Guildmaster of PrimEvil, speed-song in his lungs and a dagger in the dark Berthold has spent twenty-odd years proving that the most dangerous thing on the frontier is a Minstrel who’s bored.
Berthold is the Minstrel Guildmaster of PrimEvil, an Albion man who’s been singing his enemies to sleep since 2001. Speed for the group, stealth for himself, and a lute that’s seen more keep walls than most siege engines. He’s a self-confessed lover of the solo roam and, let’s be honest, a connoisseur of the cheeky grey gank but put him 1-on-1 with a real opponent and he’ll hold his own more often than he has any right to.
The wall-climber of the frontier
If you can’t find Berthold, look up. He’s the one halfway up a keep wall, stealthed, lute slung across his back, waiting for a lone defender to wander too close to the edge.
I’d been watching the postern for the better part of an hour. One defender, pacing the wall, half-asleep, sure that nobody was coming. I went up the stones slow and quiet, song held in my throat. When I crested the top he didn’t even turn until my blade was already at work. He never raised the alarm. I dropped back down the way I came, hit speed, and was three hills away before the rest of them realised their wall was one man lighter. A Minstrel’s favourite instrument isn’t the lute. It’s patience.
On the noble art of grey ganking
Let’s address the elephant. Berthold has, on occasion… fine, frequently been known to relieve a grey-con straggler of their will to log in. No realm points in it. He does not care.
Look, I’m not proud. I’m a little proud. Somebody gold-farming in their pyjamas wanders into my forest, they’re getting got, that’s the law of the land. It’s not about the points — there are no points it’s about the principle. The principle being that the frontier belongs to me and I am petty. /salute to every grey I’ve ever sent to the bind stone. You were content, and I took that from you.
Holding his own where it counts
For all the mischief, put Berthold across from a real opponent even-con, no tricks — and the music changes.
A Hibernian Nightshade found me with my pet halfway dead and thought he had me. Maybe he did. We danced through the trees his poisons against my stun, his stealth against my ears. I caught him mid-restealth with a mez, charmed a wolf out of the brush to keep him honest, and finished it with a song he’ll be hearing in his nightmares. He typed “gg.” I meant it back. That’s the difference between a gank and a fight — and I’ll take a real fight over a hundred greys. Most days.
The Guildmaster
Berthold founded PrimEvil to be exactly what it still is: a place for unselfish friends who play the game in the spirit intended. When the horn sounds and the guild musters, it’s his speed song carrying the warband to the wall, and his voice in /gu insisting the pull is clean.
It is never clean. But we go anyway. That’s the guild. That’s the whole thing.
Why he still plays
Berthold says he stays for the community, the RvR, and the nostalgia — the same reasons he started. Two decades of friends and memories, a keep called Hurbury that he’d still die defending, and a frontier that always has one more lone defender pacing a wall. He’s looking forward to whatever comes next, and hopes to see more players take up arms on Albion’s side.
We’d like to thank Berthold for leading this rabble for as long as he has — and for keeping the lights on at Hurbury Keep.
(He still owes Gudd a rez. Some debts predate the guild itself.)
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That’s all for this one, folks. Until next time happy gaming, and keep an eye on your walls. /salute