//R.I.P nafaei

She was a fellow Hannibal player who has passed away two hours ago. Her name was Olga. Her fiance, Jeanette posted the news 27 minutes ago and deleted the blog.  

I’m leaving this in her memory, even if we never got to play or talk at all. 

Just putting it here too so people who don't follow my other blog don't wonder where I am:

The love of my life just passed away. I'm not in a place to deal right now. I'll come back soon, I'll probably need a bloody distraction anyway but for the moment I just want to grieve.

askdusty:

Dust respectfully inclined her head as Madanach spoke, listening carefully. She was fascinated. He truly intended to uprise, didn’t he? To conquer Markarth and take it for his own, his people again. Such a feat seemed impossible, but the impossible had happened before, hadn’t it?

Briefly, she wondered which side she rooted for.

"Congratulations on your escape, in any case. And I thank you for the wine." She spoke idly, at the moment, now taking in her surroundings. The camp looked well-supplied enough, and not quite busy at the moment but alive nevertheless. Her eyes strayed quickly what was undoubtedly an alchemist’s station, with typical and stranger ingredients - eyes, hagraven feathers, goat horns. Had her father worked with these? A shake of her head and she focused back on the camp and her host once more, turning to meet his gaze.

"You do well here, it seems. Are all the others fellows from prison?"

He took a long drink of his own wine and nodded.  "Thank you.  It was... quite the escape, if I do say so myself.  Bloody, if that's a good thing.  Might be.  Only word I can use."  He sighed, sounding weary.  Not bloody enough, if one asked him.  He fully intended to take the whole world out if he had to, but he wouldn't say no to some cooperation.

Some sympathy even, fellow-feeling for the angry natives who just want their land back.

He noticed her eyes dart toward the alchemist's table, followed her gaze and believed, then, that she probably wasn't lying about being an alchemist.  Not that he really thought she had, but prison had taught him little more than to mistrust everything anyone says.

"Some are.  Others were here before we escaped and let us stay.  The rest came when they heard I was out, young people willing to spill blood in my name."

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bun-rp:

He’d heard, he’d heard! Rémi had heard that Madanach himself was free! Rémi had asked the Matriarch of Hag Rock redoubt where he was, and instantly gone to find him. He really wanted to meet him!

And so he made his way there, bursting into the redoubt and seeking out his King. Where was he?

It wasn't a common sight, a Briarheart warrior popping into the redoubt like that one did, looking far more excited than Madanach had ever seen one of those guys look in his life. Strange, definitely strange.

"You there! What do you want?"

My Hero! [Rémi.Madanach]

[Headcanon] Instruments of the Reach

The first and primary instrument of the Reach is the voice. The Reachmen are not as a rule very wealthy—although they do not lack in silver too many wars have left them without their own resources and governance of trade—and so in lieu of spending coin and supplies on making instruments they rely on storytelling and song. The Reachmen have a rich oral tradition, with many songs of heroes, spell-charms, and legends or hymns of the Old Gods. One signicant corpus deals with working songs, divided into tasks like herding, milking, fishing, weaving, etc. and are extremely common. (Think all the Gaelic working songs like lowing songs, etc)

Actual instruments are varied and can be more primitive than their counterparts in other holds. Frame drums are often used, played with hands and fingers, bones, or bodhran style tipper. “Playing the bones” with a pair of goat ribs is a common form of percussion. Bone and wood flutes are also common, as are solid-bodied wooden panpipes. (Check out the Jorvik panpipes for a good example.) Larger and louder frame drums are common for warfare and public forms of music. Strings of clattering bones and silver sistrums are used as well as rhythmic percussion in religious as well as secular contexts.

Peculiar to the Reach is the bone or antler lyre. Antler is prefered for the arms, with juniper or goat bone as close seconds. It may have a juniper soundboard. The body is typically imported or raid-gotten wood framed and covered in stretched goatskin. The lyre is strung with gut, bridge made of bone or horn, and may be decorated with symbols of the Old Gods and Reachlore. It is played plucked with a plectrum of thorn and often accompanies a singer.

As a final addition, in past time silver horns were used in warfare. Now these instruments are mostly made of horn. Tibiae made from bone are also plausible.

lispus replied to your post:{Bedtime!  Goodnigt everyone.  You’ve all been so...

{ thats so gay }

{You're gay! omgod! Mean whyam i marryng you?}

{Bedtime!  Goodnigt everyone.  You've all been so accepting of my Madanach I love it I love you.}

askdusty:

"It’s quite alright - I agree with you. Not all the Nords are that way, I find, but enough are that one must be cautious." A soft sigh. She strode easily with him into the camp, giving a small smile. "Beneficial for you, I suppose. I wouldn’t say no to some wine, no."

