Poster Submit to Synnove


Lord of Altera

Posters are put up throughout the Continent, though specifically in Storm’s Landing, Thorne, and Blackstone.

To the MURDERER, Tirius Westergard,

On this mortal plane, I am
Synnove’s Servant. When the Light requires a deed done, my horse is the first saddled, my sword is the first to be drawn, and my armor is the first to be donned.

Submit to
Synnove. Your sins are without question. Your guilt is assured. Your death is without doubt. Submit, and they will be short. I will no longer sit idly by while your blood-drenched hands sit unpunished. Your brother, the coward Forrest Westergard, is dead by my action. He has entered Synnove’s Embrace and been deemed guilty.

I do not forget your crimes. You will burn in Hell for the murder of Sir Gael Dugald, Eviscist, husband, and father. You will burn in Hell for the murder of Lord Brennard Westmay, Eviscist, husband, and father.

You are nothing but a rat, scurrying away from the Light that would otherwise burn you. In the likely event that you should decline this challenge due to your own incompetent sense of justice, lack of skill and cowardly mannerisms, then it should come as no surprise, that Hawklight has fallen even further than it already has.

Come forth, Murderer. I await your presence.

Sir Podric Flanders,
Blessed of
Lord of Thorne

Tags: Lannis Tohm LeftwardElk
Last edited:


Lord of Altera
Some crusader now in his late 20s plodded through the streets, probably buying some bread and perhaps some Sundown melons, coming to a halt as he looked at some posters on a message board. Using a knife to cut into some of his bread he slid some butter onto the toast and retrieved one of the posters, then took two, then took another and proceeded to go and sit down at one of his hovels, sighing as he brought his hands to his head, digits wrapping about his ears.

Kain then took in his breath, being one of the few of his kind, and boldly so; drawing off his hood, revealing his seemingly ethereal visage. A tattered, nigh-draconic cloak flows slowly behind him, seemingly fashioned recently adorns it’s back and clasped just over the besagne of his chestplate; it too flows with short regality as he moved to sit down near a bonfire. He tossed two of the copies of this poster into the blaze, embers taking a blaze in his paling blue eyes.

The man frowns, the clink and clash of his spurs hit the floor and gathering of dirt that comprise the floor of the building; retrieving a couple of things, a bottle of inconsistent liquids, some wax - a couple other things, yes. He sighs, opting to get a couple glasses after washing his hands and held them up to some light so as to assure it was clean and began making the drink. Having poured some celery salt onto a tiny plate.

Opted to turn the glass upside down, and press the rim down onto the celery salt. Twist the glass slightly to ensure that the rim is well coated, and then add enough ice to the glass to fill it- this of course being done with a slice of lemon. The man doesn't make too much of a show from it, frowning as he turned to his last copy, figuring he should read it. He saw an old sigil of the Lady of Light, after all.

Poured a couple ounces of pressed tomato and proceeds to pour in the vodka soon after, all the same a bit of vodka. He refrains from adding in the equivalent to bitters for their sake and retrieved a couple tiny mint leaves as well as a tiny-tiny spoon of paprika and shook once more and poured out. He then proceeds to garnish it, a tiny bout of celery and the remainder of the lemon slice and placed it along the rim.

Arike then proceeds to toast some slices of bread over some butter on a pan, his lungs still affected by asthma, he then proceeds to look at the night sky as he turned his singular eye to the poster; the ghoulish gaze he always carried, that disturbing visage. It was hard to believe that God had ever considered him a radiant. He then perused the poster; his voice croaking.

"Ah know 'ay can't exactly talk, ah've checked out of this realm 'ah couple times according le Hamish und Podric. But shit, man, they're still kicking? I'm doing my job wrong. Wait, I sit on a throne of rocks. Ah, whatever. Nope, can't get back into it. Just gonna give th' Rod my old gear, again, that is."

The crusader creaked, now finally eating his toast and sipped from his not!bloody mary, sighing as he tossed the last poster into a bonfire; hoping Ignis would just let his old friend kill the bad guy, or whatever. Gods turned their backs on Man after the Great War anyway. He looked to the stars after eating and placed his crossbow in the nook of his elbow, placing a bolt in it and dragged back the draw, bringing his hand away from the tickler as he then gazed to the door, now he would sleep.

He couldn't sleep, Podric was trying to do honor with a murderer, he got up and went for his horse, his joints creaking.