Starting 3rd Month 108 AD/Year 48 of the rule of Queen Myranda I. Arryn

#Various additional information, including The Paps residents

The Paps is currently settled by mainlanders and the scattered remmnants of those that survived the attempted genocide during the reign of Lord Conn Elesham. The island is currently ruled by the daughter of the former Lord, Lady Valena Elesham. Although the island is still crawling with soldiers from the Elesham liege Lord, the Hunters. Although Lady Valena hopes to take over the daily tasks of her Ladyship soon.

Teleportation is currently allowed in the Vale, so feel free to stop by!

Access to the Lords Chambers and Solar is restricted and guarded.

Hunter Men-At-Arms man the castle, protect the residents, and occupy the docks.

Rookery use is possible, but requires Elesham permission.

Lady Valena Elesham (17)

The Paps

Although not the most proper or confident Lady, she may just be what is needed upon the Island of The Paps. Her constant insistence that her father is out there somewhere fighting for her, may have led to her confidence issues. But she has been both good for the settlers and the scattered remnants of the original settlers. Raised by her Hardying mother and Hunter soldiers and her loyal uncle Jurah, she came up well and is beloved by the populace of the Island.

Winged Knight Jon Elesham (42)

The Eyrie

Winged Knight Jon Elesham is mourning his long friend and companion Reaj. Although his mind sometimes wonders to where he would be if he had not become a Winged Knight, he loves where he is in the world.

Veeva Torrent née Elesham (63)

Littlesister

Veeva is a troubled woman who is terribly afraid of change. A twin to Vivian Elesham but nothing alike. Fear rules her life most of the time.

Vivian Melcolm née Elesham (63)

Traveling

Vivian is very ingrained in her culture. Her desire to see her home and people led her into the crosshairs of the Vale Nobleman and she has since been cast into the Silent Sisters.

Conn Elesham (47)

Traveling

Conn hasn't been readily seen in the Vale since the abandonment of his role as Lord of The Paps. Once a famed but unknown tourney knight, he is undoubtedly somewhere in the Vale.

Rhea Elesham neè Hardying (43)

The Paps

Loving mother of Valena Elesham. Estranged wife of Conn Elesham. Hard as she tried to raise Valena as a proper Lady. The mysteries of the island and the abcense of her husband have made that job a tiring one.

Played by /u/17771777171789

HIGHGARDEN, The Reach, 8th Month of the 17th Year of Perceon IV

Margaery

The Crown Princess' solar was overcome with the stifling, suffocating, still heat of late summer, a heat even the opening of all of Highgarden's many windows could not effectively combat. Yet, though her many ladies-in-waiting and handmaidens could scarcely put in the effort to keep up the background noise of inane chatter about so-and-so's latest crush or who had been seen dancing with who, the Crown Princess seemed unaffected.

In truth, she preferred these hot, quiet summers days to the cacophony that was the cooler ones. Though of course it would be improper to say as much, she did not care who had kissed who, and the uncomfortable feeling in her belly when she thought too much about it made her feel sinful, though it was certainly not anything akin to the sin of lust, of course. Jocelyn was more interesting - she felt she could truly speak to her of things that mattered! - but she was in her chambers, recovering from summer fever.

Dressed in a splendid silk gown of pure white silk - the color of the Seven, and her preferred color - the callow girl who had been named heir years before had flowered into a strikingly pretty maiden, robust for a girl of her age, with bouncing brown curls. Those same curls had been called 'common' by some of the traitors and slanderers, and 'breathtaking' by sycophants and flatteres, both of which Margaery now knew were legion.

Yet that beauty was not on display as Margaery bent single-mindedly over her stitches, face contorted in frustration, occasionally glancing to her copy of the Seven-Pointed Star - in the original Andal, of course - open to one of the parables of Hugor, which she was trying to portray. It was one about 'rendering unto the King,' which she felt was quite appropriate for the situation of the kingdom, wracked with disloyal vassals and impiety as it was. She brushed one of those 'common,' 'breathtaking' curls out of her vision roughly, putting it behind the loose veil she had worn since flowering. She needed to focus.

She had become frustrated with her father of late, even as she had been included more and more in her father's councils. House Gardener was set to be bound in blood with House Hightower - the most powerful alliance seen in half a millenia - yet not a man dared to dream of what could be done with such power! No, her father seemed content with the interminable dance of tourneys and feasts and flattering lords who were no better than carrion birds, feeding off of the power that was rightfully hers, rather than taking the chance of a century to seize true, absolute power!

Yet at the thought of her betrothal, her mind drifted from important matters of faith and state to less meaningful things. Addam's face flashed in her mind, much to her chagrin, and she smiled slightly, despite herself. To let her mind wander to thoughts of the other sex while she attempted to depict holy scenes was borderline sinful, though she had no sinful intent. He had gotten bigger and taller of late, well on his way to earning his spurs - the Prince Consort must be a knight, after all, she thought - yet he had also been acting very queer of late. Laughing even when she had not said something funny, and at times, she even thought he didn't very much like her friend Osric.

"What's that you're stitching?" asked Mina, stupidly, interrupting her thoughts. She did not understand why her father had saddled her with a steward's daughter, and a halfwit besides. "I think he looks like Addam!" she cooed, pointing at the kneeling lord, and soon all her ladies and handmaidens erupted into a cacaphony of giggles. "It's not Addam," she declared, but no one listened, even as she kept insisting otherwise. For a moment, a voice that spoke in her brother's voice said that her stitches were too crooked to look like anyone, but she silenced the voice. Her needle was just dull - that was it. Not to mention her hands had never been very dextrous, which was, of course, the fault of her Septas.

She stood up, mustering every ounce of regal bearing she could. "I think that's all for today," she said, "please, leave me be. I tire of this." Her ladies looked at each other nervously, before reluctantly filing out of the room, led by Rosamund Fossoway, but before Selyse could depart, she grabbed her wrist.

"Fetch Addam for me, Selyse," she commanded. Selyse giggled a bit, and Margaery narrowed her eyes. "Why are you laughing?" she asked, only for Selyse to giggle further, and shake her head, before dashing off to fetch her betrothed. It seems everyone is acting queer of late, she thought, perhaps it is contagious.

