. Oh, Cambria's Queen, whose wisdom guides the land, A beacon shining on a distant strand. May freedom’s flame forever brightly burn, And love and justice to all hearts return. Oh, Youth: A Eulogy by Karl Kask Oh, Youth, thou fleeting dream of morning light, When hope's young bird sings on the soul's bright tree, Ere shadows lengthen with the waning night, Or life's tumultuous waves engulf the free. Thy laughter, like a rippling, crystal stream, Danced through the meadows of our careless years; Thy spirit, buoyant as a morning dream, Soared, unencumbered by the weight of fears. But now, alas, the golden hours are fled, And age's frost has crept upon my brow; My comrades, like autumnal leaves, are shed, And shadows lengthen where the sun shone low. The world, once fresh and fair, is grown austere, And toil's relentless hand has marked my frame; No more the heart with youthful joy can cheer, But mourns the glories of that vanished flame.

Echoes in the Hall of Unrequited Love By Ivar Taul In halls of twilight, where shadows reside, A specter I wander, by love denied. My form, a wisp in this manor of gloom, Yet once I dreamt of a brighter room. She walks these halls, a vision divine, Her eyes like sapphires, a beauty that's mine To gaze upon, a goddess reborn, Fairest of Bathsheba, surpassing Helen's morn. Her laughter rings, a melody so sweet, Her every virtue, a perfect feat. A flawless wife, a bride beyond compare, A crown of roses in her golden hair. With whispered sonnets, and gifts I beseech, My spectral presence, a love out of reach. My words they fade, unheard in the air, My phantom touch met with an empty chair. She turns away, a stranger's cold disdain, No recognition, no whisper of my pain. Is this my fate, to haunt this earthly hold, A lovelorn ghost, forever left untold? Ah, if this heart, though silent, still could beat, If mortal breath allowed these lips to speak, Perhaps then, love, your judgement might relent, And grant this ghost a moment, heaven-sent. But death's cold hand holds tight, a cruel decree, This spectral form, all that's left of me. A choice remains, beneath the moonlit sky, To seek the solace where the spirits lie. The beckoning light, a pathway to peace, But oh, the thought of love's sweet, sweet release! One final look upon your face so fair, A phantom's love, a burden I must bear. Farewell, dear heart, though hope has flown away, Better a ghost in love, than dust in endless day. In spectral halls, I'll linger, ever near, A constant echo, a love that's ever clear.

A Mother and Wife By Ivar Taul In moonlit whispers, draped in shadows deep, A mother mourns, where regret bids her weep. A chilling wind sighs through the barren tree, A constant echo of what used to be. He was a stalwart, strong and ever true, A love that promised skies of endless blue. But foolish pride, a siren's tempting song, Lured me to darkness, where I now belong. They called him dull, his ways devoid of spark, But love's true flame burns steady in the dark. My heart, a moth, was drawn to fleeting light, Now lost in shadows, withering in night. The blame, it settles, heavy as a shroud, Not on my choices, but his voice too loud. He held me captive, stifled all my dreams, A gilded cage, so love it never seems. My children, blessed with innocence so bright, Reflect a past I cast into the night. Perhaps within their eyes, his shadow sleeps, A constant reminder where true passion weeps. The moon descends, a cruel and watchful eye, As vengeance stirs, a chilling lullaby. Their happiness, a mockery of mine, A twisted love, a bond that will entwine. Let whispers turn to nightmares, soft and sly, Let doubt take root, where trusting dreams once lie. Their love, once pure, will wither in my wake, A twisted echo for the choice I make. Beware, my darlings, love's a fickle friend, A cruel deceiver with a bitter end. In shadows I will lurk, a spider black, And claim the hearts I foolishly turned back.

The Wendigo by Ivar Taul In chambers draped with guilt's oppressive pall, Where stolen joys like phantoms come and fall, I sit, a wretch by specters dire possessed, Love's ghosts, a chilling, vengeful, spectral guest. She came the first, with eyes of cerulean blue, A memory of passion, fierce and true. Her touch, once fire, now sent a glacial shock, Her voice, a whisper, "Love, upon this rock..." Then came the next, with raven tresses unbound, A storm of passion on forbidden ground. Her kiss, once warmth, now left my soul bereft, Her sigh, a whisper, "Love, forever kept..." With each pale shade, a lover from the past, The embers of desire diminish fast. Their hollow eyes, with sorrow filled and keen, Reflect the wasteland where my heart has been. No warmth remains, no embers dare to glow, Just arctic silence in this spectral show. They strip me bare, each phantom, cold and white, Leaving a husk where passion burned so bright. Oh, cursed be stolen love, a fleeting dream, For vengeance walks in shadows, whispers scream. A frozen heart, a monument to sin, This is the price for pleasures I let win. The final shade approaches, veiled in mist, A lover's face, forever unkissed. My own reflection, with eyes of hollow blight, A chilling whisper, "Lost in endless night."

