#jarguund

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Rage

Icy blue turned purple as a furious shade of crimson overtook his vision. The ground quaked and the walls shook; icicles fell from the ceiling and glasses shattered. Sourceless whispers echoed darkly within the confines of his throbbing skull. Thieves! Burglars! his mind roared with anger and confusion. The world is yours and they took it from you! the voices whispered, tantalizing hate dripping with malicious pity. Rage against them! Freeze the plane solid! Take back what is yours! 

Asmund had been filled only with rage. No hunger, no thirst, no weariness: only all-consuming anger. The foolish bard had been launched from Frostwing Meadery as the dragon raised a massive, glacial wall about his establishment. Buildings had collapsed about his icy fortress, and none had dared come close to Frostwing Meadery since. Much time had passed, though the dragon could not tell. He writhed in ecstatic wrath, the interior of his meadery well destroyed. Days, weeks, months: Asmund could not tell. The voice within only spoke of Jarguund and Ravnica, how his artifacts, his people, his worlds, had been stolen. A dark thread of magic had woven a tapestry of despair, of envy; it spoke of his daughter’s death, his failings as a father and a leader, and how he could take it all back.

Of course he listened. Asmund was relatively young for a dragon, and his emotions still were strong, unhoned bludgeons beating at his hearts. Reason had been overcome over the course of many months, and Asmund had taken the other’s quiet counsel. The imagined betrayal of Ivaria, the willing release of the original Astral Cornucopia to Theren, the warnings from the Boros, all added to the other’s whispers, sowing the seeds of doubt and anger. Asmund’s fears, envy, maliciousness, all blend together under the unending whispers. 

The wish for them to stop. The hope the other had brought to him, of rule, of wealth and power. Conflicting thoughts and worries crisscrossed his mind, until that damned bard appeared. The tapestry of the other’s story became apparent, and the apparent work became reality. Thieves! Burglars! What more will you let them take? 

Inside the meadery, Asmund rolled as his violet eyes rolled back. Tables crushed, wood sent flying, glasses crushed. The dragon had not been himself for a long while, but any of his friends would see how fall the Baron had fallen. Asmund was a shadow of his former self: gray-scaled, gaunt, covered in rime, mindlessly bellowing. Frozen pools of blood covered the meadery; in his rage, he had planeswalked across the multiverse, killing randomly, without thought or vision of what he was doing. Carcasses of man and beast littered the floor, uneaten, rent and crushed beneath the raging dragon.

When would the spell be lifted? A small part of Asmund’s mind feared, a tiny hatchling crying out in the murky waters of his consciousness; this tiny piece kept him from ravaging Ravnica or Jarguund, doing its best to contain him. Yet he mostly did not think at all, and only raged.

#i'm so sorry i've been away so long #i hope this makes up for it #rp #magic the gathering #asmund speaks #asmund #asmund frostwing #frostwing meadery #mt #magic: the gathering #magic #roleplay #ravnica #jarguund #rage #i miss roleplaying but my life has been so busy #i barely have time to even look at tumblr and reblog nowadays

[maris-solstice]

Maris, knowing how you're always looking for simpler ways to deal with things on Ravnica, how would you consider a partnership with the Izzet? Considering this new phenomena of dinosaurs, the Izzet has seen many applications for them throughout Ravnica. Law enforcement could benefit from dinosaur cavalry armed with mizzium mortars and those wonderful rockets from Tarkir! I think this could benefit both of our guilds, when we're both on Ravnica. -Asmund, White Dragon of Jarguund

...Noted. I’ll pass a memo to the higher-ups.

[bobstropajo]

I wouldn't want to be misrepresenting the Izzet, but I'm new to Ravnica and was hoping to join the Izzet to conduct certain experiments that may or may not involve lightning, ice, time distortions, and other things possibly involving dinosaurs. Is there a way to officially join and be able to represent the Izzet? - Asmund, the White Dragon of Jarguund

I think you have to have a good project that our leader (or someone high up in the ranks) likes. Other than that, it's easy to join.I'd be careful though, our leader is another dragon and doesn't like competition.

[thetalesofthereneverwood]

Mr. Everwood, how do you feel about planes of ice and snow? My home of Jarguund is a harsh world, but full of beautiful mountains, gorgeous glaciers, wonderful peoples of many races, and would be wonderful to journey through. Also, if I may ask two questions, where is your favorite place to relax on Ravnica? I'm new to the plane and just settling in with the Izzet. Thanks for your time! - Asmund, White Dragon of Jarguund

Well, when it comes to ice and snow, I am fond of it. I remember fondly of a time when I was young when winter would come to Setessa. I loved watching the icicles form and build snow animals at the menagerie. And as for my favorite spot to relax? I have to say the Transguild Promenade. It's great seeing people get along and live their lives, guilded and unguilded.

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Asmund has begun scheming. What do you all think?

#mtg #magic the gathering #magic #mtg fanwalker #fanwalker #asmund #asmund scion of ice #asmund icy lord #jarguund #mtg rp #magic rp #magic fanwalker #planeswalker #new card #deck tech #magic card #custom card #custom magic card #custom magic #grixis

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Heatwave

Howling wind. Blistering sand. The scent of death. The calm blue sky belied the darkness that seemed to hover over the city. Great horns sat on the distant horizon. The shuffling dead and their insect overlords passed through Naktamun, uncaring. The city had fallen months ago, and Asmund had always hated the sight of it. 

Putting his head down and gritting his teeth, the dragon pushed toward the city’s edge, the protective shield around the city no longer standing. The zombies paid him no heed; he was no enemy of theirs, and their singular purpose did not allow them such frivolities as thought. Asmund very much disliked the so-called deities of this world, and avoided them as he wove his way between buildings of sandstone and oddly beautiful monuments to the other, fallen, deities.  Mummies worked as if Bolas’s purge had not occurred. Asmund harrumphed, exuding a sphere of cold; he had always hated this heat.

He had known the route to the God Pharaoh's Throne well, though fallen buildings and obelisks made the crossing slightly more difficult; hugging his wings to his side, he shivered at the thought of attempting to fly through the sand blasted air. The dragon’s feet worked well enough. Gingerly he stepped around squads of blue undead, their drill and precision a leftover from life; some magic he would consider learning, in the future. Asmund felt other life, now far into the desert, and another powerful being. Survivors, most likely, led by one of their gods. A secret to keep, though he knew it would be a struggle to keep.

Minutes passed as Asmund surveilled the damage the Hours had wrought. Though certainly not a casual stroll, he had not the time the last time he had come through; the insects and zombies were still raging, and his partner had been quite busy at the time. Now, however, Asmund came upon the great horned Elder, casually speaking with a man, the metal on his arm an annoying glint in the midday sun. 

“Ah, Asmund, my old friend,” the Elder’s voice was calm, charming, very much like a mesmerizing serpent. “Come closer, so we may speak.” Asmund had little choice but to oblige. He climbed the steps to the metal throne, eyeing the other planeswalker. Tezzeret, if he recalled properly, bowed his head and quickly depart, the purples of the Blind Eternities taking him. 

“It is good to see you, Bolas,” Asmund replied, his voice formal, measured. He dipped his head in acknowledgment as he sat before the throne. It was certainly a bold move, pretending they were equals. “I see you have accomplished much here,” Asmund continued, “though to what end, I am sure you will enlighten me.” Arching an eye crest, he swept a wing out to encompass the city. The hot air immediately bit into the soft membranes of his wing, causing the younger dragon to quickly bring it back to his body. 