I am back.

I've been a little inactive but am ready to start reaving again!

Get ready!

HONEYHOLT, The Reach, 5th Month 91 AD

(cw: child death)

Thwack!

The sound of her tourney sword hitting the dummy resounded through the courtyard.

Thwack!

Again and again, she struck - once, the dummy had a crude face painted onto it, but naught remained of it now. There was no finesse in her strikes today, no agility, no skill. Just ferocity and anger, channelled from the fixed expression on her face onto a poor, hapless, dummy. There was no shame about what she was doing, no attempt to hide her true self from the court of Honeyholt, which would never be her true home anyway.

Thwack!

She panted, sweaty from the exertion, her face red as a beet, but anything was better than being trapped in that room, hearing her darling boy wailing, the gray rat rushing around, assuring her that all would be well, even as she saw the worried expression on his face. And worst of all, the watching and the waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting, unable to do anything but pray to the Mother whose rules she had so often spurned that the maester’s honeyed words would prove true - that all would be well. Sitting there, as helpless as she’d been when her father’s body was taken before her.

Thwack!

Her amber hair was falling down in ringlets when she heard the sounds of someone behind her - a page, who looked terrified. I must look like a madwoman. The boy opened his mouth, but it was as if she was hearing the words from beneath a wide river, muffled, unreal.

“Myles,” she heard him say, and reality came crashing back. Her son was — no, no it couldn’t be. Her tourney sword clattered to the floor, and she sprinted, as if carried by the wind, up the stairs to the room of death. Shoving the maester to the ground, she grabbed the bundle of blankets that was her child, held it to her chest, and felt — nothing. No little heart struggled for life beneath the folds. No ragged breaths, no wails or cries came from his blue lips.

He was dead.

“Princess Victaria,” she heard the maester say, getting unsteadily to his feet, but he was a thousand miles away. She looked down at the lifeless form, and a name left her lips.

“William,” she uttered.

“I beg your pardon?” asked the maester.

“Where is my husband?” she demanded. How, how could this have happened? Was it the maester, had he cared too little for her child’s well-being? Or, was it her? Spending so much time conspiring to leave Honeyholt, to leave her family, to leave the castle where no one could be trusted, being the horrible mother she’d known she’d be. Even as her son lay dying, she’d left him, left him so that she could continue to violate natural law.

“William,” she panted, “bring him.” With that, she laid her son, Myles, so soon deprived of his life, back in his crib, and collapsed against the window.

Hello, everyone!

Due to popular demand, the mod team has decided to bring back the beach thread, which briefly ran before the game's start. With the game slower than ever before, we think it could be a good opportunity to wind down and play some more with your characters before wrapping up storylines and writing epilogues, if that is planned.

Your characters are at a beach! Feel free to RP them in any way you want, with each other or with the environment. As said by Asmo on the original post, "this is generally a non mechanical, free for all wonderland".

Please keep in mind that everything that happens in this thread will have no consequences in the main story, but don't forget to still be nice and respectful to all fellow players.

Remember to have fun!

"A weapon, milord. A weapon to surpass metal gear."

Erich deftly spun the instrument in his hand, his fingers coming to rest on its shining metal trigger. Reaching to the hammer, he drew it back, and it clicked into place, barrel glinting in the midday sun. In a swift motion he raised it towards the servant who had brought it to him.

Crack.

Smoke drifted into the field. The flash of the weapon seemed caught on the metal sheets of armor of his knights, and his victim lay dead before him. With a grin, he flicked the device about his finger, until it came to rest on his hip.

"Yes, the time of reckoning has come."

#The First Month of 90 AD, Castle Black

The two rode quickly, atop two coursers that had come with them on the ship. There was no snow, but the sky was grey and overcast; the dark slush formed from past snows a crushed beneath his mount's feet, sending forth a spray of icy, dirty water. A depressing day by all means, but today the cold, the sharp wind blowing across his face and the spray kicked up by the horse filled Damon with duty. He had come here with a job- he would hope to return having accomplished it.

Their chartered cog had not docked at Eastwatch, as they had originally planned. Instead, they had anchored off the Gift and transported to shore with smaller rowboats. To Roslin, he had cited security as the reason, but in truth, at Eastwatch he was bound to garner attention. And no doubt that of my father. That was an occasion he would have wanted to hold off for a more... private time. He would not let it distract him. With only their horses and meager supplies, the couple had rode through the icy waste, hoping to reach the Lord Commander before sunset.

Suddenly, the vista cleared and the Wall, blue and tall, rose up in the distance. His horse reared, almost throwing him off, and the riders skid to a halt.

"Gods," Roslin sighed, her eyes wide with awe, "it's beautiful. More beautiful than I could have imagined."

"Certainly," he replied. Even from afar, the Wall was the largest structure he had ever seen: Stillfen, next to it, would seem a child's mere plaything. Was this structure truly build by man? That was what the masters had told him in his youth, yet the tales that had been read to him spoke otherwise. Giants. That seemed the most plausible answer to him. "It's... very imposing. Very."

"They say the Hightower can be seen from atop it. All the Kingdoms, all that vast land, laid out like a map." Roslin dismounted, staring at the structure as if in a trance. "I could stay here forever. Live and die."

Damon found the structure rather terrifying. If such existed only a boat's ride away, what other fascinations littered his world? In Essos? Sothoryos? He shook his head to clear his thoughts, calling to his wife. "We better get going now. It seems the sun will set any moment now."

His wife pulled herself back onto the horse, muttering. "Yes, you're quite right. I'd like to see it up close. Touch the ice, perhaps. And ride to the top, of course."

Damon smiled. "Good. Let us ride."

#The First Month of 90 AD, On the Open Sea

The moonlight gleamed on the ocean as the boat plowed through rough waves. It was a relatively cloudless night; the moon, pale and silvery, set alight the deck, a thousand shadows dancing across it. A sharp, cold breeze tousled his hair as Damon stood along the sides of the ship, observing... observing all. How quiet it was. Despite the crash of the water against the hull, the creaking of the sails and howling of the wind, he heard none: for the first time in many years, he felt at peace. The ship moved, and his mind with it.