- except from Promise of Youth by Martin Alver

September 12, 1282 My Dearest Ana,  The lighthouse at Suukuna stands, a lonely sentinel against the crashing waves of the Keigan Sea. The air is thick with the scent of salt and seaweed, a constant, almost cloying, perfume. It was a sight that thrilled me to the bone at first, a testament to the responsibility entrusted upon me as keeper. But even the wildest landscapes lose their charm when viewed alone for too long.  The nights are the worst, Ana. The wind howls like a banshee, a keening that chills me to the very marrow. Sometimes, I hear voices on it, soft whispers in an unknown tongue, urging me to join them in the churning sea below. The long, solitary hours play tricks on the mind. Shadows dance on the walls, grotesque figures born of flickering candlelight and a heart that aches for your touch.  Last night, I could have sworn I heard the mournful tolling of bells, a ghostly echo that wrapped around the lighthouse like a spectral shroud. Perhaps it's the loneliness, or maybe this place holds secrets deeper and older than the stones it's built upon. All I know is that thoughts of our walks along the sun-drenched beach and the laughter that echoed in the marketplace feel like a distant dream.  Oh, Ana, how I long for the day I can return to you, a weathered warrior from a solitary battle against the elements. How I dream of holding you close, the warmth of your body a shield against the creeping chill that seems to have settled here. But duty calls, and honor demands I remain.  Know this, my love: Every night, as I climb the winding stairs to ignite the lamp, it is your face I see in the beam's reflection, a beacon guiding weary sailors home. You are my anchor in this storm-tossed sea of isolation.  Hold fast, my dearest Ana. Soon, I will return, and together we will face whatever life may bring.  With all my love,  Tomas

O Queen of the Dawn by Karl Kallaste O Queen of the Dawn, with eyes the color of hope, Hear the drums of triumph, a weary warrior's scope. This land breathes free, its chains lie shattered and rust, We bathed the fields red and the tyrant's grip turned to dust.  Long were the nights, companion to our creeping despair, Hunger gnawed, battles raged, etched on each face a prayer. Brothers fell 'neath the sun, their whispers on the cold breeze, But freedom's fire, my Queen, held us from bending knees.  We are your spears, the answer to every plea, From the babe in the cradle, the sailor bent by the sea. We bled for their future, a tapestry woven with pain, But a song of defiance, a chorus that washed away the stain.  Now, victory's light paints the clouds in hues of delight, The people, they rise, their faces turned to the bright. They sing of our courage, etch legends in every town, We, the nameless, the faceless, heroes with freedom's crown.  My Queen, your name a solace, a whisper on parched lips, Your image, a beacon through battles, on banners and ships. This land, it is yours, a gift so dearly won, And though my strength wanes, my joyful journey just begun.  (His voice falters, a final breath escapes his lips)  Hold fast to the dawn, my Queen, where the future never clips…  (His hand reaches out, a faint smile)  …Love, and freedom… forever on our lips.

This House That Held A Universe by Kristiina Raadik This house that held a universe – now echoes sigh alone – Where laughter bloomed, a chilling wind now makes a mournful moan. The chairs that cradled company, stand stark, with vacant eyes, And memories, specters pale, through drafty hallways rise. I walk a stranger in this room, where once I danced with glee, Pale reflection in a looking glass, a face I scarcely see. The Love that filled this hallowed space, a phantom, cold and thin, Like frost upon a windowpane, where warmth once held within. Do they who left, still hold me dear, in whispers, soft and low? Or am I but a faded dream, the one they used to know? Perhaps their hearts hold other suns, and mine, a dying star, Lost in the vast, indifferent dark, unseen, however far. Is even memory a curse, this constant, gnawing ache? Of fireside tales and gentle hands, a love I cannot take With me, into this chilling night, where shadows twist and turn, And whispers mock, "Does anyone still love what you've become?" Can embers, buried deep within, be coaxed to life anew? Can love, once lost, rise from the ash, bathed in a gentle dew? Or am I doomed to wander here, a ghost in shades of gray, Forever lost within this house, where love has gone away? A Jury In The Corner Hangs by Kristiina Raadik A jury in the corner hangs, of silken thread and gleam, Eight watchful eyes, a silver stare, upon my being beam. No gavel falls, no verdict rings, yet dread begins to creep, As though this silent, splindly judge, my very soul doth keep. It spins its web of woven thought, where conscience hangs on high, And each slow turn, a pondering, on virtues left to die. Did honesty hold fast and true, within this fragile breast? Or did deceit, a sly serpent, find welcome as its guest? Compassion's thread, is it worn thin, by trials yet unseen? Or woven strong, a sheltering cloak, where kindness intervenes? The verdict hangs, unspoken still, a weight upon my mind, For terror grows with every tick, the clock of judgment kind. Perhaps it seeks a hidden flaw, a chink in virtue's wall, A whispered sin, a shadowed thought, for which I soon shall fall. But oh, the silence amplifies, the dread that fills the air, Awaiting pronouncement, swift or slow, to find me wanting there. I long for accusation's sting, for anger, hot and bright, Than this unending, silent stare, that chills me through the night. For is there not more solace found, in fury's righteous flame, Than waiting for a verdict hushed, and bearing endless shame?

