Vale

[Snake Plissken 637]

 

Vulpes Roke rises from his bed in the Leuvaarden keep, a thumping pain filling his head from the previous night of lonely drinking. He struggles to keep himself upright and his eyes open, scanning around the room slowly, his gaze coming to rest on his dresser and the fisstech pouch sitting upon it. The old knight swiftly snatches up the pouch and pulls the string free that was holding the neck of the small pouch closed, pouring a large mound of white powder into his other hand and lifting it to his face. Roke inhales sharply for an extended period of time, snorting the fisstech up into his nostrils. He then brushes his hands together, wipes his nose on his sleeve, blinks several times and climbs onto his feet. His heart races, his head throbs, sweat drips from his brow. Breathing heavily, Roke makes his way over to his workbench, a completed arbalest and several bottles of whiskey sitting upon it, some empty, some not. The knight desperately grabs one of the bottles up off the table, and then throws it away just as quickly as he realizes it's empty. He grabs another, lifting the glass to his lips and pouring half the bottle into his throat, excess liquid dribbling down his neck beneath his uniform. Once done, he turns briefly and tosses the bottle towards the fireplace, the glass shattering against the brick wall and then falling into the flames.

 

The old knight takes a moment to groggily wipe his mouth on his arm and straighten out his damaged and worn Imperial Brigade uniform, left over from the days of his service to Emperor Godfrey I and Horen V. Roke proceeds to grab up the arbalest and place the front of the bow to the floor, sliding his foot through the stirrup, stabilizing the tiller in one hand, and grabbing the crank in the other. He struggles to turn the rotating crank three times, the drawstring slowly sliding up the crossbow's body, the layered spring-steel bow arching and bending beneath it. Finally the string locks into place in the mechanism beneath the arm and Roke fumbles his hand across the bench top, grabbing for a bolt and loading it atop the weapon's table, pushing the nock beneath the arm to secure the missile. With the weapon loaded, Vulpes reaches down and rotates the arbalest around, placing the tiller on the floorboards and holding the body in both hands, aiming it upwards. 

 

Roke takes a long moment, standing with his eyes glazed over, reminiscing. He thinks of the day his father was murdered outside Ager. He thinks of his time in Winterhall, struggling to survive in the 'care' of Torrhen Elendil, the man who had made hate Adunians. He thinks back to when he sold the Elendils out to Ser Lion the Horror at the age of 12, receiving a crossbow bolt in the arm as his reward. He thinks of the day he moved to Arethor to become the squire of Emperor Godfrey. He thinks of hunting Adunians in Elysium, and the day Godfrey knighted him "the innocent" after being brought the heads of several clansmen. He thinks of the time he was Godfrey's bodyguard, and then Horen's bodyguard after his death. He thinks of Tobias and the Imperial Brigade, and then of the Silver Gauntlet Chapter. He thinks of Owlswood and Talonspoint and Arek'Or and Blackwood. He thinks of his time in exile as a mercenary, then his time in the Decterum and as King Heinrik's spymaster. He thinks of his capture during the trench war, and his return a decade later in the Fringe. He thinks of the Chivay Empire, Vibius de Sola, the Marked Men beneath Temp Thersist. He thinks about the coup and the split of Oren and the reformed Order of the Dragon and Maric's Kingdom of Renatus. He thinks of the disappointment he felt seeing Godfrey III and the disappearance of his faith in their dynasty. He thinks of the slaughter of countless elves at his hands, the vast collection of scalps he built up. He thinks of his time in Saint Amyas, friends such as Augustus. He thinks of his family, of his cousins Arhadir, Rydel and Jon, his brother Artikus, his wife Lalaith, his sons Arek II, Athirius III and Athirius IV, his father Athirius and his mother Lonia. And last of all, he thinks of his men; the legendary Imperial 48th Specialized Infantry Regiment. Men like Siegfried and Roderick, Adeon and Morris, Gerald and Boriv, true men of Oren, loyalists to the race of men until their last breath. Leading the 48th was his proudest moment, the time he looked back on as his greatest contribution to history.

 

The old knight glances down at the bench once more, the golden pocket watch given to him by Emperor Godfrey sitting on the surface, the sound of it's ticking ringing out through the room, filling his head. The throbbing pain disappears, he stops sweating, he feels awake and at peace. Roke lifts his head after a long moment of consideration, staring straight ahead at the wall with a blank look in his eyes. "Semper fi", he speaks finally, kicking the toe of his boot forward at the arbalest's firing lever. The lever kicks into the mechanism and released the drawstring. The drawstring jumps up and grabs the bolt by the nock. The bolt shoots out from beneath and arm, down through the groove cut into the weapon's table, and flies briefly from the end of the crossbow before going up beneath Roke's chin and into his head. Blood sprays up onto the ceiling and the oldest knight of Oren collapses onto the floorboards, the arbalest toppling down onto his chest. Blood pools on the floor around his corpse, the battered old soldier finally put to rest.

Ser Athirius Aulpes "Owl" Roke the Second, commonly known as Vulpes, titled "The Innocent" and "The Steadfast", former Count of Arek'Or and Talonspoint and the Owlswood and the Blackwood, veteran of many wars and battles since the reign of Godfrey Horen the First, finally lay dead at the hands of no one other than himself.

 

 

 

"Ave legatum"

[Goodbye]
 

[Gunner 775]

 

Chet Silsbury and many other deceased holy men of the Imperium Tertius, White Rose and Holy Oren Empire welcome the newcomer to the Seven Skies.