"It is late."

Damon turned towards the source of the voice, finding only his wife standing near the entrance he himself had emerged from. The lantern swung with the motion of the ship as the woman, still in her nightgown, stepped forward awkwardly. "Roslin." He looked to her with concern. "What are you doing here? It is cold, you'll be ill."

"I looked for you." A deep melancholy tinged the Lady of Stillfen's eyes. "The cabin was empty, the hold as well. A sailor told me where you had gone. Without him I could not have even found you. Yet you stand without me, here, and without a thought."

He closed his eyes. "I- I am gathering them. Being on the open sea... it's the best time to do so, don't you think? It is calm here." He smiled lightly. "Despite the waves, of course." And strong they were. Even now he could feel the salt on his lips, the spray reaching over the sides of the boat.

Roslin walked slowly towards him, her eyes scanning the open sea behind him. "I looked for you," she repeated. "Yet you are never beside me. I spoke to you for the first time in months when we rode to Maidenpool. Now... now as I boarded this... cog..." She looked away. "I had thought you would be beside me now. At least here. But even now you chase the fantasies in your head while neglecting what is beside you!" She spat out the sentence. "I have tried all I could to reach you. To live by your side. Yet you have refused me at every turn."

Damon did not dare look to his side. "I... you are right. Roslin, I am, truly, sorry. My- my duties- kept me from you."

"What duties?" She turned, her voice trembling. "You still do not see it, do you? All of your accomplishments. A great lord, you." Her voice grew more shrill with every syllable. "Yet you are never Damon. The man I first met. The man I love."

Was his wife right? In his mind, Damon remained... Damon. He was the same man he had been all those years ago, when he had first met the woman who had been Roslin Mallister. He was a good son: dutiful, loyal, obedient. And a good husband as well...

"We were married a decade ago," Roslin continued. "I had never met you before the wedding. Yet when I saw you, I knew you for the man that you were." She paused. "I am your wife." Roslin's voice cracked. "You are my husband. We are not strangers. We no longer are."

"Of course not." Damon looked to the side, noticing the churning waves behind him. "We aren't. You are my wife, Roslin... and I, I... I love you. I always have. Perhaps I do not always show it, or, perhaps I have been distant. I see that."

She shook her head, her eyes watery. "You see it, and that is all." The lady turned to leave, the gown fluttering behind her. It was a light blue, he noticed for the first time. Her wedding gown had also been blue when the two had wed. She had not known him then; she did now. Yet what had changed? It had been distant lives the two had led, separate lives with little intersection. He did not even yet have a child. For all the love they shared, or... claimed to share, his wife was wrong. They were strangers. But they did not have to be.

"Roslin, wait!" His footsteps rang out against the deck as he ran to stop the Lady of Stillfen. "Please, listen to me." He held her hand as Roslin averted his gaze, staring blankly towards the open ocean. "I... have not been the best person for you. I know it." He spoke with as much sincerity as he could muster. "Truly, I do not know what to say to you. Nothing that comes out of my mouth will make you believe me."

He paused, yet Roslin did not say a word.

"But I will speak regardless. I am not an unfaithful man, but distant. An unfaithful man can never again be faithful to his wife, but a distant one can change." He closed his eyes. "I know what I have done. I see it, and the pain it causes you. It is all my fault. But Roslin... you are my wife. I love you very, very much." He met his wife's gaze, and his own wavered. "This will be the first of many conversations, I have no doubt about it. But please trust me if I say I will be by your side. More, that is." He had no doubt that his wife would see his words as lies. After all, what good were they? Words are wind. He sighed slowly. "I will keep to my word."

There was a long pause before his wife spoke again. "I suppose it could be a start." Her response was short, curt; yet it was a start. It very much was. "Come inside with me. As you said, we must discuss."

Endgame survey results

Total responses: 57

Should there be an endgame event for Century of Blood?

57 responses

Chart

Yes: 40.4% (23 responses)

No: 59.6% (34 responses)

Should Century of Blood become non-mechanical until the beginning of After the Dance?

56 responses

Chart

Yes: 85.7% (48 responses)

No: 14.3% (8 responses)

With these results in mind the mod team has decided we will not be holding an endgame event and will be making the game non-mechanical as of this announcement. All the best to everyone who played, and we hope you all keep writing, roleplaying and enjoying yourselves

The COB mod team.

1st month 90 AD, at the same time as the memorial feast for Adelaide Osgrey, Highgarden

In the dead of night Highgarden was silent. Most of its residents had departed for the feast at Coldmoat, including King Perceon himself. But a small few had stayed behind. A small few that much to his misfortune, included Rickard Ashford.

He would awake to find himself gagged and bound in a burlap sack. Being carried around on horseback, if the bumps were anything to go by. After around half an hour of travel he was unceremoniously tossed off the horse.

Looking around, he would see he was outdoors, in a small grove. And looming over him were two very familiar faces. His mysterious captors were none other than John and Edmund Gardener.

(M: sorry for the backdating, things are weird right now)

I almost posted a lore here, but now isn't really the time.

Century of Blood was my first foray into Reddit RP, and just over a year later, I can say that my experience here has been beyond my wildest dreams. It hasn't always been easy---in fact, sometimes it's been incredibly hard and I've made huge mistakes along the way---but I'm so glad to have been a part of building this world and community together.

A massive thank you to Chalkface for letting me look after your children. Lywen, Casella, and the rest are fantastic characters, and it's been a pleasure watching them make their way in the world.

I really wanted to thank everyone by name, but I'd inevitably miss someone. Thank you to Dorne for being such an incredible region, and to all of the friends, relationships, and enemies the leopards have had during my time with them.

Wiki is fully updated. You can catch me on Discord, or on my new Reddit username /u/plasmaaa72.

See you on the flip side. Don't be a stranger.

9th Month of the 90th Year AD

Crakehall

Sumner Crakehall had lived for a long time. He had been born only a scant 11 years after the Doom, days of turbulence in the east that led to days of prominence in the west. He had fathered four children. He had defeated the Ironborn at Fair Isle when he was only 38 namedays old. He had watched his grandchildren be born, defied his own King, and lived to see Crakehall at its pinnacle.