Nicol Bolas’s laugh echoed hollowly over the sands, “Indeed, Asmund, indeed. The fruits of my labors are nearly complete. I have so little time to execute my plan.” His voice turned morose, the horns on the horizon perfectly framing his own head and horns, “So little time, and there are far too many meddlers. If only I could stop all of them; if they were gathered all in one place, perhaps my plans could accelerate, and we would have far less to worry about.” Asmund kept his face clear of emotion as the Elder continued, “I have a favor to ask of you, old friend.”

Asmund sighed, puffing out his chest and doing his best to appear haughty, “My friend, the last time you asked me a favor you had me destroy a caravan. Gwafa Hazid was my greatest supplier on Bant, and he has since withdrawn any support for my own operations on Alara. What reason have I to aid you this time?” Gathering what mana he could from the sky around him, Asmund pressed his icy aura even further outward.

Nicol Bolas waved a dismissive claw, “Oh, please, young Asmund, your bravado was interesting two hundred years ago.” Asmund quickly deflate. “You only need not do anything,” the Elder eventually replied, his toothy smile doing nothing to hide his scheming tone. Asmund tilt his head inquisitively as Bolas explained, “I have business on Ravnica. Do not interfere upon my arrival. Your reward will be the power you have lost and more.” Bolas leaned forward, pushing effortlessly through Asmund’s aura, his sinister intentions dripping like poison from his tongue, “Your world will also be yours to command, and untouched by my claw.”

A few tense moments passed, and Nicol Bolas withdrew, reclining on his throne. A distant thunder rumbled over the sands; the Elder’s visage became more jovial, “You shall also receive the best goods from every world, without any charge, and the finest vineyards and hives will be yours. What say you?” The Elder dragon’s eyes narrowed as he studied Asmund’s face. 

Though Asmund put on the face of an equal, he knew he was outmatched. He quickly acquiesced. “Very well,” the ice dragon replied, extending a claw, “I shall not interfere with you or your plans on Ravnica. On top of your promises, I only ask one thing.” Nicol Bolas leaned forward, curious. He rolled a claw, gesturing for Asmund to get on with it. The Baron nodded, “I request you leave my meadery there alone. I have grown quite fond of the 9th District.” 

The two stared for a minute. Perhaps two. Then the Elder planeswalker laughed; an uproarious sound, echoing hollowly through the ruins of Naktamun. Eerily, thousands of voices joined, a haunting mix of moans and contemptuous laughter. Bolas held his chest armor with a claw, grinning wide, “You have my promise then, my friend.” The other dragon stood, prompting Asmund to stand as well; they grasped claws firmly. He put a claw on Asmund’s shoulder, “You shall rule there, too.”

Asmund’s head whipped around; Nicol Bolas was certainly offering a great many things. His mood was too good. Internally, the ice dragon sighed. There was little he could do, especially considering he was practically at Bolas’s beck and call. Though, thankfully, the Elder dragon did appear whenever Asmund had summoned him, so he supposed it was not a terrible arrangement. 

“Now then,” Bolas continued, “I have many fruits and ingredients here that the local populace will no longer be using. As an offer of goodwill, they are yours. I expect to drink the fruit of your labors when I finally find you on Ravnica.” The Elder stroked his chin, “Now, my friend, I have much work to attend to. If you’ll excuse me, it is always excellent doing business with you.” 

Asmund’s reply filtered through the quickly melting snow as he planeswalked away, “So it is.”

#mtg #mtg rp #magic #magic rp #magic the gathering #magic the gathering rp #nicol bolas #fan fiction #fanwalker #amonkhet #naktamun #jarguund #fan plane #ravnica #frostwing meadery #asmund #asmund frostwing #long post #story post #magic: the gathering #magic: the gathering rp #rp

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Nighttime at Frostwing

Asmund sat quietly by the small hearth. The flames danced in his violet eyes as he stared down at the tiny blaze. Thoughts swam through the murky waters of his mind. Plans clashed, fit together, drifted into the dark recesses of his mind.

Bolas was on the move. Theren was dead. Ivaria had scorned his training. Asmund muttered in the empty meadery, his rumbling voice eerily echoing through the icy room. A great heap of artifacts sat by his side: a completed inter-planar teleportation device meant for Zia laying unused, a dragon sized crown made of mithril inlaid with sapphires, rubies, and onyx, an enchanted and engraved silver ring, and an ominous black horn.

Lost in thought, the dragon placed the crown upon his head. It was light, resting comfortably around his horns. Though he could not see, he knew he looked majestic and regal; a fitting image for a baron.

Asmund pushed Zia's gift to the side with a foreclaw, using his now empty right wingclaw to slide the ring on. A sudden surge of energy pulsed through him, and his thoughts grew darker. He harrumphed, pushing out his chest; Asmund's icy breath covered the wall above the hearth, forming a perfect mirror he could lose himself in.

The horn. Asmund lifted it curiously, it's terrible presence threatening to make him shake. A deep, black magic emanate from the horn. It was an ancient dragon's horn, curled menacingly, filled with blood. It whispered to him, promises of wealth and power echoing in the thickening fog of the dragon's mind. He resisted the temptation, placing it back on the floor, using a quick spell to send it back to Jarguund. Perhaps some other time.

Asmund flexed his wings and packaged Zia's gift. It was about time he brought it to her. He had been sealed away in his castle for too long. The cobwebs of his mind were threatening to become more. The dragon lifted himself and headed toward the exit.

He paused. It was night time. She would not be awake, most likely. Asmund cocked his head to the side and smiled. His form vanished in a great cloud of snow. The horn could talk to him. He would enjoy that.

#magic the gathering #mtg #magic #fanwalker #magic the card game #fanwalkers #asmund #planeswalker #jarguund #asmund speaks #rp #ravnica #frostwing meadery #planeswalkers #magic: the gathering #nicol bolas #mtg rp #asmund frostwing #asmund scion of ice #magic rp #magic the gathering rp #dragon #ivaria #frostwing #long post #the frostwing meadery #fan plane #theren #theren everwood #zia

