Sir Talbot Ironplume was once a humble squire tending the warhorses of Chickenopolis. In the great tourney of the Plains, when his master fell, Talbot seized the banner and rallied the riders. His courage and unyielding spirit won the day, earning him a knighthood. Now he rides with the Ironplume crest — two crossed feathers upon a field of gold — a symbol of both honor and vigilance.
Aye, lend thine ear to the tale of Sir Fleet Von Claw Rokerpokerphone, once but a humble scout of the King’s Cavalry. None could match his swiftness, nor his cunning upon the winding trails, for he bore tidings with the speed of a falcon’s wing. In the hour of dire need, when battle raged and the foe pressed hard, it was Fleet who thundered o’er hill and hedge, banner streaming in his family’s colors of black and white. With breathless haste he brought word of the enemy’s flank, his message arriving first and shaping the tide of war. So moved was Prince Marcus Titus de Barret Rock that, upon the very field still shrouded in smoke and steel, he drew forth his sword and knighted the fleet-footed messenger. From that day forth, Fleet bore not only the lance of his house but the honor of knighthood, his name sung as the swift herald who turned the course of battle.
Born the son of a humble mason, Alderic was raised among the ringing of hammers and the dust of quarried stone. He was no warrior by birth, but when the walls of Chickenopolis were threatened, it was Stoneclaw who stood firm. Wielding a spear as steady as a plumb line, he rallied farmers and craftsmen into a shield wall that held against the raiders. For his unshakable courage, he was knighted on the very stones he once carved. Now, clad in armor of hammered steel, Sir Alderic Stoneclaw stands as both defender of walls and breaker of foes—unyielding as the granite of his name.
was not born into privilege but into the clang of hammer and anvil. The son of a coop-smith, his feathers were blackened with soot before he ever touched a blade. Known for his unmatched skill in forging armor and weapons, he lived humbly, serving the needs of knights far above his station.
Yet when Chickenopolis was threatened by the marauding Foxlords, Bartram stood not behind the forge but upon the battlefield, clad in armor of his own making. With a hammer in one claw and a shield in the other, he broke the enemy’s lines, proving that a smith could be as mighty as any noble knight.
For his courage, he was knighted on the field and swore an oath: never to fashion a weapon he would not wield himself. Now, Sir Bartram Ironplume carries the pride of every craftsman, his armor gleaming not with wealth but with the sweat and honor of his labor.