When the Crakehall Fleet anchored off the port and Lord Sumner Crakehall, Lord of Crakehall and Defender of the Southern Pass, was brought to the Keep. In his bed, surrounded by his family, he found that, for the first time in his life, the constant dissapointment ringing in his head had finally dissipated, that feeling that his life and achievements would finally be brought to an end was a freeing one.

"It's alright father. It's alright." Severinus, Gregor, Celeste, he hadn't seen his little girl in so long, and to the side he could swear he saw a small smile on the face of Victor. He blinked and his firstborn was no more.

Sev's wife brought in her child, his grandchild. The boy was already large for his age, the babe was a true Crakehall. He looked to his sides to see his grandchildren, girls and boy, all looking at him.

Perhaps the most painful part of this was that it wasn't the death he wanted. He was surrounded by his loved ones, an end fit for the greatest of kings. Yet it wasn't the end he wanted. In his mind, death should have come for him when he had ordered that assault, when he had lost so many ships to that small force of Ironborn. He should have died with sword in hand, not wasting away as his children looked at him like he was a wastrel.

As his breath left him, the regret washed away and left only contentedness. Crakehall was fine, His children were fine, his grandchildren would one day rule. Yes, everything was going to be just fine.

​

And so passed Lord Sumner Crakehall, a man worthy of myth and song.

And so rose Lord Damasus Crakehall, a boy who would grow in the shadow of his grandfather.

And so ruled Lord Protector Severinus Crakehall, who would dutifully defend his nephew's rights until his dying breath.

​

But that is a story for another time.

(M) It's been real fun everyone. See you when I see you.

#Stupid Future Lore

##Presterly Rock, 133 Years After Doom, 53 Years After Conquest

High King Jean Luke Prester, High King of All of Westeros, Lord of Presterly Rock and Protector of the Eight Realms sat upon the golden throne deep within his seat of power, from where he ruled the eight kingdoms subject to his conquest fifty and three years prior. Jean Luke felt he had been but a boy at that age for now he sat the throne on his sixtieth year with his eldest brothers departed the world and his nephew sitting the Kingship of the Westerlands from the Presters' long-held seat of Feastfires. Past the Golden Tooth, Quentin Lydden, the longest friend the old High King had, sat King of the Riverlands. Many great houses fell during the Prester's conquest and - whilst the Arryns struggled for a decade after most warring was done - Gerion Gale had finally vanquished them and claimed their seat as King of the Vale. In the North ruled a Queen who had sworn allegiance without battle at the recommendation of the High King's wife who had been Stark herself and in the furthers south reigned the daughter of Nymor who had been legitimised by the High King that she might take the throne and, though not accepted by all lords, in securing her birthright Jean Luke earnt her trust and allegiance. A niece, of both Prester and Dayne sat in the seat of power her father had sat and before him the Kings of Gardener until their valiant defeat during his conquest and her husband ruled the Stormlands, their son set to inherit both titles and join those kingdoms as one.

The kingdoms of Westeros stood as proud as ever with their own kings still, yet each king swore in turn to the High King and would do fealty to his son after he passed. Jean Luke felt it was near his time. In one lifetime he had accomplished so much and the world was better for it. None could say him to be a cruel king, though not soft when faced with the hard choices a ruler must make. Temperate, just and engaged in his ruling had always been the method he reigned, never to turn away petitioners or refuse the cases of great lords of serfs. Unlike most highborn, the Monarch of Westeros held no distain for bastards and it was not uncommon that for some good dead a bastard be granted titles, lands, sigil and name, nor was it rare for bastards to be raised to high positions at court. It mattered less about name and birth when compared to deeds and honour, at least in this new world.

The High King had a strong son who would take the throne and his wife had already left the world. Jean Luke had taken to the Old Gods and it was now he sat in the Rock's weirwood grove, resting. He closed his eyes and then he was gone.

His eldest son was Cedrick Prester, named for the man who had arguably been most pivotal in shaping Jean Luke's life.. Now he was the High King and would sit the throne his father had won.

#Less Stupid Future Lore

##Beric Prester, 221 Years After Doom

Beric had always liked the gardens, the Wild Garden especially. There he sat, leant against a great oak that was central to the grove. There was another large tree across from him, the second biggest in the garden. Inscribed upon the trunk were the letters "AP" and "MQ" carved in the centre of a heart. Beric had spent many days wondering who the two might have been but the carving always touched him. The two, whoever they were, must have been very special to each other. That was sweet, the physical reminder of two people's love.

On the other side of the garden was a patch of roses and violets, a small stone set before it: For my dearest wife, though not as beautiful as you, there is a beauty in remembering you as we were, young and foolish, unknowing of how our love would bloom. Your Jax. Beric had heard of Lord Jax Prester, he was something of a legend for the younger Presters, to ride in their imaginations alongside Ser Prester and Uthor the Ox. Lord Jax was supposed to be the greatest warriors of the time and was friends with the Sword of Morning of his time, Ser Lucifer ‘Breakheart’ Dayne. His other great friend was the Lord of Grandview, the father of Beric Grandison who he was named after.

Beric didn’t really have time to sit there, though. His father was having renovations done to the castle and he was resolved to look through every room in search of treasures.

The Tower of the Lights would be his first stop. Once the halls had all had names but they had been lost to time. In the first room there were drapes of white upon all the furniture. Beric pulled them down to reveal a well-furnished room. On a mantelpiece sat a wooden cat and carved into it the name Dolphin. On the wall, with cloths now pulled away, hung an ornate sword, patterned with seashells and oxen. Westerling Seashells. It was fine steel, though not so beautiful as Dragonflame which would one day be his.

The next room had similar coverings though the cloth hid different treasures. A great desk was revealed with dried-up ink pots. The tower hadn’t been used for a long time with most living in Preston’s Keep and so much was left untouched for so long. In a drawer, Beric found stacks of sheet music, the top entitled: Sarella’s Galliard. Many more instrumental pieces were found, many named for people. There were stacks of letters, too, most regarding trade. It seemed strange to be so in need of people to trade at Kayce when it now was such a sprawling city. In the room adjacent, a bedchamber, all was purple and red, with stars and oxen both, and in a drewser was a doublet of quartered purple and red, fine even despite years of being left for the moths. Beric tried it on and, despite the fabric being damaged and being too big, it looked fetching.