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

The Duel

After a quick respite on Ravnica, Asmund had returned to Jarguund. The waning winter began to give way to the spring muddy season. Working more toward Draconia’s favor, the mud stalled Asmund’s troops as they slowly advanced southwest through the ruined countryside. Draconia subscribed to the scorched earth policy, destroying whatever they could not hold as the Rovridarren and Underhall armies advanced.  Today, the sun rose through a heavy ash cloud, the burnt orange light casting strange shadows across the landscape. Two field armies, nearly eighty thousand strong each, marched across the Ashen Hold, a small state within the Draconian border. The Ajikin front had closed just the day prior, to Asmund’s delight, and Fiske was marching his forces southward; the tribesmen had not lasted too long against Fiske’s gunpowder and magics.  Asmund's great armies marched across the plains of ash as volcanic clouds roiled above. Comeon the Gleaming, a golden dragon two hundred years younger than Asmund, joined him, gliding just below the hot cloud layer. The bright dragon was Asmund's blacksmith, a brilliant mind who could weave wonderful enchantments. Asmund and Comeon scanned the horizon, searching for the enemy. Rovriddaren scouts had reported just a day prior that a small force, protected by a great red wyrm, were headed westward. Asmund had set the course to intercept the enemy. Comeon was the first to pass through the Draconian enchantment. Asmund followed as his companion roared in confusion, and then rage. The seemingly empty landscape was covered in far larger than just a "small enemy force". Asmund counted many legions of knights, footmen, and siege weapons, arrayed across the field, waiting for his armies to walk into the trap. Comeon's roar turned into a pained cry as a ballista bolt slammed into his right shoulder. The white dragon, seeing his friend, lashed out with his magic, searching to tear down the enchantment covering and bolstering the enemy. Blue mana surged and tore the enchantment away, and the quick, harried calls of Asmund's war horns sounded. The enemy charged as the ice dragon's forces scrambled to ready themselves for battle. Comeon, enraged, called out, "Prepare for battle! Ready yourselves! Defend your Lord!" Warriors cried out, squares of infantry and charging groups of cavalry formed, meeting the enemy on the rolling fields of ash. Asmund's focus disappeared as blinding pain erupted in his right side, hot magma spreading through his veins. His violet eyes struggled to focus as he bent and rolled away from the newest threat. The red wyrm had come. Horror spread across Asmund's face as he regained his wings and wits. "Hello, dearest Asmund," a venomous voice called across the wastes, carrying over the sounds of battle, "it is good to see you again." "Varsephyss." Asmund trembled, the great red dragon easily twice his own size, if not larger. The true leader in Draconia, Varsephyss led the Council of Wyrms. She was the greatest, most cunning dragon Asmund had ever known. Perhaps her brilliance and strength is what had wooed Asmund, those many years ago. The Lord Baron was afraid of very little in the multiverse. Varsephyss filled Asmund with fear, and loathing. "Nothing to say, Lord Baron?" Her words were filled with loathing and contempt. "Your stubborn foolishness has gone on for far too long, my Little Snowflake. It is time to cleanse your little rebellion from Jarguund once and for all. Fight me, Asmund, as we should have th-" Varsephyss's speech was cut off as bolts of ice and mana screeched across the gray sky. She roared, dodging the initial bombardment, spitting flame into the air between them. "You always liked to talk, Varsephyss," Asmund shout, hurling another spell across the ashen air, hoping to suspend her in the Blind Eternities, if only for a short while. "Fight me!" The red wyrm laughed with disdain, casually knocking his spell aside; a group of her own infantry disappeared in a flash. She charged forward, slamming into the smaller white dragon, breathing bright orange flames across his face. Asmund roared in anger, their claws raking at one another's flesh, the scales on his snout turning an ugly black. His magical plate, made from both steel and mithril, protected his chest and upper torso, but Varsephyss's claws sliced through his lower body. Asmund's vision exploded red as he used his own breath weapon, ice locking the wyrm's jaw closed. A screech erupted from her closed maw as Asmund felt blood and entrails beginning to cover his lower claws. The pair began to fall. Focusing, Asmund channeled white mana through his body, trying desperately to repair his innards. To his horror, Varsephyss only redoubled her efforts in eviscerating him. The white gem in his Crown Jewels exploded, a cloud of ice and snow blasting outward between the two dragons. Varsephyss was forcefully disengaged, her roars of fury carrying over the wasteland. Asmund barely caught himself, slamming into the ground. He struggled to stand. His eyes found Varsephyss, surrounded by her troops, landing lightly. The dragon spot a small tangle of intestine, wrapping itself up as the wyrm's red hide repaired itself. "Weak," Varsephyss began, spitting the words, pushing her troops out of the way, "as always." The fighting raged on on the far wings of the armies, but the center had quieted. Asmund's warriors and shamans gathered around him; many cast what spells they could, trying their best to bolster their Lord Baron's strength. "Lay down, you worthless lizard. No one cares for you, and your death will only aid Jarguund. Should you give in, I will let your filthy little nation die swiftly." Her words dripped with venom, the red wyrm's fury and loathing evident. Asmund could not flee. His people were relying upon him. His nation could not survive Varsephyss's wrath. The ice dragon struggled to regain his feet. The battle quieted. Comeon landed heavily behind Asmund, tearing out the great spear with his teeth. The pair circled each other. White and red on a field of gray. They sized one another up. Varsephyss struck first, a plume of flame lancing out as her tail slammed into Asmund's snout. He roared in pain, reeling. She replied with a blinding bolt of lightning, striking him in between his shoulder blades. Great, sword-like teeth gripped Asmund's back right leg as he flailed blindly. His roar turned to a high pitched squeal. The ruby on his Crown Jewels erupted in time with a nearby volcano. Rage filled Asmund, his blood becoming unusually hot. His stupor was broken as ice covered Varsephyss's maw once more, teeth shattering in the cold. The dragon's fury exploded out of him, a flurry of spells leading his charge forward. He slammed teeth and claws first into Varsephyss's right side. Asmund tore into her side; blood and muscle were exposed to the burnt orange dawn. He breathed ice deep into her wounds as she cried out in anger. The dragon climbed onto the back of Varsephyss, battering at her mind with his magics. She reeled, rolling to dislodge her small foe. Asmund detected a surface thought as her massive form crushed him into the viscous, ashy mud. He couldn't even cry out as a massive wave of flame enveloped him, passing outward from the two combatants. The Draconians' cries were silenced as fire overtook them. Asmund's front lines were incinerated. The sapphire on his Crown Jewels burst. The wave of flame continued passing westward as blue mana filled the air. Asmund could neither see nor hear, but understood that most of his forces had barely survived the wrath of a near-god. Varsephyss's fury was evident. She kicked Asmund in the face as she took off, retreating away from the rising sun. The red wyrm had incinerated her own army, in hopes of ruining both Asmund and his forces. Comeon rushed to his Lord Baron's side as Asmund passed out.

#long post #sorry #Asmund speaks #Asmund #Asmund Frostwing #Jarguund #Rovriddare #draconia #The duel #battle #duel #dragons #wyrm #Varsephyss #fanwalker #fanwalkers #magic #rp #RP #magic rp #magic the gathering #mtg #magic the gathering rp #mtg rp

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

To Battle

The pre-dawn chill gripped the assorted soldiers. They smartly marched west, the mountains to their back. Dwarves, humans, and kobolds marched in the light of the failing moon. Their footsteps thundered over the grassy plains, untouched by snow. Ten thousand Rovriddare berserkers and swordsmen marched toward battle, unfazed and undaunted. Five thousand Rovriddare cavalry, the dwarves and humans riding war horses, the kobolds riding cold-hardy deinonychus, rode to each side of the column. Underhall dwarves, fifteen thousand strong marched at the head of the column, pikemen out front with archers in the center. 

Asmund flew overhead, weaving spells and uttering incantations on the wing. He channeled white mana to protect his forces and keep them cohesive on the field. Blue to hide them from the enemy. Red to fill them with rage and battle prowess. This would be a day long remembered.

A kobold scout rode in from the west, his riding leather covered in dust, shouting to the head of the column, “Cavalry spotted! To the northwest! They seek to envelope us! They are two or three thousand strong, pushing eastward!” Asmund flew lower, landing beside the kobold. Its tired mount pant in the cool morning air. Lord Underhall stood, a massive warhammer gripped in his gauntleted hands, looking to the white dragon.

“Lord Underhall, I shall send five hundred of my fastest cavalry to meet them,” Asmund turned to the kobold. Noting its rank, the dragon commanded, “Captain, take five hundred of your best riders. I want them drawn away from the village, and to the west.” The kobold, listening, nodded while reloading his musket.

“Yes, Lord Baron!” The green skinned kobold, dressed in a mismatch of clashing colors and fabrics beneath his leather armor, kicked his mount and raced off to the north, pulling roughly five hundred dinosaurs and their kobold riders to face the enemy. Other horsemen filled the gap the now forward group left behind while Asmund took to the skies, flexing his wings. Spying the oncoming foe, the dragon let out a war cry; clearly, his illusions were not as great as he had hoped.

He felt the savages’ shamans unleash a massive magical blast. Hastily, the dragon let forth a blast of blue mana, suspending the enemy’s spell in time. “Get ready to counter,” cried Asmund; below, a group of three hundred mages and shamans began chanting and preparing spells. The Ajikan spell was massive, the collective effort of their people culminating in a great blast of arcane energy, its heat searing the edges of Asmund’s mind. 

