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Borges Tlön
Borges Tlön visits the Kabikov vassals of the Uqbar basin.
Borges stands nearly six and half feet tall. His once-raven hair has turned to white and grey and his face and hands are crisscrossed with minor scars from innumerable battles and training skirmishes but his pale, ice-blue eyes remain sharp and discerning. He wears a thick wolf-fur cloak dyed black over Vitayev steel plate armor. The breastplate is acid-etched with the sigil of the family, a peryton raising a human heart in its claw. Under it, the words in the old tongue of the highland tribes, “Iron Waits”. A similar emblem is etched upon a steel kite-shield strapped to his back.
His stride is long and purposeful and despite his forty-nine winters he moves with practiced ease under the weight of steel that would pin a lesser man to the ground. His entourage is made up primarily of his most elite warriors, long-standing veteran troops drawn from the ranks of the Peryton cavalry. Each of these is similarly dressed in fine Vitayev plate and a wolf-fur cloak. These men lack only their lord’s emblem upon the breastplate; instead it appears uniquely upon their shield. Amongst the entourage a single towering Tlönic mare stands, its ears and eyes alert but otherwise still. Instead of steel barding, it is draped in blue and silver cloth from the Uqbar lowlands. Dwarfed by the soldiers surrounding her, a petite blond-haired women of northern descent rides upon the giant horse. She is Borges’ wife, Lady Alix of House Clegat. She is a matriarch now and despite her petite frame and delicate features, her gaze is stern and her eyes show no mercy. Outwardly she is northern but her heart and mind, after many years of power, violence and cruelty, are thoroughly highland Uqbar.
Other than the sigil upon his breastplate, nothing distinguishes the lord of Uqbar from his entourage. He wears no crown and no banners flutter around him. But the people of Uqbar recognize him immediately; they see his face every day on their coin. And they know and often fear him. His is an iron rule. Justice is quick. And often final.
As they make their way into the grand lowland city of Riverforks, the peasantry and nobles alike, part before him and drop to a knee. He passes quickly through their ranks, his stern visage unbroken by their show of loyalty, neither smiling nor frowning, his gaze set upon the keep at the meeting of the rivers, Solntse Chertog.
Finally they arrive at the gate, handing Lady Alix's giant steel-clad Tlönic horse to the stablehands, before striding threw a crowd of gathered nobles and courtesans.
Borges’s visage finally breaks its stern impassivity upon noting the towering steel and fur clad figure that leads the defenders of Solntse Chertog, “My son Askold, it has been too long.”
Borges Tlön visits the Kabikov vassals of the Uqbar basin.
Borges stands nearly six and half feet tall. His once-raven hair has turned to white and grey and his face and hands are crisscrossed with minor scars from innumerable battles and training skirmishes but his pale, ice-blue eyes remain sharp and discerning. He wears a thick wolf-fur cloak dyed black over Vitayev steel plate armor. The breastplate is acid-etched with the sigil of the family, a peryton raising a human heart in its claw. Under it, the words in the old tongue of the highland tribes, “Iron Waits”. A similar emblem is etched upon a steel kite-shield strapped to his back.
His stride is long and purposeful and despite his forty-nine winters he moves with practiced ease under the weight of steel that would pin a lesser man to the ground. His entourage is made up primarily of his most elite warriors, long-standing veteran troops drawn from the ranks of the Peryton cavalry. Each of these is similarly dressed in fine Vitayev plate and a wolf-fur cloak. These men lack only their lord’s emblem upon the breastplate; instead it appears uniquely upon their shield. Amongst the entourage a single towering Tlönic mare stands, its ears and eyes alert but otherwise still. Instead of steel barding, it is draped in blue and silver cloth from the Uqbar lowlands. Dwarfed by the soldiers surrounding her, a petite blond-haired women of northern descent rides upon the giant horse. She is Borges’ wife, Lady Alix of House Clegat. She is a matriarch now and despite her petite frame and delicate features, her gaze is stern and her eyes show no mercy. Outwardly she is northern but her heart and mind, after many years of power, violence and cruelty, are thoroughly highland Uqbar.
Other than the sigil upon his breastplate, nothing distinguishes the lord of Uqbar from his entourage. He wears no crown and no banners flutter around him. But the people of Uqbar recognize him immediately; they see his face every day on their coin. And they know and often fear him. His is an iron rule. Justice is quick. And often final.
As they make their way into the grand lowland city of Riverforks, the peasantry and nobles alike, part before him and drop to a knee. He passes quickly through their ranks, his stern visage unbroken by their show of loyalty, neither smiling nor frowning, his gaze set upon the keep at the meeting of the rivers, Solntse Chertog.
Finally they arrive at the gate, handing Lady Alix's giant steel-clad Tlönic horse to the stablehands, before striding threw a crowd of gathered nobles and courtesans.
Borges’s visage finally breaks its stern impassivity upon noting the towering steel and fur clad figure that leads the defenders of Solntse Chertog, “My son Askold, it has been too long.”
Just look here: 