The next room found more stacks of paper, though this was poetry. Hopeful at times and others lamented lives wasted. It spoke of a Princess, a Huntress and a Wolf regularly and Beric couldn’t shake that all three seemed to be one.

Having scoured those rooms, he moved on. Beric wandered through the pleasance with a smile, passing the enclosures for animals and the rock with a carved lion which served as a gravestone for: Sweet and Gentle Beric.

Past was the Father Tower. That too had been long abandoned. Climbing up the stairs was tiring, and by the time he reached the first room he lay down. The heraldry was different here, good and black. The duvet and sheets, hanging for the bed and curtains all showed golden lions on black. It took him a moment to remember the reason. Gale. The Gales were to the Presters as the Eastcliff Presters were. There was a women with four bastards who married a brave knight who saved a king from a direwolf and was rewarded with a family name for him and the children who he did not sire but who he raised. Gyles Gale was the man’s name, little known to the world but for the Presters a name of great reverence. A true knight, a good knight.

Further searching yielded more results. A painting of a raven-haired woman, Mae the inscription called her. The painting was beautiful, though aged from time. There was a fine set of mail in Lannister colours, the hands positioned to hold a sword but the blade itself was missing. In a small room in the barracks was a letter that hadn’t been finished, a letter to Dacy Moonmeadow, though from whom he didn’t know. It seems an apology of some sort thiugh was discarded before it was finished. Another portrait showed a handsome man with a lovely, red-haired wife. The inscription read The Steward and his sweet Flower. Finally, in the kitchens, he found a small, bound book. Written in a cursive, pretty hand and signed by “Allura and Joclyn”, though all in one hand. It was a recipe for lemon cakes though because ingredient was simply Secret and the directions for using it likewise. There was a belt with a beautiful buckle which bore a golden scorpion and, hung on the belt, a sword with similar imagery.

There was so much, fragments of things that were but that he would never fully know or understand. But all these names and people were not so far. In the crypts, each lay by their fire, which would burn forevermore in their memory. They were gone and memories of them had faded but in a way they would always be there, a part of his history, a part of him.

Parting is such sweet sorrow - even when we’re not really parting . There are so many other things I could have thrown in here that make me smile. I’ve enjoyed playing with so many of you, there really are too many to name. I have to thank those who helped me learn the ropes, those who I played with and wrote with alongside those I hope I have helped.

I have so many relationships and stories I adore and I am so glad for those I built them with. They will be cherished.

As many of you know, I’m keeping these characters and stories and playing on Crimson Century. Many people will go to play AtD and I really wish you all the best, I hope that fresh start is something you enjoy. Anyone who wants to is welcome to message me to join CC if they want to keep playing their character or are otherwise interested.

We’ll all go our separate ways and life will go on. I’ve loved playing this game even if there have been low-points to it. Thanks for a fun time. Even if I disagree with people on things, I wish you all the best. I hope we all keep enjoying ourselves.

Goodnight CoB, and goodbye.

Hello everyone!

As you’ve probably noticed, activity for the game has reached an all-time low, and whilst we can’t prescribe this to any singular reason, it has become readily apparent that Century of Blood has reached the end of its natural lifespan.

With this in mind, the modteam would like to formally announce that the newly developed game, After the Dance, shall become the official successor to Century of Blood. Already, the transition has begun, and if you join the AtD Discord server you’ll notice that many of the players here have already made the move over.

Below is a link to the AtD server, as well as a poll regarding a possible endgame event for Century of Blood.

Overall, we’re proud of Century of Blood. Of the stories we were able to create and lasting friendships made along the way. As a game, there were hurdles—some larger than others—but as a community of passionate writers, we flourished, and for that we are eternally grateful.

Stay classy, keep writing, and most importantly, have fun,

The CoB Modteam

After the Dance Discord Server

After the Dance Setting & Background Document

Endgame Event Survey Results

Well CoB, it’s been an interesting trip. I would like to state I am not unclaiming due to the drama or anything, rather I do not feel like I can remain here while having massive disagreements with the current state of the mod team. No shade, just my opinion on the matter.

I would like to thank Plas and Leef and many others for making this an interesting time for me. Dorne, it’s been a lovely time and I have had a mostly overall pleasant time.

But this is goodbye from here, stay classy folks

Ded Dorne is ded

I’ve been in the community for a while now. Off and on, of course (mostly off), as anybody who knows me knows. When drama here gets to me, I tend to just ghost for a while, I’m not a confrontational person. But…well, let’s be real. I’m probably not coming back to COB. So, for old times’ sake, I at least want to unclaim properly.

I’ll miss the Dorne. It’s always been my favorite place to play (even if I did love my Durrandons).

Feel free to say hi at any time on discord - god knows I’m always accessible there.

See ya.

No salt in this unclaim, but semester is starting up and the Riverlands is dead, with AtD starting up soon I don't see that really changing so nothing really motivating me to keep claimed. Been a time though, lots of people I've enjoyed writing with. Hopefully if I end up claiming in AtD I'll get to write with you all!

#Ronnel Melcolm, Somewhere near Old Anchor - 246AD

Along the bluffs which ran west along the bay from Old Anchor sat a now abandoned structure. A great three story house with two towers rising, one from the south-east corner, the other from the north-west. It had been home to two and a half generations of Melcolms as the Forecastle underwent an extensive refurbishment. It had slowly fallen into disuse once construction on the Forecastle had been completed, and finally sat empty, forgotten, looking down at the waters below.

Ronnel Melcolm, a tall young man with a wispy mustache, was taking a ride one spring morning. He had no destination in mind, and urging his horse up the high road, found himself at a trot going along the winding path which led to the structure. He ducked under a low branch as the overgrown courtyard opened up in front of him. A bird twittered in the trees behind him.

Eyeing the structure curiously, he brought his horse to a stop in the middle of the opening, dropping to the dirt below. The weeds stretched upward through what scattered cobblestones had been left unscanvanged. Dark windows looked out, covered in dirt, sea salt blown up by the wind. A few were broken, some missing entirely. Others were intact.