After a few moments, the sound of musket blasts heralded the cavalry engagement to the north; diverting his attention from the enemy spell, the combat was slowly moving eastward as lead and arrows were exchanged. Luckily the deinonychi were faster than the plainsmens’ horses and could pull the enemy back toward their disgusting hovels. As Asmund relished the heat of battle, his spell wore off and the full weight of the Ajikans’ spell slammed into his force. Wizards cried out as their minds seared away, the collective counter spell not quite great enough to stop casualties. Asmund snarled in disgust as he counted twenty of his men dead.

With just under three miles to go now, the two armies marched onward. His mages began casting an offensive spell; Asmund felt the earth being drained of its mana as massive clouds began to form above and in front of his force. Good, a blizzard was necessary here. In the slowly lightening sky, Asmund added his own magic to that of the mages below. Soon, a massive storm developed, hail stones the size of heads slamming down over the enemy village.

One mile to go now, and the enemy foot soldiers began exiting the village and pushing east toward the oncoming force. A second cavalry force, the size of the first enemy force, began to swing around to the south, bound up against the river, just as planned. With a laugh, Asmund watched as Lord Underhall’s dwarves broke off from the Rovriddaren unit. 

As planned, the enemy cavalry force began to charge. As planned, long, straight lines of horses swept over the open fields, trampling the grasses. As planned, Lord Underhall’s force planted itself squarely in the way of the oncoming doom.

Asmund roared triumphantly as, as planned, the ground burst upward in front of the Ajikan cavalry. Men and horses flew into the air as magma erupted from the earth, coating thousands in liquid fire. Horrified screams rose from the village and from the enemy. The dwarves marched forward again, magic encasing them as they pierced through the wall of fire. Screams were silenced one by one as the Ajikan southern cavalry was destroyed. Underhall mages began guiding the lava toward the river. Massive blasts of steam rose to obscure the rising sun, just cracking over the mountaintops to the east.

Turning his attention back to the north, he sent a quick spell to his human cavalry commander, Take to the north, and join the other force. I want that cavalry destroyed. Watching, half of the dragon’s remaining cavalry wheeled away from the column, pushing northward and westward. As the cavalry column broke, so did the main column. Asmund’s forces began to envelop the village in the early morning light. Their shamans were no longer putting up a fight, but their villagers seemed to be hastily digging in.

Asmund lazily wheeled above, watching as the dwarves also began to encircle the village from the south, meeting his cavalry and keeping the enemy at bay. After a few moments, the village was encircled. A few brave souls died upon the axes and swords of the dragon’s forces. Most knelt, awaiting their execution. 

Asmund landed in the center of the village, crushing three Ajikans. With a roar, he tore through five others. Many people began to run. Other played dead. It would not matter. They would perish anyway.

“This,” roared Asmund, his thundering voice shaking the earth, “is what you reap when you hide the foes of Rovriddare! None of you shall live!” Shards of ice flew from the dragon, spearing dozens. His breath froze footmen and civilians alike.

“Not if there’s anything we can say about it!” Asmund angrily turned, gnashing his teeth. A group of five stood before him. Three humans, a tengu, and a half-elf. The traitors. The murderers.

The first barely wore any clothing, was extremely muscular, and carried a great broad sword, his brown hair flowing in the wind. The second was a paladin, wearing the silver of the dragon god, tall but not overly muscular, his chiseled face partially masked by his helm. The third was a wizard, clad only in light blue robes, his black beard clashing with his red hair. The tengu was fourth, a small violin clutched between feathered fingers. Finally, the half-elf stood with his bow drawn.

“Face me, scum! You will pay for what you have done!”Asmund roared, leaping toward them. The tengu began to play a melody, his friends shouting a battle cry. “Die, you filth, you wretched beings! Forces of Rovriddare, slaughter your foes!” With a thundering roar, Asmund’s forces pushed into the village, destroying all. 

The first to die was the barbarian, wildly swinging his word. Bitten in half, his entrails steaming in the cold morning air. Second was the bard, speared by a great shard of ice. Arrows pelt harmlessly off of Asmund’s hide and plate armor. Spells all but ricocheted back at the wizard. The paladin fought briefly as he felt his godly powers taken from him; his patron god, observing the battle, saw him fighting Asmund. The white dragon laughed, biting off the head of the defeated foe. The wizard died next, his head melting as Asmund’s magics tore open his mind. Finally, only the ranger stood. 

The half-elf’s arrows broke upon Asmund’s scales. His measly magics harmlessly dissipate into the chill air. Snow fell around the two combatants. With a roar, the dragon pinned his foe. The half-elf cried out in terror, drawing a knife, somehow managing to stab Asmund’s foot and drawing blood. With a disgusted grunt, Asmund pinned the man to the ground, a claw piercing his stomach. 

“For you,” the dragon hissed, “you will die slowly. You killed my daughter, scum, and you will face the slow, inevitable face of death.” The dragon bit down, tearing away the man’s left arm. The half-elf weakly sobbed, blood pouring to the ground. Asmund tore away his right arm. Then his left leg. Then his right. The dragon froze the stumps.

The half-elf was pale. Shivering. Asmund’s army fought around him, but he paid no heed. This man would feel incredible pain. He opened the man’s mind. Asmund sifted through all of his memories, watching in horror as the ranger poisoned his beloved Fyri in her sleep. In a blind rage, the dragon wiped the man’s mind and filled it with fear. Panicking, the ranger shouted and floundered under Asmund’s claws. Gasping for breath, in horrible pain, the half-elf pleaded for mercy. 

The last thing the ranger saw was Asmund’s teeth.

#mtg #mtg rp #magic #magic the gathering #jarguund #asmund #asmund speaks #frostwing meadery #frostwing #asmund frostwing #battle #dwarf #kobold #cavalry #tengu #magic rp #magic the gathering rp #human #dragon #white dragon

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Reflection

The throne room was quiet. A cold wind rustled the hanging tapestries and the cloaks of the men and women standing guard. Asmund sat upon his throne, a single front claw clicking on the gray stone. A dignitary stood nervously before the great dragon, wringing his hands behind his back. The fire light was dim this evening, throwing dark shadows across the keep’s walls.

“You want me,” snapped the dragon, angrily looking down from his dias, “to pay you for what exactly?”

The dignitary, an Imperial woman, looked up, “Rovirddare has been charging unfair tariffs for goods coming in and out of Enlevia. We only ask you repay Enlevia for the economy you’re damaging.” The woman looked up at him with green eyes, her tan skin hiding beneath heavy furs and a red Enlevian cloak. Her black hair was tied smartly back. Asmund, for his part, managed not to laugh in her face. 

“I owe Enlevia nothing, and nor are my taxes unfair.” The dragon shift slightly upon his shining white throne, the cerulean pillow beneath him easily the size of a small hut. “The Council of Apothecaries are only that: apothecaries. They know nothing of economics.” Asmund lowered his head, stretching his neck to get to eye level with the diplomat, “They are old doctors, nothing more. I charge what I do to ensure the safety of all within my realm.”

“My Lord Baron,” clamored the woman, losing her patience, “it cost me money to get into the country! I’m an official state courier! You charge three hundred gold pieces per cart for caravans to get through your nation! Surely Draconia has mentioned they’re merchants’ unwillingness to pay!”

Asmund’s visage was overcome with a predatory grin, his teeth casting nasty shadows, “Draconia has agreed to my price, as the materials which they transport are quite important. As is Enlevia’s. Unless, of course, the Council doesn’t want me to protect your merchants?” The dragon brought his head back, continuing to make a show of being overly comfortable. “I need not waste resources on them, then. Is that what you wish?”