The Final Verse By Jaan Kapp With dawn's first blush, I greet the restless sea, A canvas churned with foam, a symphony Of crashing waves that lick the jagged shore. These weathered cliffs, where salty winds implore, Have seen a lifetime pass, a heart grow old, Yet hold a beauty that can still unfold. Here, where the gulls cry out in morning's light, I chase the muse, a phantom taking flight. My inkwell's dry, the fire within wanes, Each verse a sigh, a whisper of past pains. Love's melody, a songbird long since flown, Leaves echoes in this heart, now mostly stone. Noon finds me scaling heights where eagles soar, Among the peaks, where clouds like giants pour. The sun, a crown upon the mountain's brow, Casts long, stark shadows on the world below. A lifetime's climb, a summit hard-won prize, But from this height, where memory resides, I see the tapestry of years unfold, The triumphs sung, the stories yet untold. The valleys bloom, where youthful fancies played, Now tinged with amber, where pleasant dreams have stayed. And in the distance, faintly, I recall, A face, a touch, a love that conquered all. Dusk paints the south in hues of fading fire, Where swaying grasses whisper on the pyre Of day's demise. A lone wolf lifts his head, A mournful cry that echoes 'til it's dead. The warmth of twilight soothes my weary bones, A quiet peace upon these golden tones. Life's final journey, to these lands I've come, To seek a spark, to chase a phantom's hum. Though beauty lingers, and the world inspires, The well of verse runs dry, consumed by fires Of time's own making. In this fading light, I close my eyes, and greet the coming night.

Team Information Style mod: 3.8 Home stadium: Ellestede Garden, cap. 18,500 Manager: TC Danen Coaches: Kees Gordon, Wolf Bruijs Roster Name Position Age Elliot Coetzee Hooker 30 Ryan Shepherd Hooker 30 David Owain Hooker 25 Bart Plane Hooker 21 Olive John Prop 27 Wyn Metcher Prop 28 Kellen Brown Prop 32 Rhys Sears-Duru Prop 32 Dillon Kilifi Prop 29 John Lewis Prop 32 Idris Alan Lock 33 Jeremy Peters Lock 33 Adam Pelser Lock 29 Taylor Beard Lock 28 Cory Tucker Lock 33 Trent Hunsaker Lock 26 Gavin Bashir Flanker 24 Ross Penny Flanker 30 Harry Moriarty Flanker 25 Jordy Weyland Flanker 25 Eric Shingler Number 8 35 Justin Hattingh Number 8 27 Scott Williams Scrum-half 34 Rhys Cina Scrum-half 30 Wolf Carroll Fly-half 24 Jarrod Dean Fly-half 28 Dirk Chalmot Fly-half 24 George Parkes Center 29 Joey Tompkins Center 27 Kyle Laughlin Center 26 Hadleigh Neal Center 29 Siti Adams Wing 28 Josh Brennan Wing 26 Caleb Darlington Wing 22 Brock Adams Wing 31 Harry Staller Wing 24 Liam Turner Fullback 32 Jade Van Oord Fullback 23 Styles & Permissions Style modifier 3.8 Home stadium Ellestede Garden (RP) Choose my try scorers Yes (RP) Choose my kicker Yes (RP) RP injuries No No godmodding

RP Admin Hat - There is a prohibition on IC nukes. Loremasters will review the post and reach out to you.

The Kingdom of Cambria: Acknowledges the declaration of independence made by the region of Zanna on 2 January, 1424. Reaffirms its unwavering commitment to the principle of self-determination for all peoples. Recognizes the right of the Zannese people to determine their own future and establish their own sovereign state. Notes the historical grievances and ongoing challenges faced by the Zannese people, while also acknowledging the complex past between Zanna and the region of Graznia. Expresses its sincere hope for a peaceful resolution to any outstanding disputes between Zanna and its neighbors, and encourages all parties to engage in constructive dialogue and diplomacy. Declares its intention to establish formal diplomatic relations with the independent Zanna, and to work together to build a relationship based on mutual respect, cooperation, and the promotion of shared values. Offers its assistance to Zanna in its transition to independence, and stands ready to provide support in areas such as governance, infrastructure development, and economic growth. Calls upon the international community to respect the right of Zanna to self-determination, and to support its peaceful integration into the global community.