Ronnel tied the horse to a post near the great door, drawing off his riding gloves. He put a hand against the wood, feeling the texture a moment, before pushing. The door groaned, as if stretching after awakening from a long sleep. The young man took a last look at the courtyard and stepped inside.

Moving slowly as his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he tried to make use of his other senses. Smells of old fabric, animals, rot came to him. The sound of wood creaking at his footsteps, a fluttering of birds from somewhere upstairs. The day was bright enough and he could soon see well enough.

The first room he found himself in on the first floor was a great hall. Long tables, chairs, benches were off in one corner. A few forgotten cups, pitches, plates sat around as well. Above the great hearth, he could make out a large portrait. He drew closer to it, squinting to make out the faces. A bald man with a large beard stood arm in arm with a rather plain looking woman. A number of children stood around them, including a handsome looking boy of fourteen or fifteen. Ronnel could take a guess at who the man was. Lord Jonas Melcolm had ordered the reconstruction of the Forecastle as Old Anchor had slowly begun to transition from the port town it had been to the growing city it was becoming. Merchants had been gathering at the docks and markets for years from across Westeros and from across the Narrow Sea, foreign quarters springing up here and there. The lord’s wife, however, and his children, were not familiar to the young man, figures mostly lost to history.

Ronnel looked at the portrait a while longer before turning and finding his way upstairs.

Portraits hung on the walls over the stairs as well, some covered with thick canvass that Ronnel needed to pull aside if he wished to see. There was another of the Lord Jonas Melcolm, this time with only his wife, a sword prominently taking up the position occupied by his children in the other depiction. Another portrait was a young man a woman, holding a book or folio between them. At their feet lay an anchor with several wax candles burning atop it. Another portrait showed a red-headed young man stood with a horse. As Ronnel drew closer to it, he realized the animal was, in fact, not a horse at all, but rather a massive dog.

He reached the top of the stairs, letting his feet lead him where they would.

Gently pushing at a door, a frantic sound sent him a few steps back. Within a small chamber, a few metal cages sat on a table by an open window. The cages were open, but it soon became apparent that one was occupied by a songbird, building her nest for the Spring. Ronnel took a few steps in, once the shock had passed. The bird tweeted in greeting, or warning. On another table near a bed sat a wooden box with carved figures on the sides and top. Lions, birds, dogs, horses, anchors...seals? He opened it, revealing a collection of jewelry and trinkets of metal and wood, the theme seemed to be much the same as the carvings without. At the top sat a silver necklace. As he drew up the chain, a heavy object followed. A lion, wrought in onyx, seemed to be sleeping at the end of it. Ronnel thought to pocket the piece, but instead returned to to its fellows, closing the lid again.

He turned to survey the other side of the room. A large bulk of canvas sat in the corner. He drew the covering back, trying to make out what lay underneath. It took him a moment to realize it was the shell of a tortoise. In flaking white paint near the rear were shapes, “MM”. He puzzled over it a moment before covering it again.

Another door down the corridor led to a large solar, a bed chamber could be glimpsed through an open door beyond. Ronnel slowly made his way around the large table, running his fingers over the dirty wood. He sat in what he imagined to be the lord’s seat, looking around. He fiddled with old pots of dry ink, wrinkled parchments, half-feathered quills. Hidden below the side of the table was a box. The clasp was rusty and it took some force to open it. Parchments were stuffed inside. They proved themselves to be letters, some addressed “Jo”, others “Lord Melcolm”, others “Uncle Jonas”. The signatures on the bottom could be made out as “Art”, “Artys”, “Conrad”, and “Conny”. Years of mundane correspondence were packed in them. Successful hunts, unsuccessful hunts, tales of long nights drinking, references to a shared time in the Gates of the Moon. Apologizes, angry words, gratitudes, and desires of long forgotten friends, half incomprehensible without context, all utterly meaningless now. Ronnel returned them and left the box on the table.

Winding steps at the end of the corridor led him up one of the stone towers. Set in the walls were pieces wrought in bronze, mostly depicting the Seven aspects. Before the door at the top, Ronnel was surprised to find several canes leaning against the walls. It seemed inconvenient for someone with trouble walking to occupy a room so high up. He pushed open the door and once again jumped back. Someone was standing there, silent, unmoving. Ronnel’s heart was pounding from the surprise and he waited a moment, groping for a dagger at his belt. But the figure remained still. Slowly, he inched towards it, soon realizing it was merely a dummy wearing a cloak of feathers, goose feathers, a helmet sat on the top.

Upon a desk, Ronnel found a large parchment. “In the Service of Her Majesty Queen Myranda, first of her name, and the House of Arryn, The Order of the White Feather…” Some knightly order that sounded vaguely familiar to him. He looked down at the signatures. Some of them were still known throughout the Vale for various acts, Prince Marq Arryn, Ser Willam Waxley, and others still famous in Old Anchor, Lord Ronnel Hunter, he read. HIs namesake. The story was well enough known, even now. Lord Hunter had come to the aid of House Melcolm regarding some captured knight, had done much to improve Old Anchor while Lord Jonas had seen to other duties. Somewhere in the family tree, the man was Ronnel’s own grandfather, with several greats before it. He smiled, rolling up the parchment and intending to return it to Old Anchor.

At the other end of the corridor, he took the stairs up to the other tower. The walls were covered in chipped paint. Hand prints, crude pictures of flowers. He imagined it had all been rather colorful at one time. The room at the top was littered with parchments and folios. The young man thumbed through some. Figures were written out in a manner most incomprehensible to him. Various correspondences were likewise found. “Ser Ian, I thank you for your helpful notes on the matter. I believe those changes are well advised. I hope you can come to Grandview to see the completed structure yourself, and to meet our youngest. As to the other matter. I fear you would not be interested in my latest manuscript, but I thank you for your offer. -Harwood”

Some impulse drove the man down the stairs, down to the first floor, down to the cellar. The heat outside had made him thirsty and he wondered if there was any cider left. The cavernous cellar contained various casks and barrels, most empty. However, what interested him more was a door built into the vaulting. Opening it revealed wardrobes, trunks, and crates. The young man’s hands ran along the old wood, feeling its worn smoothness. He opened a crate. Shoes. A wardrobe. Shoes. The whole chamber was filled with shoes of all shapes, styles, colors, and materials. Pinned to each was a small bit of parchment with a place and often a note, though two hands were evident. At the bottom of some the initials “VH”. At the bottom of others, the initials “HH”. Who in the Seven Hells would need so many shoes?