The woman began to stutter in her outrage, “H-how dare you, Lord Baron! That i-is absolute r-robbery!” Arguing with a dragon was a dragon’s job. Or an angel’s, Asmund thought to himself, shaking his head in frustration. That was for another time. 

“The cost of protection stays, then,” Asmund decreed, standing. “You are free to stay on The White Mountain this evening, if you wish. It is too cold to go out, anyhow. You are dismissed.” The dignitary angrily bowed, her movements stiff and overly formal. She stomped out of the keep, escorted by two guards.

“I will not be disturbed this evening,” said the dragon to no one in particular. Two guards salute, placing their fists over their chests. Asmund waved them off and retreat to his person chambers. Down a myriad of winding hallways he went, each lit less and less by flame and more and more by white and blue crystals. They emanate magic, warning the dragon of any intruders.

After a few minutes, Asmund arrived at the center of the keep. His chambers were not sparse, by any means. The room itself was almost a half a mile square of gray stone. The roof was four stories above, the roof magically sealed whenever he was not flying in. At the far end of the room lay a massive, dragon-sized pillow, its ruby red and golden trim contrasting with the typical white, silver, or blue he usually went with. All around, sconces and crystals embedded in the wall illuminated the room. In the center stood a two story tall, awesomely massive pile of treasure. Gold bars, suits of armor, silver coins, adamantine weapons, mithril shirts, and much more were found there, collected over his long life span. 

Stacked neatly, however, covering almost every inch of the massive circular room were barrels. Hundreds of thousands of gallons of mead, wine, beer, and other liquors lined his lair. Every barrel lovingly placed, labeled, and dated, all from different worlds, different distilleries and breweries. Some of them Asmund had made himself, others he had bought or taken from every corner of ever plane. Dominarian wine, Lorwyn beer, Ravnican whiskey, Jarguund mead. 

Admiring his hoard, Asmund climbed his mountain of treasure and lazily slid down the other size, finally coming to rest on his massive bed. Curling up on the pillow, Asmund fought for sleep. It wouldn’t come.

The previous week’s events flood his mind. Caravans attacked. His daughter’s funeral. His revenge. His poorly executed evening plans with Ivaria. The myriad of planeswalkers who came to scold or challenge him.

Sad, really, he thought, picking his teeth with an ancient longsword, covered in diamonds, I really would have liked to eat one of them. He chuckled, tossing the sword, listening for it’s harsh clang against steel, stone, or gold. Preferably that Alek. He DARED challenge me? In my own home? Ha! Asmund rolled over angrily, clicking his tongue to dim the lights. Threatening to harm Jarguund. A very brave move. Foolish, but brave. He narrowed his eyes at nothing in particular, I would cleanse the multiverse of his bloodline, should anything happen to my plane. His blood boiled.

Not to mention the others! Malku, damn him, being entirely too warm and trying to force his listening ear on me. At least he apologized. Asmund rolled again, his tail knocking over an armor stand and a priceless suit of mithril plate. Zerriko, that blasted fool. He could take no for an answer, thankfully. And Lucian! Couldn’t even be bothered to show up himself. Asmund snorted. Stabbed. Poisoned! He should be able to walk it off. Weak. 

Finally, the dragon came to the root of his problem: Isolde. That damnable angel. He angrily spat a ball of ice toward the ceiling, where it smashed into the roof, showering him with ice shards. Both of them. They could never see eye to eye on such matters as that. Those people lost their innocence when they harbored murderers. The dragon stood, spun about, and lay down again, creating a snow ball above his head, sending it spinning before him. Yet she did not argue that with me. Ivaria was hurt by my actions and intent, though I did not mean to do so. 

I do not look down upon her, he thought, shaking his head, she is very strong. I just thought she was prepared. Asmund snarled, sending the snowball into the far corner of his lair, where it dissipated on the magical shield surrounding it. I suppose I should have left out creating Fyri’s Well. I’m certain it reminded her of Zendikar. He sighed. Those damned Eldrazi. He had fought many years ago against them, deciding to leave the plane to its fate when the beings had almost escaped. The destruction they had wrought was akin to my own. 

Maybe it was too much, Asmund’s mind raced, maybe it was unnecessary. He shook his head, No, it was not enough. Yet, my relationship with Ivaria rests on thin ice, and I am a heavy dragon. Neither of us can fly from this. Asmund sighed, laying his massive head on his front claws. Perhaps I should apologize, as Isolde suggested. Yet, I would not want to treat her as a child. Ivaria is strong, and an adult. Just naive. He snorted, flicking his tongue out, Yet, she is learning. Perhaps I will let her come to me. That sit well with his pride. 

I do not think either of those angels will change my heart. Asmund paused, rolling onto his back, casting a quick spell to iris the roof open. As he gazed at the familiar stars above, he thought, Yet, they already have changed my heart. I cherish them both deeply. I do not wish to push either away, and we cannot pretend that conversation never occurred. Angrily he curled a foreclaw into a fist and hit his armored chest. No, it happened. I will apologize, for her sake. I will not lose another daughter, not by my own claw.

He paused, reflecting upon the Great Tree constellation, I do not normally take those actions against a foe. Killing villages, yes. Slaughtering armies, yes. Destroying the land? Vengeance and rage drove me to do so. I cannot let it overtake me again. A useful tool, but only a tool. Asmund sighed, closing his eyes. He took a few, deep breaths. The dragon meditate for a long time. The stars wheeled overhead. 

#mtg #mtg rp #magic #magic the gathering #magic rp #fanwalker #jarguund #the white mountain #asmund #asmund frostwing #asmund speaks #rp #long post #reflection #ivaria #isolde #malku #lucian #zerriko #fanwalkers #frostwing #frostwing meadery #meadery #dragon #lair #fortress #eldrazi #ravnica #zendikar #jeskai

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

The Plan

A sudden blast of freezing wind, and Asmund had arrived. Planeswalking on the wing had always been invigorating, but even more so when he returned home to Jarguund. The crisp mountain air of Rovriddare was much cleaner than Ravnica’s stale smog. With a grin the dragon folded his wings, his heavy form rocketing toward the earth. 

He fell through the snow, through the clouds, through more snow, and even more clouds. With a snap, he threw his wings open, halting his descent with an echoing boom. Asmund’s eyes scanned the mountains below, searching. Today he had fallen just south of his land where he searched for a hidden door. It was always difficult to find and, in the weather, he was greeted with a deep bass note before he could find it. Sighing, the dragon hung his head and glide to a small group of beings below.

Landing with a thud, snow sent flying, Asmund stood, tall and regal, “Good evening, friends of the Underhall.” The side of the mountain was covered in deep snow, the landing space large enough to contain himself and his greeting party.

The gathered assortment of dwarves, three men and women, bowed slightly. A grizzled woman stepped forward. “Good evening to you, Robber Baron. We can always rely on you to be on time. Please, this way.” The party led the dragon through a stone doorway, previously hidden even to his keen eye. Down into the mountain they descended, jeweled tunnels and well-lit halls showing the way to Underhall. 

An hour passed. Dwarves went about their business, many miners, artisans, and soldiers passed the group as they wound their way ever downward. The mountain’s roots were deep, and another hour passed. Time passed strangely in the deep, as discomfort slowly overcame the dragon. Being locked underground was... disheartening. No way to the open sky scared Asmund.

Finally, the halls widened and began to grow taller. Massive columns of jewel encrusted stone soared into the dark heights. Dwarves with brighter robes, heavier armor, and more jewelry began to appear as Asmund was escorted through the Underhall. Underhall was both the city, and the general name for the dwarves’ winding tunnels and mines beneath the world. 