Nation name: Cambria Nation trigram: KCM Players: 1. Tilt Wagner 2. Triin Wagner 3. Darius Masalin 4. Matti Armstrong 5. Kaisa Haidak 6. Irina Nilsson

In the heart of the frigid Masendav wilderness in northern Cambria, a harrowing clash unfolded as the 4th Infantry OTK faced a formidable foe from Dalimbar. The chilling conflict thrust the serene village of Torma Manor into the annals of history, underscoring the tensions of a world gripped by the Second Northern War. Torma Manor, nestled amidst snow-covered peaks, became a grim theater of battle as the Dalimbari Army, seasoned in warfare, besieged the village. The 4th OTK, resilient and disciplined, confronted overwhelming odds against the backdrop of a winter landscape marked by treacherous terrain. The unfolding drama played out against the stark canvas of evergreen trees cloaked in snow. A biting wind swept through the forest, setting the stage for a relentless struggle. Clad in olive drab uniforms, the men of the 4th OTK held steadfast in their defensive positions, braving the unrelenting assault. Lieutenant Colonel Hunt, a weathered and stoic commander, surveyed the battlefield with a craggy countenance shaped by numerous campaigns. The faces of his men reflected a mix of determination and fatigue, testimony to the harsh realities of war etched in the lines of their snow-covered trenches. The Dalimbari offensive persisted with artillery shells tearing through the tranquil forest, disrupting the once-peaceful enclave. The 4th OTK, outnumbered and outgunned, valiantly defended against the encroaching forces. Their resilience mirrored historical echoes, portraying the indomitable spirit of those who faced impossible odds. Amidst the eerie calm of a momentary pause in the fighting, a distant hum heralded an impending threat. A collective gasp swept through the frozen air as a 205mm artillery shell, bearing the unmistakable Dalimbari markings, hurtled towards Torma Manor—an unprecedented weapon, rewriting the rules of warfare. The ensuing detonation shattered the tranquility of the mountainous forest, unleashing a blinding wave of destruction. The shockwave swept through the landscape, felling trees and obliterating all in its path. The soldiers of the 4th OTK, once stalwart against insurmountable odds, succumbed to the merciless force of this unparalleled weapon. Torma Manor, once a haven, now lay in ruins. The atomic inferno left nothing but devastation in its wake. Emerging from the remnants, survivors—friend and foe alike—bore witness to the horrors of war etched in their faces. As the cold winds whispered through the scorched remnants of the Cambrian forest, the aftermath of the Battle of Torma Manor unfolded. Snowflakes gently settled on the ashes, carrying with them the weight of a narrative transcending borders and time. The tragic events that transpired became a somber chapter in the annals of history, a stark reminder of humanity's relentless march, even when armed with weapons capable of shattering the very fabric of existence. Within hours of the event, the world grappled with the sobering reality of an unprecedented conflict in the Masendav wilderness. In the heart of Lahemaa National Park, where the Jaanus Vaino swamp forest sprawls its mossy arms and silence reigns like a forgotten king, lurks a creature born of shadows and ancient dread. The locals call it the Vanamees, the Old Man of Lahemaa. A bipedal hominid, it stands tall and broad-shouldered, its form obscured by a matted pelt of black and dark brown hair that bristles like a wild boar’s in the dim light filtering through the dense canopy. Its eyes are the color of glacial ice, said to burn red as embers when the sun dips below the horizon. These eyes have witnessed the passing of millennia, seen civilizations rise and fall, and witnessed the birth and death of countless creatures. They hold a depth of wisdom and savagery that chills the blood of even the most seasoned hunter. The Vanamees is a creature of immense strength. Tales whisper of uprooted trees and shattered boulders hurled with ease by its powerful arms. Its footprint is said to be the size of a dinner plate, a stark reminder of its presence in the whispering woods. Those who have encountered the Vanamees speak of a guttural roar that shakes the very earth, a sound that sends chills down the spine and leaves a lingering echo of fear in the heart. But the Vanamees is not just a brute force. It is cunning and intelligent, a master of the hunt and the art of deception. The oldest stories speak of its ability to shapeshift, to mimic the voices of loved ones and lure unsuspecting prey into the depths of the forest. It is said that the Vanamees can become a shadow, melting into the darkness unseen, only to reappear when least expected, a terrifying specter born of the nightmares of men. Over the past four decades, hundreds of sightings have been reported. Hikers have stumbled upon its massive footprints in the mud, hunters have seen glimpses of its hulking form through the trees, and campers have woken to the chilling sound of its guttural cry. Yet, despite these numerous encounters, little photographic evidence exists. The Vanamees seems to exist just beyond the grasp of reality, a phantom haunting the margins of our world. Some say the Vanamees is a remnant of a long-forgotten age, a creature that predates humanity itself. Others believe it is a guardian of the forest, a protector of the ancient wilderness. Whatever the truth may be, one thing is certain: the Vanamees is a creature to be feared and respected. The whispers of its name in the wind carry warnings of danger and of the primal terror that lurks beneath the verdant canopy of Lahemaa. So, if you find yourself wandering through the heart of the Jaanus Vaino swamp forest, tread carefully. Listen closely to the sounds of the woods, and be wary of the shadows that dance between the trees. For the Vanamees, the Old Man of Lahemaa, may be watching, waiting for the next unsuspecting soul to venture into his domain. And when it does, the forest will echo with the screams of the lost, another victim claimed by the legend of the Cambrian swamp.