She almost stopped short when he said it. Prison. A slight shudder moved down her shoulders before she steadied, reminding herself - Cidhna Mines - not the prison she’d been in, the Thalmor’s cells. But just as bad, she suspected, if not worse. She’d only been trapped a few months. Twenty years…

"… No, I suppose not. I know that well enough." She breathed inward through her teeth before releasing air in a soft hiss. "But my anger lies with the Thalmor, not the Silverbloods. In any case, how did you ever come to escape? I - "

Memory. Rumours, panicked and only half-believed at the time, since she hadn’t seen, but… 'the escape from the mines. Forsworn, rampaging across the city! The King in Rags freed them, and he's going to bring back the Forsworn to slaughter us!'

She stopped short to gaze at the man, eyes flickering in recognition. “… The King in Rags. I thought I recognized your name.”

"Enough are.  More'n enough.  Too damn many.  I've met maybe two, three Nords tops who I could stand and that's not near enough."  And admittedly, he didn't give many a chance but they'd stolen his ancestral homeland so he thought he wasn't being too far out of line.  One can get away with a lot when someone steals a whole ancestral homeland as far as Madanach was concerned.

When she spoke about knowing, he almost said something.  Didn't.  Couldn't.  Words were useless, he knew that all too well.  He wasn't sure what the Thalmor were like to prisoners but judging by how they were with everything else, he was certain he could guess.  Not pretty.

"I got out...  Well, a Dwarven tunnel.  Locked up tight but not near tight enough.  Myself, and those men in there with me, well...  It took some planning, some work, some organization, but it got done."

It wasn't a pretty day, but it was the proudest one he had since his imprisonment so he'd take pride in it he would.

"King in Rags... not anymore.  I'm in hide and bone now.  Soon I'll be King on the Mournful Throne, I swear it.  For now, I'll settle for a king with wine in his hand," he said, going to fetch a bottle once they reached the camp proper, as well as a couple glasses.  Well, cups really but that was details.

askdusty started following you

theothertullygirl started following you

One day, Madanach was sure, people would learn not to go wandering in the Reach. One day. Not this day, obviously because that woman was getting awfully close to his camp and while he doubted she was a threat per se, he had to do something.

"You there! You! Put up your hands or I'll send an ice spike through you!"

wrathfulandsullen:

"Really?! Oh gosh, thanks!"

It was obvious by now that Thavrin lacked a proper fear of the Reachmen. He was all smiles as he made his way toward Madanach. He wanted so desperately to ask if he’d ever met his sister, but there was no way it was possible. That was a different time, different circumstances, long before everything literally had come undone.

Still, there was one thing he could ask. “My name’s Thavrin of Ill Omen! What’s your name?”

"You're..." A pause.  "You're welcome."

Madanach was noticing the other's lack of fear of the Reachmen and he wasn't sure of how annoyed to be at it.  On one hand, Forsworn were supposed to be scary.  On the other, this guy seemed sort of simple.  Madanach dismissed it.  It didn't matter much.

"'Of Ill Omen?'  Really?  Did your parents give you that?" the old Reachman asked.  "Madanach.  I'm Madanach."

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reachman-and-mer:

Dunbrennach stood outside the Redoubt, clad in Forsworn gear for the first time in… too long. Months, maybe. It was a risk, coming home like this, but it was worth it—he’d heard a rumor, that the King in Rags was free, and that he was going to muster the Forsworn. So he had donned his old armor, covered his face in warpaint, and made his way to Druadach Redoubt. Once inside, however, he stopped, looking for the older figure inside. When he spotted him, he came as close as he dared before stopping a few paces away.

"Madanach," he began, a bit quietly, as if in disbelief, then stood straight and grinned. "My king. I-I heard… I heard you’d been freed. I’m glad to see it’s true. Dunbrennach, son of Rhydderch. My father fought with you in Markarth, when I was small."

While he was trying to look every inch the Forsworn warrior, he couldn’t help but feel like a child, remembering the last time he had even seen the King of the Reach. How old had Dunbrennach been, then? Seven? Eight?

Since getting out of the cursed silver mine, Madanach had been visited often enough by Reachmen.  Volunteers for the resistance effort or those with battle plans were his favorite sorts.  Really, though, he wasn't picky.  There was a little part of him, buried deep enough that he could easily deny it existed, that just liked visitors.  He hadn't had any in years, and now his brethren were seeing him nearly every day, and there were always new ones, all bright-eyed and hopeful.  Ready to help.  Ready to spill blood.  Ready to do what it took.

This one looked like one of those, and Madanach stood up straight, all efforts to look like a king.  "It's good to see you here."  It was.  "I remember your father."  He did.  Rhydderch was a familiar name, come to think of it.

Oh, what had happened to him?  It was all so long ago.

"What brings you here now?"

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beggarking:

King of the Reach. Now that was interesting. The Thalmor did, in fact, dabble enough in politics to turn their own favor. As it was, Igmund was still in high favor with his people. “And how do you propose to become king of the reach with a Jarl still seated comfortably in Markarth?” He asked dryly.

His eyes strayed briefly to the man’s spelled hand, before offering a smug smile. “Your destruction magic against mine? I hardly think you would be foolish enough to instigate a war of the Thalmor against the Forsworn.”