Arriving before a great edifice of rock, the Baron studied the pictures painted and carved across it. Great battles, trade deals, and voyages were depicted here. The entire history of the dwarves, as far as he could guess, were laid bare before him. In awe he stared as great golden gates opened before him, leading into a thrown room even more resplendent than his own. Banners and tapestries hung from the walls above rank upon rank of dwarven soldiers and dignitaries. All was quiet as the party stepped onto a fine red carpet that stretched over a hundred yards to raised dias, where two thrones sat. The right was vacant, but the left held a particularly vibrant looking dwarf. Flowing red hair with a perfectly waxed fiery beard framed a chiseled face. Underneath, a brilliant set of golden plate armor shone in the fires of the far too warm hall, encasing a atypically large dwarf.

“Ah, Master Frostwing! It is good to see you again!” The dwarf’s call shattered the silence, his steady voice carrying and reverberating through the hall. The dwarf stood, his golden crown studded with rubies and diamonds shining; all of the dwarves in the room bowed to waist level. 

Asmund did not follow suit, grumbling, “It is Baron, might I remind you.” The dragon stepped forward to meet the King of the Dragon’s Spine Mountains. “It is a pleasure to see you again Dellingr, Lord Underhall.” Asmund extended a claw, which Dellingr firmly grasped. The hall exploded into activity at that, leaving Lord Underhall and the dragon in their own bubble of tranquility, “We have some things to discuss.”

The two walked out behind the throne and through a massive set of doors into what appeared to be a war room. Glancing about and seeing all of the armored personnel and a large map table, Asmund had to conclude it was such.

“So, Baron Frostwing, we have found what you asked for. We have also seen that your payment has been taken care of, so let’s get to it.” The dwarf bent over the map table, hands splayed wide. The table was large enough for even Asmund, where he could see every detailed image of each town and village from Berghem down to the far south in the Feywilde. He was handed a reed from an attendant, which Lord Underhall used to point to a small town in Ajikas, the nation to the northwest of Rovriddare, “This village, which as far as we can tell doesn’t have a name-” the dwarf made a strange sputtering sound “-, or something akin to the noise, is where your adventurer’s are hiding. Powerful shamans and a massive cavalry force are also stationed there. The village is mostly tents, with hilly country to the north and a river to the south. Berghem is thirty miles east, with open plains until the sea to the west.”

Asmund nodded; nothing new was presented on the table. With a gesture, Dellingr brought forward a another dwarf, a woman dressed in riding leathers, “This is Lagerta. She is a Scrollkeeper.” He gestured to Asmund, “Tell him what you told me.”

The woman blushed, bowing her head, her tousled chestnut hair falling over her face, “As my lord says, I am Scrollkeeper Lagerta. I have received a vision from Strengr. He has seen the outcome of this battle. It will bring what you desire, Lord Baron.” She slowly backed away, a clear magical aura around her mind. 

Asmund harrumphed, turning to the assembled military leadership, “Very well, then. I wish for you to draw out their cavalry, a way from my men.” Asmund found a wooden piece, much like a knight from chess, and placed it before the enemy positions. From there, he placed dwarven pikemen and bowmen before a Rovriddare force of swordsmen and berserkers. “We will encircle the village. My men will sweep the tents and hovels. Lord Underhall, I need you to keep the savages away from their people until I can root out the murderers they are hiding. Your men will face their cavalry, and mine their footmen in the village.”

Dellingr grunted, pushing three more wooden figures to the fore, “I understand your thought, Lord Forstwing. However, it would be best if your main force stayed back in the east. You have paid me enough to keep my men at the front. Should we break, which won’t happen, but should we break, I would suggest your men stay back so the enemy cannot flood Rovriddare’s defenses.”

Asmund laughed, “Lord Underhall, you misunderstand me. While our mages fight theirs, I have no intention of keeping my men back. The force I promised is but a fraction of my military might.” The dragon nearly broke off a piece of the table as he gripped its edge. He was ready for this fight. “I will have one army outside of Berghem’s gates, another before their filthy settlement, and a regiment of berserkers and cavalry will be set with your men.” 

Lord Underhall pondered a moment, stroking his beard, “Very well. The amount of men you bring to bear is...” he pauses for a moment, “unnecessary. However, considering the circumstances, I believe this is for the best. So be it, shall we plan for two days hence?”

The dragon’s teeth glittered in the fire light, a terrible show of bloodthirsty joy, “Oh yes. Two days, Lord Underhall. I look forward to seeing you on the field of battle.”

#mtg #mtg rp #rp #magic the gathering #magic #asmund #asmund speaks #jarguund #battle #the plan #ravnica #frostwing meadery

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

On the Way to Jarguund

@bobstropajo , follow me. It's a long way to go. It'll be very cold and hard to breathe, so be prepared for that. And don't get blown off the mountain. We'll come in through the front gates, so don't be shocked at the guard presence.

#rp #asmund #jarguund #white mountain

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

The Unconquerable

I sat with Ivaria, looking into the night sky. I placed a wing around her, “ Treasure what you have here, dear one. I know I do. I’ve lived here for only a few months myself, but I’ve found a home away from home, and plenty of friends.”

I sniffled a bit, and memories unwanted flood my mind...

----------------------------------------------------------------

Another harsh winter. This campaign was barely trundling along under the weight of the snow and wind. Lack of food and rough conditions have worn down the men and women fighting under me. I pondered this predicament as I hunched over the side of... whatever this mountain happened to be named.

This war had slogged on for three years now. My forces, the Rovriddare Rebels, were a hardy mix of dwarves, humans, a sprinkling of kobolds, and tengu. My country was in the high mountains, with access through only three passes. My army numbered only in the thousands. I sighed as I chewed on a mountain goat’s horns, picking my teeth with them. How would I go about turning the tide?

The war began when I, Asmund Frostwing, decided to break away from neighboring Draconia. The Council of Wyrms was shortsighted. How could they not see the benefit of a white dragon on the council? How could they not defy the Imperials, and stop sending money and forces to do their bidding.

Bah. I spit the horns off the cliff, watching them fall thousands of feet. As I watched, my eyes followed the valley, out and away from Herenshem Pass. There, three or four miles out, under the cover my the storm, was an army. A vast army, flying Draconia’s flag. Hundreds of thousands, ready to crush my nation.

I roared, launching off the cliff, back to my army. They were shivering in the cold, huddling close to too small fires. I roared a great battle cry, and my trumpeters and drummers answered. I began issuing orders, men and women running hither and thither, gathering arms and armor.

Fifteen minutes later, ranks of warriors stood ready. The snow storm grew in intensity as I called upon the gods for aid. My troops and I felt invigorated on the eve of battle; a good sign. Dolg would aid us this day. 

The blizzard whipped through heavy plate mail, furs, and scale alike. The Draconian army stood smartly in rank and file, at the bottom of the valley, just a mile away. My forces stood on the rocky mountainside, our position fortified with boulders and walls of ice. Yet, my people were not the type to stand and defend a position; no, they were fierce warriors, ready to charge down into the fray. Only loyalty held them at bay, loyalty to me, their Baron.

The mages of the enemy began to fling spells of fire and wrath down upon my army, my shamans working quickly to shield my warriors. Soon, the snow covered valley rocked with explosions and magic. Catapults fired into the mountainside, boulders splintering ice and bone. There were no trees left in this valley, the terrain open for miles, plenty of open area for siege engines and bowmen to launch their projectiles. As for us, we had a small escape route to the rear, leading north, into Rovriddare, and into Herenshem.

The valley was perhaps half a mile wide at its widest, narrowing to a quarter just below my troops. I was already taking casualties. I held my ground, just as my troops did. 