Making his way back up to the main floor, he took a last look around in the dim light. A family’s history, his family’s history lay here, part of it anyway, and most of it forgotten. Everything had meant something to someone, just as real as he was, with dreams, hopes, regrets, all lost to time now. He imagined the place alive, people coming and going, distant relatives and close friends spending evenings here in laughter, in song and dance. They had grown old, seen their families grow with them. He hoped they had been happy.

He left through another door, walking back into the sun. Before his eyes could readjust, he tripped over something near the door. He turned to find a rusty anchor lying against the wall. The name “Matthew” had been scratched into it before it had been left, with everything else, as a chapter had closed on House Melcolm.

........

For the most part, it has been a blast. I've had some amazing times writing with people here. We are going for an extended holiday and I was wondering whether I should unclaim, and the recent events have made that decision easy for me.

There are some stories that I am very sad to leave unfinished. Tem, Emmett and Nora were so fun to write, I'm sorry they won't get their wedding. Sam, Milwood...what can I say? I regret some of the choices I made with Millie, but she had taken some tough blows the past few years and I needed time to find strength for her.

For my hot take on the drama, hit me up on discord.

Thanks again CoB. Be excellent to each other.

This is for once not related to the drama, which I must admit I have not been following, I just have been far to busy to play.

I might come back later when I have the time and will, until then, It's been a pleasure playing with everyone around the Claw for the past year, It's been a blast.

List of all patrol results

This thread holds all patrol posts organized by region, during the stated time period in the title.

#Blacktyde

During this, the doors to the long hall at Blacktyde would burst open. Silhouetted by the crash of thunder and lightening, dripping from the torrential downpour, stood Urek Blacktyde.

His eyes held a crazed look. The white paint upon his armor ran in the water, leaving streaks of white across the dents in his breastplate. His hands held no weapon, but a strange bag hung from his left arm, swaying in the night air. Ragnar knew from one look that the quiet task he had set his cousin had gone terribly wrong.

Urek would walk slowly into the hall before turning towards the King of the Iron Islands.

"Harras Milkblood. Your treaty with the Lions is over." He said simply before turning out the bag upon the floor. There was a solid thump as the still bleeding head of a westerner rolled across the room. "They attacked me just as they did my father. You have let our enemies grow strong and our people weak."

As it stands, I cannot handle being here. It's been a losing battle for motivation to stay, but I've been frequently bullied and harassed, and it's gotten to the point where I don't want to write, or add anything to the story on these terms. I apologize to any of my friends that I'm abandoning, or leaving in terms of RP, but I simply cannot take it. I'm shocked at some of the behavior that's allowed to happen, and don't want to participate in this community anymore.

Yeah, this is just the official unclaim. I was gonna write like a big paragraph, but Sealand has already said all there is to say. I like you, CoB.

Will update the wiki by tonight. Also to mods, Allyrion and other troops are raised rn, and hopefully that'll be enough for the Greyjoy threat.

Region empty

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AKLDnM1m3rg

Thursday July 22nd, 8pm UTC,

5th month A 90 AD

Note: This is very backdated due to recent circumstances so apologies if I make any mistakes.

1 noble and 499 Ironborn arrive at the Tor hamlet with malicious intent.

Attackers

Ulf Sailmaker

311 Greyjoy MaA

188 Wynch MaA

Mill Strength: 1000

Defenders

50 Jordayne levies

DR 1.2

Mil Strength: 60

There had been no sign of the Ironborn since she arrived in Godsgrace. It was clear that there was no immediate danger. So, bored out of her mind Maudlyn decides to take her toys and head on back to the Tor to see if perhaps the raiders had ventured that way. Knowing her luck, the fuckers had all died of thirst in the desert, but waiting here wasn’t doing any good.

Survey Results

Total Responses: 67

Would you be open to a reset sometime in the future?

Chart

Yes: 97% (65 responses)

No: 3% (2 responses)

In how much time?

Chart

Next few months: 64.2% (43 responses)

End of 2021: 14.9% (10 responses)

Early 2022 (Aligned with HotD Release): 7.5% (5 responses)

Even later: 1.5% (1 response)

Other: 11.9% (8 responses)

If you replied “other” to the previous question, please elaborate

For these open ended questions, we’ll do our best to compile/summarise the common answers, roughly in the order of how often they were mentioned.

• Flexible, no particular preference
• ASAP or in the relatively near future
• Considering other games already developed

What mechs would you like to see changed or overhauled for a potential reset?

• Warfare, Land Combat, Naval Combat (specifically, sieges, naval battles, castle defence, etc.)
• Remove/Change Food Mechs
• Increase/Change game timescale
• Intrigue mechs (rework plots, plot protections, rumours, make it more accessible)
• Econ (Simplify, rework)
• Character Skills
• All of them
• Go back to 7K Mechs
• Reduce Toxicity/Better policing
• Dueling
• Hunting & Taming mechs
• Magic
• Map (make it easier for mods to use)
• Reduce number of claims
• Beyond the Wall mechs

Elaborate on the previous question.

Most of these answers were just extended (or elaborated) answers from above, and will be passed onto whoever works on these mechs in future. There are quite a few paragraphs here, so it would be difficult to summarise without writing the same as above.

Is there anything in particular you would like changed in these mechs?

Again, alot of the same answers and a few larger paragraphs, I will put anything not mentioned above here. But almost everything mentioned above was mentioned here.

• Simplify mechs overall
• Default plot protections
• Variety in battle mechs (commanders, tactics, etc.) and segies
• Modifiers based off character characteristics (Combat modifiers based on strength, Influence, etc.)
• Remove Essos

What mechs would you like to see added/made for a potential reset?