"By killing him, of course.  Nords seem to like that sort of thing anyway.  And if they don't like it, I'll have to kill them too."  He sounded nonchalant.  Really, it was just him not feeling like he owed a Thalmor agent an explanation.

"Do you want me to shove an ice spike through that smug grin of yours?  I can arrange it.  We kill your Talos-hunters from time to time.  Not because we love Talos, but to leave a message, see.  No one's safe in the Reach," he said, but he didn't want to start anything serious with the Dominion.  Not really.  Of course, what was one more enemy?

beggarking started following you

askdusty:

"It is, isn’t it? I’ve noticed that, in the city. Bretons are either working the mines, living in squalor, or hiding in the wealth they’ve accrued. I suppose they fear retaliation, otherwise." A soft sigh and she followed, cane scraping on stone as she moved briskly in step with him towards the camp.

"A drink would be very much welcome." She smiled, cocking her head and giving a little laugh. "Twenty years? Some time. Do travelers rarely pass by here, or do you simply rarely invite them over? I suppose I should feel flattered, mm?"

She chuckled, but inwardly her thoughts were elsewhere. Madanach - where had she heard that name before? Some time ago, distant, familiar but unplaceable. She kept it quietly in the back of her mind for now.

"The Nords work so hard to keep the Reachmen down that sometimes the High Rock Bretons end up getting kicked in the face for looking too similar," he said, then shook his head.  "Sorry.  Didn't mean to bring up politics like that."  By this point, it sort of just happened.

"What do you take?  We've got... wine mostly.  A shipment passed too close, bound for Markarth and, well, nobody was hurt but now we're rich in wines."  They also had a few local brews, but they were an acquired taste and Madanach knew it.

"Prison, actually," he said with a laugh.  "I've been in that damnable silver mine for twenty gods-damned years.  I'd long forgotten the sun by the time I finally got out.  And sadly, no guests in prison."

askdusty started following you

{If you aren't already, you should totally be following my fiancée's blog.}

askdusty:

Dust kept her expression neutral, but noted the rise of the Reachman’s brows. No doubt he was skeptical. Her features were somewhat more reminiscent of Reachfolk, yes, but she doubted her manner or clothing fit. “Most don’t.” At his offer she smiled, giving a polite nod. “… I would like that, I think. Ingredients can wait for a time. Thank you.”

"I don't disbelieve either," he said, quickly.  "It's hard to tell just from looking at a person.  'S why a lot of folk from High Rock avoid the Reach.  Don't want to get lumped in with the natives."  He gestured for her follow, then turned back toward camp.  "Sure.  Sure.  You want anything to eat?  Drink?  Supposed to offer that to guests, right?  Gods, haven't had a guest in... twenty years or so..."

askdusty started following you

castledourmaid:

Menelri’s temper has finally reached a boiling point. “…Yes…As a matter of fact, there is…” Menelri pulls out the shiv and slashes him on the chest to, at least, leave a thin and not-so-deep yet long cut. “…Don’t. Call me shit…” She prepares herself for a fight for her life as she has no armor on nor does she have her battleaxe, the same battleaxe that earned her the nickname The Soul Reaper of High Rock back in her days as a bandit. Now she feels as weak as a little child.

The attack surprises Madanach, but his reflexes haven't dulled.  His arm goes up as soon as she swings and his chest, at least, is safe.  Still, he hisses in pain and dons his mage armor before anything else.  Stoneflesh is a useful spell, and in a second, a frost spell is on the other hand but he doesn't use it.  Yet.  He just backs away, all defensive for the moment.  "You sure you want to do this?  Kill me and you'll never leave here alive.  The men here are fiercely loyal, you know..."

castledourmaid started following you

castledourmaid:

"All I want to know is why you chose to kill civilians?! People who aren’t involved in whatever it is you’re trying to do! And the way your people attacked merchants, adventurers, Khajiit caravans, and even people who are moving from one place to another, tells me that it had nothing to do with survival!" Menelri is becoming even angrier at this man. To think he’d pull this survival nonsense out of no where. "And, no, Weylin is dead. I tried to just simply hurt him but he turned and tried to stab me, so I killed him in self-defense. But that market incident shouldn’t matter, what really matters is why you decide to kill innocent people. You better explain yourself. Now."

"I don't owe you anything, girl, least of all an explanation but you'll get one anyway.  I'm going to explain this slowly, so even your little brain can understand," he says, voice getting lower and lower as he gets angrier and angrier.  Oh, yes, the shouting is a sign he's in good spirits, or good enough.  His rage manifests itself more quietly.  "You think that woman you saved isn't involved?  She wouldn't be a target if she wasn't.  As for the people attacked on the road, maybe this didn't occur to you but I can't control the tribes from in here.  Everything that happens outside Markarth isn't anything I can control.  Now, since I've answered your��questions, you entitled little shit, I'll ask, was there anything else?"

castledourmaid started following you