Osvaldo Magnarsson, brother to the Twice Crowned King, cut a splendid figure in the mirror. Black plate armor with golden patterning glistening in the sun, curly blonde hair waving in the breeze, blue eyes piercing the smoke clouds that drifted over the battlefield. His faithful hunting dogs Beowulf and Loki trailed his full blood warhorse, aides the camp looked on in admiration as he lifted his baton in a clear command that would command the reserve unto the field in a last victorious charge.
"Very nice," Roald commented.
"Hmmpf," Robart grunted.
"But what gap will the cavalry cuse?" Roald asked. "To the left, will take them across the front of the field batteries, which are apparently engaged in an artillery duel."
"Right is blocked by pike." Robart spat on the marble tiles, then swallowed the prune he was chewing on.
"You just missed my boot."
"Yeah."
"Because our brother would not be pleased if his cavalry was being eviscerated by pike or blown away by our own canister shot."
"Loves his horses, our brother."
"Anyway, I guess the artist didn't have an actual battle at hand to depict."
"Must be."
"Which I guess is due to the fact that you, Osvaldo, are you gallivanting a hundred miles behind the actual front lines."
"Gallivanting," Robart said.
"we'll have to win this war without you."
"We will," Robart said.
". I apologize to be the one to bring this to you, but... our brother the King asked me to let you know that you are stripped of your titles, banished from our lands. I have to ask you to leave immediately," Roald said.
"You can take the painting," Robart grunted.
Osseric is dead. He was Osvaldo Magnarsson, Prince of the Blood of the Twice Crowned King faction (and Brujah).
This post has been edited by Path-Shaper: 13 May 2015 - 12:13 PM
Only someone with this much power could make this many frittatas without breaking any eggs.