[Lvke 1000]

 

Morris, late in receiving word from Athera, struggles through the letter as the Marked camp in the land of Aeldin, the coat of a Kha pelt lying about his shoulders, the head of a giant bull, formerly tilted at a jaunty angle, now sits straight. The merry mood about the camp fire at the large man's antics dies down slowly as he lowers the letter, jaw twitching, the sound of gritted teeth ringing loud in the sudden silence of the copse.

 

With a long sigh, Morris stands quickly, grabbing a large white pelt, throwing it about his soldiers as he steps out of the merry copse and into the deeper forest surrounding them, the crackling fire falling far behind, replaced with the sounds of large beasts slinking about the undergrowth. Meeting and outdoing the ferocity of the snarls about him, the large man continues towards a steep slope, sharply inclining and soon caked with snow in the cold air. 

 

The large man starts to climb, moving quickly and gracefully, his massive strength allowing him to leap to higher handholds or ledges, to carry him further. The few beasts who challenge him swiftly meet his aurum blade, the later of those merely being cast down in Morris' haste.

 

Upon reaching the higher ledges, near upon the peaks, the large man slumps down, back against a tree. The ruined half of his face twitches, teeth showing through a hole as he tries to twist his features into a long, pained grimace, eyes watering. With a long roar of anguish, he stands, thrashing about himself with rage, sending down small avalanches with the furious motion. The thrashing suddenly stops as he drops once more, thinking about the times with Vulpes Roke, lovingly dubbed as 'Brother Owl'.

 

He thinks back to the times within the Fringe, carelessly drinking and snorting fisstech, taking what they needed from those men unable to stand before them to pay their benders, often joined by the White Wolf.

 

A wry smile creases his face as he thinks back to the Fringe wars, battling viciously, side by side with the good knight, faces wreathed with battle madness, only to be drunk to and relayed later with smiles of pride.

 

The smile disappears, replaced by the same, distant stare as he thinks back to the time of the plagues, where Morris' brilliant constitution rendered him immune, and how he had to fight his officer for Vulpes' life, only to have to tend to him as he grew ill. The large man's smile returns once more as he thinks back to the joy when Vulpes grew hale once more, a low, husky laugh escaping his mouth.

 

The smile widens, taking on an expression of pride as he thinks back to all the good battles and ethnic cleanses of races and ideologies that followed him and Vulpes over the years, always successful, always brutal and efficient.

 

With a long sigh, Morris leans back, tugging the pelt over his body to keep out the cold. His head bows as a few tears seep out of the corners of his eyes, voice husky as he mutters...

 

"See yer in Hell, yer fookin' coont."

[Jachnun 566]

((Reserved will write response soon.))

[hjgklmn0ajuvxc 688]

Boriv kicks a small child after hearing the news "darn-it athirius" he remembers the time he infected Vulpes with the plague, smiling into the sky

[Jachnun 566]

 

Father Branaford stares blankly on the ground as he holds his Lorraine's Cross tight to his heart as he and the citizens of Petrus march through the road singing a hymnn in honor of the deceased Vulpes Roke carrying his casket through the streets. It is at the grave yard outside Petrus that Branaford halt the march, gesturing for those carrying the casket to place it down. 

 

As the people begin to dig a whole for Vulpes to be burried Branaford recites the Hymnn of Hossana before clearing his throat.

"Today a great man died." The people look to Branaford as he continues to say, "Vulpes Roke a loyal man a true Orenian who modeled what a soldier, a true Orenian soldier should be!" Branaford then gestures for the various soldiers there and screams, "CROSSBOWS!" The men line up aiming their crossbows up at the sky. Branaford then screams, "FIRE!" As the bolts fly up Branaford reminces to his days with Vulpes. 

 

He remebers the days in Kaldonia, the mornings in which he and Vulpes along with the 48th regiment capturing the many dellusional elves roaming the streets. He remembers the legends he has heard of him from Lord Commander Starke Mcharryn reminding him of Vulpe's deeds to this world. 

 

But then he remebers, Vulpes is dead...

[_Stigwig 1510]

Augustus frowns as he hears the news, head bowed towards the earth. Sliding the arbalest off his back he rests it absently into his shoulder, footsteps slow as he moves away from the corpse. 

"'The Innocent'" He scoffs simply.

[problematic z 477]

Mist covered the ground on a particularily gloomy morning in the Petrus graveyard. A man with soggy boots and a scarred face stood at the foot of Vulpes' grave, rolling a golden medal over and over in one hand wile reading a crumpled note in his other which detailed Roke's death. He shakes his head and tosses the medal onto the earth above the mans coffin before peering down at the tombstone with a frown and reading the name. 

 

"Vulpes Roke... a real prick and a true soldier, more of a warrior than I ever will be... can't say I ever believed you'd die from a hand other than your own." the man smiles, taking a step back and pressing a fist to his heart. 
"Ave Legatum and God bless the Specialized Infantry Regiment." he mutters before extending his arm and saluting.

 

 

The man with the scarred face lowers his salute and clicks his heels together before turning away from the grave. "Innocent my arse." he says with a smirk before walking off into the mist.

 

[D A N N Y 966]

Frøy Fáóláinssön, formerly known as Siegfried LaValétte releases a sigh upon hearing of Vulpes' Roke's death. His gaze fixed upon the content within his tankard as the brute would slowly become overwhelmed with sadness. A night was spent binge drinking, a pathetic attempt to drown away his sorrows from the loss of his former commander.

 

Rest in Peace,

Commander Vulpes Roke

[Knox213 10]

Dederick Varodyr often remembers stories of Vulpes accomplishments as a knight.

 

Heinrik Carrion on the other hand welcomes his close companion and spymaster.

[Dohvi 622]

Moved to the Archive. It shall be sorted into the appropriate category shortly.