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by Reverend Norv » Tue Jul 29, 2014 11:49 am
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647
A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
by The Grey Wolf » Tue Jul 29, 2014 12:36 pm
by Occupied Deutschland » Tue Jul 29, 2014 4:37 pm
by Cylarn » Wed Jul 30, 2014 10:07 am
by Nature-Spirits » Wed Jul 30, 2014 1:42 pm
by Rupudska » Wed Jul 30, 2014 2:11 pm
Cylarn wrote:Job lost his wood when they came across the demon. His eyes grew wide as his gazed upon her, seeing the black liquid dropping from the shirts into the stream. Every Reiver knew of this omen, of what it meant for men of violence. In Job's mind, the Washer was a demonic presence, symbolizing the proximity of death to the group. At this realization, his skin turned pale white and his hands began to shake. When the eyes of the demon fixed upon the group, he grew even colder, muttering something about the Lord under his breath as he was otherwise frozen in fear. Even his pony began to slowly step back and whine somewhat. The shriek came next, and Job let out a scream of terror, just as his horse reared back, neighing loudly. Despite his fear, Job brought the creature under control. They were going to die tonight; they had no other option. If they turned back, they would be facing dishonor and the collapse of the prestige that came with their Name.
"We-we...have to ke-keep ridin', brother," Job said, trying to muster up some courage. "We can't turn back now."
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties
by Nude East Ireland » Wed Jul 30, 2014 2:34 pm
by Nationstatelandsville » Fri Aug 01, 2014 10:10 pm
by Cylarn » Mon Aug 04, 2014 1:23 pm
The Grey Wolf wrote:-snip-
by Reverend Norv » Wed Aug 06, 2014 11:57 am
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647
A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
by Reverend Norv » Wed Aug 06, 2014 12:06 pm
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647
A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
by Nationstatelandsville » Wed Aug 06, 2014 12:40 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:Robert, Job, and Iron Kenneth were trapped near the bastle house itself, their backs to its wall; nearby, White Kester’s horse galloped away at random, its master still slumped a-dying in its saddle. Almost a dozen riders had closed in around the three men, and one of them trotted forward amidst the chaos. The fellow was a big man, lean-shanked, broad across the chest and shoulders; he hurled his morion to the ground, revealing a shaggy mane of dark hair, and bared his teeth. “Know ye this, Roger Elliot!” the rider roared over the din of the battle. “I am Arthur Thomson! Sixteen years ago, ye slew my brither in cold blood, and fled my kin and our friends. Four years hence, I took your brither in return. And now ye also ha’ come home ta die.” Arthur smiled, and blood dripped down his chin. “Truly, God is good!” And with that, he charged, and his men charged with him, and the world vanished in a blinding hurricane of clashing steel.
by Cylarn » Wed Aug 06, 2014 8:21 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:Robert, Job, and Iron Kenneth were trapped near the bastle house itself, their backs to its wall; nearby, White Kester’s horse galloped away at random, its master still slumped a-dying in its saddle. Almost a dozen riders had closed in around the three men, and one of them trotted forward amidst the chaos. The fellow was a big man, lean-shanked, broad across the chest and shoulders; he hurled his morion to the ground, revealing a shaggy mane of dark hair, and bared his teeth. “Know ye this, Roger Elliot!” the rider roared over the din of the battle. “I am Arthur Thomson! Sixteen years ago, ye slew my brither in cold blood, and fled my kin and our friends. Four years hence, I took your brither in return. And now ye also ha’ come home ta die.” Arthur smiled, and blood dripped down his chin. “Truly, God is good!” And with that, he charged, and his men charged with him, and the world vanished in a blinding hurricane of clashing steel.
by Occupied Deutschland » Thu Aug 07, 2014 12:34 am
by Cylarn » Thu Aug 07, 2014 3:18 am
by Nature-Spirits » Thu Aug 07, 2014 11:34 am
by The Grey Wolf » Sat Aug 09, 2014 9:27 pm
by Reverend Norv » Sun Aug 10, 2014 7:08 am
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647
A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
by Cylarn » Sun Aug 10, 2014 12:36 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:-snip-
by Rupudska » Sun Aug 10, 2014 2:15 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:Tall Rory found himself at bay on the edge of the fight, with three riders spurring toward him and no one nearby, but the moor was open under the moon behind him. His kin, though, were in front of him, and they could not flee with such ease. And now one of the Scotts was raising a pistol, and Rory could see the man’s gritted teeth gleaming white in the moonlight behind his beard, and there was no more time to think, only to act.
Reverend Norv wrote:Outside, Kinmont Willie was still screaming. “If ye canna gie me bread and ale, perhaps ye can gie me cattle in their stead, hmm? Your hamesteads are all quite empty, and the poor beasts are just a-wandering the land wi no man ta guide them. Tis a crime, so tis, ta leave them thus. Perhaps when your menfolk cross the Esk again – oh, aye, I know whither they ride – perhaps when they return, they will find their cattle gane, eh? And mayhap we shall take a few prizes o a different sort hame as well?”
Abruptly, the Kinmont coughed, and then coughed again, a long and painful sound; one of the reivers took a step toward him, and the skinny man bared his teeth and shrieked like a man in agony, flailing with clawed hands at the empty air. “No!” Willie howled. “No! Get back! All o ye! Back wi’in the earth! Go!”