Warning - body horror

The icy dark of the winter night swallowed Eino Veskima as he ventured into the malevolent embrace of Salumetsa. A frigid wind sighed through the towering pines while the grasping branches overhead tangled with shadows that whispered his sins. Eino, driven by the weight of guilt and an insatiable curiosity, navigated the labyrinthine maze of twisted trunks and thorny underbrush, descending deeper into the heart of darkness. The oppressive shadows grew denser, the moonlight casting eerie silhouettes that danced across the twisted foliage as Eino devled deeper into Salumetsa. Spectral, unseen eyes peered through the darkness, scrutinizing his every move. The half-forgotten tales of the Eyesnatcher, hung heavy in the air like a vengeful fog, painting the landscape with ancient dread. The whispering wind seemed to carry an unsettling choir of voices, recounting Eino's transgressions with a chilling clarity. The tangled branches above him clawed at the inky sky, casting elongated shadows that mimicked the ethereal fingers of the forest witch herself. An unsettling unease gripped him as the very essence of Salumetsa seemed to seep into his bones, mirroring the rot that festered within. Helve Sightbane, draped in ragged robes that seemed to absorb the shadows around her, observed Eino from the shadows. Her presence exuded an otherworldly malevolence, and her eyes, two voids that absorbed all light, seemed to pierce through the layers of deception that shielded his soul. Her incantations resonated with the rustle of leaves, creating an orchestral backdrop to the unfolding nightmare. Memories of Eino's transgressions played out in a ghastly panorama—the broken promises, the shattered bonds, the callous disregard for those who loved him. The forest, an ancient witness to countless tales of betrayal, seemed to mourn the decay of kinship that festered within Eino's heart. Salumetsa itself became an entity, alive with a malevolent consciousness that pulsated with every beat of Eino's tormented heart. Whispering spirits tugged at him, urging him further into the tangled web of the cursed woods. The ground beneath him seemed to shift, the very earth alive with a sinister intent that propelled him toward his impending reckoning. Eino stumbled upon a clearing, its sickly glow revealing the silhouette of Helve. Her skeletal fingers, like talons dipped in shadows, reached out toward him. Her voice, a dissonant melody that echoed through the clearing, recounted his sins in excruciating detail, each word etching deeper into the fabric of his tormented soul. "Your eyes betray you, Eino Veskima," she crooned, the very air pregnant with the weight of his sins. "They reveal the darkness within, the rot that festers in the hearts of those who forsake kinship." In the deafening silence that followed, the Eyesnatcher seized him with a ferocity born of ancient vengeance. Her fingers, gnarled and ice-cold, plunged into his eyes, and the world erupted into a symphony of agony. Blood and magic mingled in the air as Eino's anguished screams echoed through Salumetsa, his blindness both physical and metaphysical. As the last vestiges of his sight were ripped away, the forest itself seemed to shudder, the very roots of Salumetsa quivering with satisfaction. Helve's haunting laughter, a cacophony of torment, intertwined with the mournful howls of the wind, marking the gruesome climax of Eino Veskima's descent into darkness. The legend of Eino Veskima became a whispered warning in the our community, a tale of the Eyesnatcher who dwelled within Salumetsa, a force that emerged to claim the souls of those who dared to take kinship for granted. The cursed forest stood as a monument to the consequences of betrayal, its haunted trees etching the tale of Eino's demise into the very fabric of Salumetsa's twisted history. And in the moonlit shadows of those ancient woods, Helve waited, her eyes devoid of color, ever watchful for the next impure soul to succumb to the abyss.