“Hold, brothers and sisters!” I shout to the wind, the fierce howl only overcome with my strongest roars, “We will not fall this day! Hold until you see the whites of their eyes! These slavers will not defeat us! They face you mighty few!” Cheers and battle cries echoed over the mountain side. “Louder! We defy you, you apologist fools!” I rose my own roar to join the awe-inspiring, warbling cry of my army. The mountains themselves shook. Ice and snow began to tumble, and then fly down the mountainside.

The enemy cried in dismay as my people shouted, for glory was at hand. Avalanches, massive, unyielding, prompted by my magic and my forces, crushed thousands of soldiers, horses, and equipment. No time to rejoice, as the first ranks reached our positions through a hail of magic and arrows.

I jumped into the fray, “Follow me! Dolg is pleased! TO BATTLE!!” A deafening roar, even louder than before, poured forth from my troops. The Draconian conscripts, armored in no more than leather, began falling like cattle to the slaughter. My heavily armored warriors, shamans, and berserkers sliced through their lines, coloring the snow red for the length of our line, almost an entire mile. Yet I worried, as my lines were thin, staggered to dissuade draconic air attack. Crushing three men between my teeth and smashing a group of five down the mountain, we slowly advanced toward the enemy. 

The more men I killed, I realized I was taking more small cuts, more slashes to my hide. I bugled a call, mimicking the war horns of my own forces; we retreat back up the hill, the armored knights and wardens pushing upward behind. Even some musketeers followed, firing rounds into my retreating warriors. 

My gut began to sink as I realized the toll this battle was taking. We were cornered. My few thousand had been reduced to a few hundred. Corpses littered the mountainside. Draconian knights triumphantly marched up the mountain, the wind and blinding snow seemingly having no effect. 

Cursing, I froze a swathe of soldiers five thick and twenty wide. My army was an afterthought. I realized, as arrows tore through my wings and pikes stabbed at me from afar, I was the target. I sounded the retreat, “Fall back! To Herenshem! We can defend there! Runners, get the townsfolk out and north! We must hold them!” In the chaos, my army fell apart. Warriors began fleeing. Those too brave or honorable to flee were cut down. My army was routed. 

I took off, pummeling any Draconians I could with man-sized hail. I soared high above my routed soldiers, passing low over the pursuing Draconians, freezing many, flinging others from the mountain. The chase continued as the remaining men and women fled through the remains of our camp, around the mountain, to the pass. A few tried to stand and fight, giving the others a lead. Many were cut down. 

I cried out as I realized the number escaping over the small pass: sixteen dwarves, thirty kobolds, fifty humans, and seven tengu. A little over a hundred. My heart tore asunder as I heard a familiar roar behind me. Gilligrex the Black.

A black dragon, general to the Council of Wyrms, and a long-time rival. The beast sought human wealth, slaves he could hoard. Scales darker even than the night, wicked horns splayed out and forward, claws the size of carts, and breath more deadly than any disease, Gilligrex was not to be trifled with. Yet, my anger and sadness, the need to protect my people, overrode any sense of self-preservation.

“Gilligrex, how unpleasant to see you!” I shout across the air between us, the buffeting winds barely moving us. “You look as ugly as ever. Too much swamp water, or are your scales just dull because all you do is brown nose the Council?” I laughed, a dragon on the verge of losing everything.

“Asmund Frostwing, the traitorous lowlife -- “ Gilligrex was cut off mid-sentence as I charged, my talons reaching forward to grapple the younger dragon. He quickly belched out a small cloud of acid, hoping to burn my eyes away; my plume of frost was stronger, pushing away the smog in the blizzard. We collided in mid-air, our talons raking at each other’s stomachs and faces. 

We fell, as stones, tearing into one another, “Why you!?” Gilligrex and I wrestled to be the one on top. Thousands of feet we fell, toward the pass and the two mountains there, both over 16,000 feet themselves. I bit into his neck, black blood spraying over the valley. The Draconian army only watched as their champion slammed back first into the mountaintop. He tore effortlessly into my innards, our blood mingling in the snow as his back snapped.

The thousands of beings fell silent as the black dragon screamed in agony. Gilligrex’s cry cut short as my fangs tore through his veins and windpipe. I stood, staggered, victorious. My forces cheered, Asmund’s One Hundred and Three fighting now with renewed vigor. With a roar, I tore off the head of my opponent, tossing it to the Draconian army. They too fought with vigor.

I choked on my own blood, trying in vain to hold back the realization of what would happen to my people. Cities, razed to the ground. Everyone, murdered, entire bloodlines destroyed. The entire land, laid waste. With a roar, I focused all of the mana I could gather.

A wall of ice formed between my forces and the enemy. Draconia stood on the precipice of victory. With a roar of anger, I let the mana go. I launched into the air, my entrails dragging behind. Two mountains, shortened by three thousand feet. Millions of tons of rock exploded into the valley and onto the pass, crushing hundreds of thousands of knights, soldiers, horses, and equipment in seconds. The sky was suddenly clear as the boulders quit tumbling and the snow stopped falling.

I struggled to move my wings as I glided over the wall of ice. My wings became useless, and I plummet to the ground. 

------------------------------------------------------

I was brought suddenly back to reality.

“Are you alright? You seem a little sad.” Ivaria looked up at me with questioning eyes, her concern clearly etched on her face.

I chuckled a deep, mournful chuckle, “ I have lost many over the course of my life. I do not wish to lose any more. My mind tends to wander on these long winter nights, you know. “

@shepherd-ivaria

#sorry this is so long #rp #mtg #fanwalker #jarguund #asmund #asmund scion of ice #ivaria #ravnica #night #memories #super long #long post

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

A Break in Diplomacy

A small, bent man stood stoically before Asmund’s throne, his graying hair and weathered skin lending him an air of mysticism. Another, clothed smartly in vibrant colors and thick plate mail, stood by the old man, the woman’s fiery hair proudly braided, falling to the helmet she held at her waist. Rows of guards stood beside and behind them, quietly maintaining their posts in Asmund’s throne room, watching those before their lord. Asmund, for his part, was handling the two diplomats quite well.

Silent fury had filled the dragon, evidenced by the ice slowly spreading from this throne, encompassing his dias and heading outward with the firm intent of a glacier. Asmund’s eyes were narrowed, his nostrils flared, his tail armor cracking the ice on the floor. His snout was curled in a defiant snarl, his glittering teeth displayed in challenge. An appropriately dragon-sized pair of notes were set before him, the first written in poorly drawn Common language symbols, the second in beautifully scripted Draconic. Declarations of War.

“We shall meet,” Asmund hissed, “upon the field of battle, then.” Asmund was trying incredibly hard not to eat either of these dignitaries; as the Ajikin slowly hobbled away and the Draconian resolutely spun on her heel, the dragon motioned to his guards to escort them from his home. 

He shout for General Widowmaker, the older dwarf quickly stepping before his ever growing throne of ice. “To the War Room,” the dwarf asked.

“To the War Room,” Asmund coolly replied, his extreme rage evident. “Close the country. No one is coming in or out, save for Lord Underhall. Send a messenger to summon him.” The dragon stood from his cushioned seat as guard captains and General Widowmaker began shouting orders, the quiet and orderly throne room bursting into action. Asmund and the general marched out of the throne room, the dwarf and his aides, consisting of two humans and a kobold, barely keeping pace.

The group entered a hall nearly as massive as that of Asmund’s throne room. The wall and ceiling were twenty foot thick, the solid stone masonry a dull gray, covered in maps and battle plans. Five groups of tables and desks stood around the pentagonal room, the center being occupied by a massive table. Fashioned of mighty oak, the table was lovingly carved and painted to show every country, every terrain type, every city, town, and village on the continent. Every city had perfectly proportioned buildings, roads, and homes, all hand carved and updated weekly, the individual sculptures easily movable. Even islands dotted the beautiful blue of the oceans surrounding Enlevia. Smaller sand tables were stationed around the center of the room, groups of humans, dwarves, and a few kobolds and tengu huddled about them, eagerly talking and shouting. Even a pair of dragons waited patiently in the far corner of the room.