• More detail in character mechs, more variety in characters, characteristics
  • SCCs (in the way they were done in 7K)
• General rebalancing and reworking (econ, military strength, etc.)
• Focus on Maesters and raventending
• More Dorne passes for Dorne/Stonehelm
• Specific resource tiles, replacements/additions instead of raiding
• Events to boost activity in regions
• Dragon mechs
• Limit on PCs
• Ruins
• Beyond the Wall mechs
• Slim down rules, remove SC/TC distinction

What do you see as the setting for this new game?

Chart

United Realms: 76.1% (51 responses)

Divided Realms: 14.9% (10 responses)

Other: 9% (6 responses)

If you said "other" for the previous question, elaborate.

• No preference
• Smaller scale with fewer divided kingdoms
• Petty Kings
• Add Essos to be interacted with

Do you wish this game to be strictly based on canon?

Chart

Yes: 26.9% (18 responses)

No: 20.9% (14 responses)

Maybe: 52.2% (35 responses)

Elaborate on the previous question.

• Canon start/base with some flexibility, within various limitations
• No preference
• Depends on setting and timeline
• Preferably minimal alteration to canon
• More magic/fantasy
• Suggestions of specific starting scenarios

What would your preferred game speed be?

Chart

1 IC month = 24 OOC hours/1 IC year = 2 OOC weeks (7k speed): 50.7% (34 responses)

1 IC month = 36 OOC hours: 11.9% (8 responses)

1 IC month = 48 OOC hours/1 IC year = 4 OOC weeks (COB speed): 25.4% (17 responses)

1 IC month = 72 OOC hours: 6% (4 responses)

Other: 6% (4 responses)

Other suggestions included No Preference (twice), Mixed, and a loose preference for 1 IC month = 36 OOC hours.

Do you have any other suggestions?

• Overall Kingdom events
• Unique KL Manses
• Minimal mechs
• Bring back SCC trees
• Speedups and Slowdowns instead of one constant speed
• Joining After the Dance (ATD)
• Faster speed
• Slower speed
• Reuse ITP start date for new game (Late Reign of King Aerys II)

If the game were to reset, do you think you would continue playing in the new game?

Chart

Yes: 80.6% (54 responses)

No: 1.5% (1 responses)

Maybe: 17.9% (12 responses)

These are the results for the reset survey. The mod team is still discussing how to move forward so any feedback or any discussion in general from the community about these survey results and the future of the game is more then welcome in the comments below.

4th month a 90 ad

20 longships are engaged by a large westerlands patrol

Attackers:

Crakehall- 85 1 Dromond 15 Galleys

Prester - 100 5 Dromond 10 Galleys

Kayce - 200 10 Dromond 8 Galleys 15 Longships

Westerling -55 11 Galleys

Farman-296 8 Dromonds 24 Longships 24 Galleys
pcs:

Dennis Westerling
Sumner Crakehall

Ralf Stool SC

mp: 736

Defenders:

20 Blacktyde Longships

Scs and pcs:

Urek Blacktyde

Nute the Widower

Erik the Frowner

Results

Joust: Eden Ball, Edmund Gardener

Melee: Axell Florent

Archery: Paxter Florent

Squire's Melee: Lorent Osgrey

Lannisport, 6th Month A of 90 A.D. / Year 22 Loren

Plans for the Celebrations

Day 1: Arrivals

Day 2: Wedding Ceremony, Feast

Day 3: Duels

Day 4: Archery Contest

Day 5: Blunt Melee, Live Melee

Day 6: Duels, Horse Race

Day 7: Grand Joust

Day 8: Hunt

The Wedding

After years of isolation, the City of Lannisport opened her doors once more. Extravagant was rarely a word used to describe the marriage of a Lord Steward’s cousin, but the event was clearly an exception. Out of love, piety, or merely the joy of receiving guests in their home. No one precisely knew why the Lannisters had used such a vast amount of wealth in the middle of Winter -- even if it was not to last long, according to the Maesters in the Citadel.

It did not matter, though. The streets were filled with merchants and peasants trying to sell their goods, a small fortune was used to bring food to the city from as far as the Eyrie, and the populace seemed slightly less willing to cut the Lord’s head. Lancel even sponsored puppet shows and entertainment for the people in several parts of the city, dispersing them to avoid further trouble. A great number of members of the City Watch, with their typical red cloaks, was also present in great numbers throughout the city.

The beginning ceremony took place in the Jubilant Sept, the traditional sept for all religious matters used by the Lannister family. Although smaller than the other septs present in the city, it was truly a magnificent piece of architecture: made with the traditional seven points, red stone similar to the buildings around it, and monumental marble statues of the Seven in its interior. Here, in the heart of Lannisport’s traditional goldwork birthplace, each detail was worked to perfection and complemented in gold. Upon leaving the sept, the guests would be greeted by a small procession, guarded by the City Watch, across Lannistown and into the Lannisport Manor, where the remaining festivities would take place and their own quarters were located.

The Great Hall was decorated with the colors of the great Houses of Lannister and Lefford, with banners adorning its walls. The long room had four great tables to accommodate the guests, as well as a high table for the Lannister family, from both Lannisport and the Rock, and the Leffords. With the flames dancing in the hearth, bards setting the tone for a distinctive feast, and the stained windows letting through a warmer color than the depressive weather outside, the hall was ready to receive the guests. A grand variety of drinks and foods would be served: from Lannisport’s own spiced honey wine, to the best the Arbor, Dorne and the Riverlands could offer; the food brought in by the servers was not behind, with a collection of seafood, fowl and meats like mutton and beef.

The Lords and Ladies would also be free to explore the gardens just outside the manor, as well as the entire Eastern Wing of the Lannister’s home. Inside, the entrance to the kitchens was forbidden and the guest’s quarters were equally guarded, only letting the guests and no one else inside. In the gardens, only the crypts were being guarded by a knight. The guests can also wander through the city and enjoy all its charms: they would be advised to stay within the borders of the Little Rock, Copperfield, Golden Harbor and Lannistown districts; and can ask for a personal guard of the Lord Steward to escort them.

Meta Note: No personal guards allowed inside the castle walls. No weapons allowed inside the castle walls. A maximum number of 15 mechanical guards are allowed inside the city.