The Rise of Necrobotics: Unraveling Saint-Josalyn's Eight-Legged Enigma "The Rise of Necrobotics: Unraveling Saint-Josalyn's Eight-Legged Enigma" The city of Saint-Josalyn became a backdrop for the unfolding narrative, as the team grappled with the ethical implications of their work. The once-contained experiment, now a beacon of scientific ambition, raised questions about the responsible advancement of technology and the unforeseen consequences of manipulating nature. "Unraveling Saint-Josalyn's Eight-Legged Enigma" became a compelling tale of ingenuity, ethical dilemmas, and the relentless pursuit of understanding the intricate dance between biology and robotics. As the necrobotic spiders entered the spotlight, Saint-Josalyn found itself at the crossroads of scientific progress, prompting a reevaluation of the delicate balance between innovation and ethical considerations in the quest for knowledge. In the discreet confines of Queen's College, nestled in the heart of Saint-Josalyn, a scientific odyssey unfolded, delving into the intersection of cutting-edge research and the enigmatic world of necrobotic spiders. Driven by the relentless pursuit of knowledge, a team of researchers embarked on a groundbreaking experiment that would redefine the boundaries of bioengineering. At the helm of this venture was Dr. Karl Einarsen, a seasoned entomologist. Guided by his vision, the team, including the formidable Dr. Anu Sildre, a geneticist, and the innovative, Dr. Marek Olsen, set out to unravel the secrets hidden within the realm of necrobotics. Necrobotics, the fusion of robotics and the study of necrotic spiders, became the focal point of the team's endeavors. The researchers sought to harness the unique attributes of these spiders and integrate them seamlessly with cutting-edge robotic technology. Within the state-of-the-art laboratories of Queen's College, Dr. Sildre's expertise in genetic manipulation and Dr. Olsen's mastery of robotics converged. The goal was to create a groundbreaking synergy where the innate capabilities of necrotic spiders could be augmented and controlled through meticulous engineering. As the experiment progressed, the necrobotic spiders, now imbued with enhanced capabilities, underwent rigorous testing. The researchers scrutinized their venomous prowess, adaptability, and intelligence, pushing the boundaries of what was previously thought possible. The laboratory became a crucible of innovation, where the relentless pursuit of knowledge met the tangible realities of arachnid bioengineering.

Courtship of the Kings Seven winters passed since the vanquishing of the Berganisk tribes, and Queen Tamar, her name echoing through the winds like a distant thunderstorm, ruled with sagacity and might. In those days of yore, three royal suitors sought the hand of Queen Tamar, drawn by the luster of her realm. The first, Tonn, bore a regal countenance, yet his gaze was veiled by vanity and nearsightedness. The second, Olev, was piously devoted, but his reverence for the divine eclipsed the needs of his folk. The third, Jumal, harbored ambitions as fierce as the northern winds, heedless of the welfare of his subjects. With grandiosity befitting their stations, the three kings approached Queen Tamar, each seeking favor. Yet, the queen, with discerning eyes akin to the falcon's gaze, perceived the flaws that tainted the brilliance of each. To Tonn, the vain, she spoke words as sharp as the blade at her side. "A king's sight must not be clouded by his own reflection. Beauty is fleeting, but the legacy of a benevolent ruler endures like the northern lights." Olev, the pious, found himself admonished by Tamar's unwavering gaze. "A king's devotion must extend to the realm he governs, not confined to the heavens alone. Your people crave sustenance and justice, not just the solace of prayers." Jumal, the ambitious, faced Tamar's unyielding stare. "Power, if grasped without wisdom and compassion, is but a weapon of tyrants. A king should be a shepherd, not a wolf amidst his flock." Enraged by these lessons in humility, service to the folk, and equality, each king, in the manner of the berserkers of old, drew his weapon. Tonn unsheathed his sword, Olev gripped a mace, and Jumal brandished a spear. They struck at Tamar, blinded by wounded pride and unbridled ambition. Yet, Tamar, like a Valkyrie in the dance of battle, moved with the grace of the northern winds, deflecting their blows with a skill forged in the crucible of conflict. She spared their lives but claimed their crowns, a symbol of the humility and service they failed to grasp. The tale of the thwarted courtship and the dethroned kings spread like the whispering breeze through the ancient fjords. The subjects of each realm began to see Tamar not as a conqueror but as a liberator and rightful queen. The realm expanded, and peace descended like the gentle caress of snow upon an ever-expanding dominion. Thus, the Courtship of the Kings became a chapter in the saga of Tamar, the queen whose wisdom, humility, and martial prowess united realms and brought prosperity to the lands beneath her just and compassionate rule. The people hailed her not merely as a warrior queen but as a sovereign whose heart beat in harmony with the well-being of her folk.