The room, containing roughly one hundred people, fell quickly silent as their lord entered the War Room. All eyes locked on the hulking form of their furious baron, breath held silently. These people had been preparing for years, their effort finally coming to fruition. His soldiers looked to him for answers. Asmund took a deep breath, calming himself, letting his anger subside for a moment.

“Soldiers of Rovridarre. Men and women of the Barony, we have been viciously attacked by our enemies. Draconia has joined together with Ajikis, breaking a peace that has lasted for hundreds of years. We yet await word from the Underhall, but I know our staunch allies will uphold our righteous cause.

“You all have been working day and night to keep our home safe. The greed and impudence of our enemies has caused them to falter and make a mistake: they have declared war upon us. They wish to sack our lands and fold us back into their dystopian nation. Your ancestors fought these fools. I fought these fools. Many have bled and died for their insolence, their treachery. 

“We wrest out independence from these tyrants. Today, we begin the road to proving to the world we deserve that independence. I am relying on all of you to help me keep it. I believe in the power of our nation, our people, in all of you. May the frozen winds guide us.”

Asmund’s short speech was met with a roar of applause and shouting. The dragon let it continue for a few moments, nodding and making his way to the planning table. General Widowmaker broke the noise with a thundering shout, “Get back to work! We begin in the morning!” The volume subsided for but a moment, quickly regaining momentum as officers and enlisted began issuing orders, discussing plans, and generally setting operations into motion.

The pair of dragons stepped forward to the massive continent table, standing on the far eastern side of the map, just as Asmund stood to the far west. One was nearly as large as himself, his white scales shining brilliantly in the crystal light. He held many of Asmund’s features, save for the plate armor, stub tail, and many scars; his eyes were the same violet as Asmund’s, though his nose horn was slightly larger. The second was as large as Asmund, her red scales aflame with light. She and Asmund held only draconic features in common; her snout was longer and more slender than Asmund’s, without a nose horn, as was her overall physique. The red dragon sport only two sweeping horns, the bright ivory curving back toward her neck. The pair’s auras clashed, an isolated gale blowing between the two. 

“Fiske, Runa,” Asmund began, “it is wonderful to see you again, at long last.” A wonderful feeling of cold filled the older dragon’s heart, “I am glad you answered my summons. How was your journey? Have you both been fitted for armor? Fiske, you did not eat too much on the way here, did you? Runa, are you still hanging around with that foolish gold-scale Comeon, are you?” General Widowmaker and his aides humored their lord as his children eyed one another.

Fiske began first, sitting back on his haunches and removing a salmon from the satchel, easily larger than three humans, that hung around his neck and rested on his side, “Yes, Father, I have been fitted.” The white dragon tossed the salmon into the air and snatched it with his teeth, “And no, I did not eat too much. ‘Tis why I am eating now!” Fiske chuckled. 

He yowled as his older, and far larger, sister stomped on his tail, “Now is not the time for snacking, Water Monitor.” Though it was mostly in jest, Fiske’s sister’s voice hardly hid her contempt. Fiske very much loved swimming and fishing, his lair sequestered by a large lake to the south. Runa’s golden eyes turned to Asmund, her voice the sound bells and chimes in a gentle breeze, “Father, of course we would come. How could we not?” She searched her father’s face, smirking, “And of course I’m still seeing Comeon!” The pair had been mated for a number of decades now, and Asmund had always loved asking if they were still an item.

“I am very glad you came,” said the Lord Baron. “Now, we have much work to do...”

#jarguund #mtg #mtg rp #magic rp #magic the gathering rp #magic the gathering #magic #asmund #asmund frostwing #rp #long post #fiske frostwing #runa frostwing #fiske #runa

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

Hey look, more mono-colored cards for Jarguund! I forgot to upload these yesterday. 

#mtg #magic the gathering #magic #custom cards #custom #fan card #fan cards #jarguund #asmund speaks #mono blue #mono-blue #blue #u #vikings #wizards #storm crow?

[asmund-scion-of-ice]

A Slow Night at the Meadery

A cold, snowy evening. Perfect, by all accounts. A small number of visitors, and Theren Everwood, the local planeswalking bard, made their way in and out of Frostwing Meadery. A, comparatively small, Izzet guidlmage and a Zendikari angel graced my hall this evening, and spoke to their sparking and their homes. It was a wonderful time, really, as Theren played on my new acquired piano. I made it snow, just for the effect. I’m sure they were pleased.

But, there was a meeting to attend to. As it stands, the Ravnican City Board has a meeting here in a few minutes. Theren is already here and is still playing up on stage, sipping at the Setessen Old Arbor cider I gave him. 

As I wait, my mind wanders back a number of years, as I tend to do when bored. I wipe away the dirtiness of the smaller glasses and steins with a cloth wrapped around a claw, almost too large around to fit inside as I think. Many years back my mind goes, zig-zagging through the corridors of my memories.

I find myself standing in a large, glistening cave. White, with streaks of blue, just as my own scales, and meadery. I look down and see I’m standing much closer to the ground now. Even my tail is complete! It’s been over 500 years since my tail was last whole, and I’m remembering its last day quite clearly. The ice and stone of the cave keep me cold, a familiar, wonderful embrace. I hear laughter and squawking and turn to see my clutch mates roughhousing. Quickly, I clumsily leap over to them, my stubby wings barely lifting me from the smooth floor.

My mind departs my old body and I hover there, above my family. Small, and precious. Herleif, Gunhild, Val, and Kachina; the smallest white dragons on all of Jarguund, an impressive clutch. Back, in the present, I feel a small tear form in my eyes. I let it fall as, in my memories, the ground rumbles. My mother, Ebele, flying in from the cave’s entrance a quarter mile away, looking panicked and angry. Her great wings pulling us into shelter, even colder than the air.

Then the crack of stone, the whoosh of hot air pushing its way into the cave. It burned. I saw myself cover my eyes with my wings, cowering before the menace before my family. Dwarves. Too many dwarves. With a battle cry they leapt into battle, weaving spells, throwing spears and angrily swinging hammers and axes. Incapacitated, Mother watched in horror as the dwarves cut down my clutch mates, and, slowly, painfully, I saw my mother killed. My tiny, hatchling self crying out in fear and anger, leaping blindly into the fray while the others stood paralyzed, or dead. With a cracking roar, I cut into the first dwarf, parting his armor like the hide of a goat. I froze the blood in his veins as tears fell. Ebele, screaming in horror as the dwarf’s mate, long, blonde braids falling over silver and gold plate armor, cut into my tail. A flash as I disappeared.

I found myself staring up at a large dragon. Unknown to me. I registered the beast as intelligent, like myself. my hatchling self, bleeding profusely, collapsed as the white and red dragon, slender, feathered, agile and calm, lifted me away to the monastery I called home for many years thereafter.

My mind crashed back into the present as Madame Poison, Gardonia, and Lasav pushed their way into the Meadery. I wiped my eye with a wingclaw, the jewelry hanging there twinkling in Frostwing’s light.

“Salutations my friends, are we ready for our meeting?”

I pulled out a number of steins and steeled myself for an evening of debating and strange news.

@thetalesofthereneverwood @gardianforce @lasav-the-sneakster @poison-stripes @bobstropajo @shepherd-ivaria

Let me know what you all think! Have a great evening everyone!

#mtg #fanwalker #fanwalkers #frostwing meadery #magic the gathering #fan plane #jarguund #character development #first planeswalk #spark #sparking #magic #ravnican city board