Bowing his head, the warrior fell back, and the Kinmont turned and stared wildly up at Harelaw. “Gie it me!” he screamed. “Gie it me, ye bastards! I need it! Naw longer can I bear it! Gie it me or I’ll strew your eyeballs on every tree from here ta Newcastle!”
Hladgos wrote:Scantly clad women, more like tanks
seem to be blowing up everyones banks
with airstrikes from girls with wings to their knees
which show a bit more than just their panties
by Nationstatelandsville » Sun Aug 10, 2014 2:20 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:As for Iron Kenneth, he ducked behind his buckler and charged the Thomsons at much the same time as Job began his attack. A sword-blade bounced off his shield with a deafening sound like pots and pans falling onto a stone floor; the impact nearly knocked Kenneth out of his saddle. Another blade slashed across the outside of his thigh, cutting through his trousers and ripping a gouge almost an inch deep through the skin and muscle beneath. A few inches further to the inside of the leg, and Kenneth would have bled out from the femoral artery; as it was, the wound was painful, but not immediately life-threatening. And Kenneth had achieved his goal: the Thomsons scattered, and the blacksmith broke out of the encircling ring. One foeman didn't make it out of the way in time, and the sheer combined mass of Iron Kenneth and his horse crashed into the shoulder of the Thomson's mount and knocked man and beast off their feet. There was a painful crunching sound as the Thomson was crushed into the mud beneath his falling pony.
by Nature-Spirits » Sun Aug 10, 2014 6:09 pm
The Grey Wolf wrote:At the keep, Louisa sat in a chair, facing the wall. Since Robert had left on his horse, she had become despondant, any attempt to speak to her would elicit possibly incoherent mumbling, before she continued to stare at the stone silently. Her trance was finally broken by the sound of horses.
"Robert?" she muttered, rising from her seat and walking to the entrance in a hurry, before realizing that Robert was not there. Her trance broken, she walked up to Elspeth. "What is going on?" she asked, unsure and scared.
Rupudska wrote:It was at this time that Moira chose to do something as incredibly brave as it was incredibly stupid. She, like the rest of the women at the tower, was not on the ground floor, and thanks to her position near the window, was afforded a clear view of Kinmont Willie below. This was very advantageous, because this meant she could throw just about anything she wanted at him.
A vicious grin crept across her face as she decided on what she would use. There was a sizable chamber pot on this floor that was filled to the brim with human waste products and other fluids. It was large, heavy, and just large enough to fit out the window. Gingerly, she picked it up (taking great care not to get any of the contents on her), carried it over to the window above the door, and dumped its contents on Kinmont Willie.
Every.
Single.
Drop.
And when it was empty, she dropped the chamber pot onto the ground below. She didn't see what it hit, as she backed away from the window before it landed, but she hoped it had hit something.
"THARE'S our 'hospitality', ye nameless, milk-drinkin' son o' the prince o' goats! Nou gae from our door and niver darken it with yer presence again!"
Her brief rant done, she ran to the safety of Lileas's side, embracing her tightly. She was white as a sheet.
by Occupied Deutschland » Tue Aug 12, 2014 12:41 pm
Reverend Norv wrote:Elsewhere in the fight, Marcas and Wolfen Willie were swiftly settling their accounts. Marcas' makeshift javelin tore shallowly into the chest of his assailant's horse; then its shaft dropped to the ground, where it caught against a stone, and the horse's continued speed drove the lance-head in almost a foot. The shaft snapped with a sound like a gunshot, and the horse let out a scream; it fell, legs flailing, onto its side, and its rider was crushed beneath it.
Meanwhile, Willie was trying to rally his bandits. It was not going particularly well. The problem with disnamed men was that while you could expect their loyalty and their obedience and even their love, they were still ultimately their own men. A man with a Name would stay and die for his kin without a second thought. A man without a Name, by definition, was his own clan unto himself, and so self-preservation became a sacred duty. The fight had begun to seem suicidal, and Willie's bandits reacted accordingly. Before Willie could manage another word, one more of his men had been slain, and all but two of the rest had scattered, fleeing back toward the Esk.
Fortunately, blood ties were more secure. Marcas fell in behind Willie, and charged the big Scott in the cast-iron cuirass who was swinging an axe at the black sheep of the Elliot family. Before either Marcas or the Scott could land a blow, one of Willie's two remaining bandits threw a lance into the old Scott's horse. But with surprising nimbleness, the big man kicked his feet free of the stirrups and leaped clear of the falling mount. He rolled twice on the ground, and came up on his feet already swinging his axe - straight into the knees of Willie's own mount. The massive bearded axe-blade amputated one of the front legs of Willie's pony at the knee, and the Elliot's horse shrieked and fell.
by Reverend Norv » Tue Aug 12, 2014 7:04 pm
For really, I think that the poorest he that is in England hath a life to live as the greatest he. And therefore truly, Sir, I think it's clear that every man that is to live under a Government ought first by his own consent to put himself under that Government. And I do think that the poorest man in England is not at all bound in a strict sense to that Government that he hath not had a voice to put himself under.
Col. Thomas Rainsborough, Putney Debates, 1647
A God who let us prove His existence would be an idol.
Dietrich Bonhoeffer
by The Grey Wolf » Wed Aug 13, 2014 1:38 pm
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