The Coming of Tamar In the age of ancient mists, when shadows played upon the tapestry of time, there strode forth a warrior queen named Tamar, a colossus with tresses of chestnut, flowing like the russet leaves of autumn, and a countenance kissed by the ancient sun, imbuing her with olive-hued radiance. Her eyes, a vibrant green adorned with flecks of precious gold, mirrored the fires that blazed within her spirit. From the bosom of her ancestral lands, Tamar marched northward, a formidable procession of ten thousand warriors marching to the cadence of destiny. The People of the River, in their hour of need, had dispatched emissaries, invoking Tamar's aid against the marauding Berganisk tribesmen. The thundering war drums of desperation had resounded through the ages, reaching her ears. With a visage etched in determination and a sword clasped to her side, Tamar, akin to a tempest given flesh, led her mighty host through the craggy expanses of the northern realms. The very air seemed to hum with the echoes of their march, a prelude to the saga unfolding in the chronicles of antiquity. As Tamar approached the field of strife, where the clash of arms and the lamentations of the oppressed composed a haunting symphony, she beheld the vast theater of conflict. The Berganisk tribesmen, fierce and unyielding, loomed like an insurmountable tempest. Yet, Tamar stood undaunted, a radiant beacon in the gathering storm. The battle erupted, a dance of blades meeting blades, and the earth quivered beneath the weight of fate. Tamar, with the grace of a hunting falcon and the ferocity of a she-wolf guarding her progeny, wove through the chaos, her sword singing a ballad of liberation. Her warriors, inspired by her valor, fought as if each stroke of their weapons was a stanza in an ageless hymn. Amidst the ebb and flow of conflict, Tamar's prowess proved unmatched. She carved a path through the ranks of the Berganisk tribesmen, her sword a divine implement of justice. The rivers of crimson flowed, and the very soil seemed to groan beneath the tumult of the confrontation. In the heart of battle, Tamar confronted the chieftain of the Berganisk, a formidable adversary with eyes reflecting the storms of the northern seas. The clash of their weapons resonated like thunder, and sparks ascended like celestial embers. Tamar, resolute and unyielding, emerged triumphant, and the chieftain's surrender echoed through the battlefield like a zephyr. With the Berganisk chieftain kneeling in submission, Tamar, her voice resonating with the authority of ancient times, proclaimed terms of peace. The invading hordes were subdued, and the People of the River, rescued from the encroaching darkness, hailed Tamar as their deliverer and queen. The saga of Tamar, the ancient warrior queen, inscribed itself upon the scrolls of time, a tale of valor, sacrifice, and the indomitable spirit that rises to meet the challenges of a bygone era. Her name, a radiant luminary in the tapestry of history, stood as a testament to the enduring might of those who brandish the sword in the pursuit of justice and salvation.

Palace Intrigue is the Result of a Multi-Year Revamp A centuries-old structure in Cambria's foothill region stands out thanks to a thoughtful, thorough restoration by Katja Venere In the heart of Olinapol, the White City of Cambria, lies the recently restored Palatine 2150 Boutique Hotel & Spa—a project destined to be. Design visionaries, Kaspar Lind and Riho Kannel, founders of Saint-Josalyn-based X Living, unexpectedly found themselves captivated by the allure of a 11th-century red palace during a leisurely visit to the Adana region. "We were immediately drawn to the potential of the centuries-old gem," shares Lind. "It was unthinkable not to make it a hotel; it really is just too beautiful to stay hidden." Over a meticulous three-year period, the former Cambrian palace, once home to the city's inaugural mayor and various other historical figures, underwent a revival. Traditional handcrafted techniques, infused with a touch of modern flair, breathed new life into every nook and cranny. A nod to Tamaric Red, a prestigious status symbol in the 18th century, graced an entire façade, standing as a testament to the wealth of that era amidst Olinapol's iconic whitewashed structures. The restoration journey revealed daily surprises, from fireplaces and stone vaults to frescoes dating back to the 1000s. The careful resurrection of smaller details, like a 11th-century cloister-style wooden door, hinted at the building's past as a possible convent. While blending the old with the new presented its challenges, such as the meticulous restoration of the entire roof, the effort was rewarded. Each of the hotel's 12 guestrooms, named after gemstones, boasts a unique identity, adorned with treasures sourced from antique fairs, shops, and markets worldwide. "The main inspiration was to create exquisite design in every detail with beautiful energy while also preserving and celebrating the history of the building," explains Kannel. Bistro 2150, nestled in a centuries-old vaulted stone room, opens onto a transformed traditional oil mill. The terrace extends to the swimming pool and garden, adorned with herbs and an pear orchard. Bar 2150 and the lounge, centered around a nearly 30-foot-long stone counter clad in antique Varanian tin plates, beckon guests with muted colors, inscribed eyes, and soft elements. A hidden gem lies 23 feet underground—the hotel's spa, housed in an ancient water cistern. This luxurious escape features a hydromassage basin, steam bath, spa shower with chromotherapy, and a relaxing lounge adorned with Nieubasrian salt walls. "We wanted to create something that didn't already exist, a hotel that is truly a one-off and that offers well-traveled guests an authentic Adanan experience," adds Lind. "A home away from home, if you will." The Palatine 2150 is a harmonious blend of history, luxury, and Cambrian design ingenuity.

In the darkened entrance tunnel, moments before the match... "Nelson, mate, turkey for Thanksgiving? It's like watching paint dry. Bland, dry, and utterly forgettable," Nelson quipped, his words sharp and to the point. His dark eyes gleamed with a hint of mischief as he leaned against the tunnel wall. Christian shot back with a grin, his quick-witted retort hanging in the air like a challenge. "Nelson, you've got it all wrong, sunshine. Thanksgiving is about tradition, and turkey is the undisputed heavyweight champ of the holiday table. Versatility, my friend! You can roast it, fry it, smoke it – it's the triple threat of festive fowl." The banter continued, a rapid-fire exchange echoing the patter and rhythms of a Ray Gitchie film. "Versatility? It's a damn bird, Christian, not a Recuecian Army knife. I'd rather have a tradition of enjoying my meal. How 'bout we spice it up with some chili or throw in some jerk chicken for a real celebration?" Nelson countered. But Christian, leaning in with a conspiratorial air, explained the beauty of a well-cooked turkey like a seasoned football coach detailing a winning strategy. "Nelson, you're missing the point, my man. Thanksgiving is about coming together, sharing a meal that screams 'Braya. Turkey embodies that spirit, and it's like a culinary handshake with history." Nelson chuckled, his grin widening. "'Braya, huh? I'd rather be shaking hands with a plate full of flavor. Our Adaikian brothers got it right with their hearty stews and savory pies. Now, that's a celebration on a plate." "Fair play, Nelson, but when you're savoring your exotic feast, just remember the warm embrace of a perfectly roasted turkey. It's a classic, like a vintage scotch or a well-placed penalty kick," Christian remarked with a knowing grin. Nelson, smirking in response, shot back, "Classic, huh? I'll stick to being a maverick in the culinary arena. Let's just hope our performance on the pitch today is more exciting than this banter." With a nod of mutual respect, the players exchanged a competitive glance before heading towards the pitch, leaving their Thanksgiving meal debate hanging in the air like the prelude to a high-stakes match.

Tensions Escalate Over Bilyad By Aldo Spears, International Affairs Correspondent November 17, 1423 In a dramatic escalation of regional tensions, two Cambrian fighter jets were dispatched to patrol the skies over the nation of Bilyad, enforcing a controversial no-fly zone. The move has ignited concerns about the potential for further instability in the already volatile region. The fighter jets, piloted by veteran naval aviatiors, undertook the mission in response to what Cambrian officials claim were repeated violations of the designated airspace by unidentified aircraft. Bilyadi authorities have vehemently denied any wrongdoing, insisting that their airspace remains sovereign and accusing Cambria of unwarranted aggression. The no-fly zone, established by an international coalition last month, is intended to ensure the safety and security of the region amid growing geopolitical tensions. However, the enforcement of such zones often raises questions about the delicate balance between preserving national sovereignty and preventing potential conflicts. Captain Reinvald, speaking exclusively to our correspondent from the new multinational base in Ryxtylopia, expressed the gravity of the situation. "Our mission is to uphold the principles of international law and ensure the safety of the region," he stated, emphasizing the importance of maintaining stability in the face of escalating tensions. Captain Reinvald continued, adding, "We are committed to following established protocols and avoiding any unnecessary provocations. Our goal is to ensure that the no-fly zone is respected and that regional peace is maintained." The international community has been quick to respond to the Cambrian military intervention. Diplomatic channels are buzzing with activity as world leaders and envoys from various nations work tirelessly to defuse the situation. The Astorian Union has called for an emergency session to address the escalating tensions and prevent the situation from spiraling out of control. Critics argue that the enforcement of a no-fly zone by military means could exacerbate tensions rather than resolve them. The delicate diplomatic dance that follows will undoubtedly shape the future of the region and influence the international community's approach to similar conflicts in the future. As the world watches with bated breath, the skies over Bilyad remain tense, echoing the uncertainty that grips the region. The actions taken by Cambrian fighter jets represent a pivotal moment, with the potential to either defuse the situation or plunge the region into further turmoil.

Team Information Style mod: 3.8 Formation: 2-3-5 Home stadium: Union Arena, cap. 75,000 Head Coach: Giovanni Dos Santos Assistant Coaches: Marco Savarese, Greenne Velach Goalkeeping Coach: Cory Highsmith Roster Goalkeepers (4): Andrew Meredith, Aljaz Sulte, Thomas Irons Defenders (5): Tony Arreaga, Jalil Ebobisse, Jaroslaw Zuparic, Jorge Alfaro, Laurens Mallory, Gadsden Jeffries Midfielders (7): Abram King, Vincent Taney, Bill Nyassi, Victor Rosales, Cristian Moffat, Andreas Atencio, Chad Mears Forwards (12): Miguel Montero, Jordan Noonan, Dixon Pomeroy, Yimmi Nkufo, Diego Ruidiaz, Renzo Valeri, Emery Veere, Fredy Ochoa, Sammy Ocampo, Nelson Ibarra, Cam White, Jacob Carter Starters are underlined. Formation Kit Home (L), Away (C), Alternate (R) Style modifier 3.8 Home stadium Union Arena (RP) Players may be injured Yes (RP) Players may receive yellow cards Yes (RP) Players may receive red cards Yes No godmodding; Consult prior to carding.