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Steel Company; 2-11


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Steel Company; 2-11

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Follower Of The Son

 

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"And you will know my name is THE LORD when I lay my vengeance upon thee." Zanira Almasi turns away, feeling a chill run through her. Grand Master Lion sits back down. The room returning to normal lighting. Flushed with passion from reciting the monotheistic Church-verse. He composes himself. Balling his fist towards her with a promise, "She will not kill you... Without my permission." Zanira freezes up once more unable to speak. She glances back to him briefly. A look of fear on her face; she is open and honest in that. The Lion breaks the silence, "IF you intend to poison and destroy my brothers and sisters. You will not be spared. At my behest, you will be harvested like a crop." Zanira instantly retorts, "Why would I harm anyone?" Lion responds, "The reasons, I cannot see. However, I believe none are exempt from being perverted to evil. That which is all around us. Waiting to decay our minds if given the slightest chance. Best to see through the visages of other people. Look at the truth of their actions. Do not be blinded by the propaganda they herald." The two sit in silence. Lion considers how he himself may be spewing propaganda. He counters his virtuous rhetoric with a self-countering point. "Today I killed a man." Zanira quietly responds in a matter-of-fact way, "You did." He continues, "And tomorrow I will save a man. I couldn't say if I've killed more men or saved more men. Yet my intention remains the same. Stick to my code." She retorts, "Doing good doesn't outweigh wrongdoings." Lion considers this as well. Answering in a train-of-thought that will eventually get to the point, "You saw me show evil. A contained force of death and aggression. Locked away by the order of my good willpower. The universe will do unto me as I've done unto it. Doing good and evil deeds do weigh. They weigh on our souls. I could choose to be evil and pick you up. Slam you into that wall. Thrusting your skull back and forth till there was nothing left to crush upon the cobble. Or I could choose to be good. Remaining seated. Offering you the tools to articulate your freedom of expression, your medical pursuits. Good and bad DO have weight." Zanira weighs that herself. Telling Lion, "Those actions don't erase past actions." The Grandmaster nods, "Tis true. We all must live with our pasts. Hopefully letting those actions and experiences appoint you to create your moral code. In your own words: I choose to be good as much as I can, but I'm not perfect. Even when I asked you for your honest opinion about where I stood on the morality spectrum, you responded; neutral. Weighted. Balanced. You are right in saying actions do not erase past actions. Yet, we can only choose how we make future actions. Will you feed the evil inside you; corruption or will you feed the good inside you; virtue. These choices are entirely up to you. Good or evil. You decide every time." He lets that settle in. Zanira remains in thought for some time, Lion takes the formative moment and adds, "My view might just be darker than yours, but it's not hard to objectively see our intentions align. The only difference between you and I is my choice to pick up a warhammer and your choice to pick up a medical satchel. War and peace both seek the same end." Zanira rubs her hands down her face, silent. Her eyes slip shut. The scene fades out as she continues to discuss his company, "Orym doesn't want me to associate with your company, you know."

 

(It’s been a while, but I think I’ve found a place to call home in Axios. A company of heroes, scoundrels, scholars and swordsmen. Together, we’ll be great. Let this serve as the first episode in a series of non-chronological tales surrounding actual In-Game RP surrounding the master guild, 2-11.)
 


Date: The Amber Cold, 1630.

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Steel Company; 2-11

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The Heroes Of The Interstice
Date: The First Seed, 1628


The monotonous thump of hoof on earth carried with us for every mile. Three riders trailed a motley crew of weathered souls. Marked with purpose. They marched in silence as silhouettes amongst the dawning horizon. Uncertain of what the night would bring. Two of the three riders were on horses, the other, a donkey. The odd-one-out is a knight. Clad in dull black steel and broken-in leather. His helmet some kind of futuristic invention. The suit of armour protects him from the ominous environment. Observing the world through redstone lenses. Sealed from head to toe by buckle and binding. An alien to the misty lands trod. Packing with him enough weapons to hold off a small army. He stares ahead at the next rider up the chain. She’s wearing red-dyed leather fashioned to act like dragon scales. Seemingly war ready on her towering steed. An elf as old as Aegis. Just like the knight. Similar kit even; a halberd, longsword and various potions carefully packed in hide bags. Long crimson hair flowing. An aspect of beauty on the usually barefoot hobo. Different to the knight, her steed’s hind carried a large rectangular case. Easily as long as a warbow. Perhaps it’s made for a cello or some equally large musical instrument. Ahead of the hobo is the last rider on a squat horse. A bald dwarf eased along in its saddle. His clothing a blue contrast to the red of his companions. Dressed for the cold environment, you can tell he’s a resident of the area. Strumming his beard in thought almost absent minded as the road trip automatically progressed. He had more glassware than steel. The look in his eye shouted scientist as he carried a wide-variety of alchemical concoctions and tinkered toys in a carefully prepared satchel. After a few days travelling the party found themselves a few hundred meters away from Oakshade. The abandoned town was fled from after an other worldly realm manifested within in it. Known by the Marked as the interstice. Twisting reality and unleashing horror. The town decayed. Rooftops and basements collapsed in on themselves after nature took over. The stonework in ruin. Whispered tales talked of flying harpies haunting the area. Long armed monsters and a powerful Djinn that vanquished the Mortal Realm's most wizened void user. It was a genie and the lord of the interstice...


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Renuald aep Dyffryn gathers everyone together. Kaldrius Synalli dons a rather hefty steel warhammer in both of his gauntlets. The Atronach having no struggle maneuvering the weaponry as he perches it onto his pauldron. Renuald addresses the huddled assembly, "Everyone clear on the plan? Pereus Frostbeard answers, "More er less aye." Sighard An'Halstaig holds up his hand. "Repeat, Renuald." Ser Lion says at nearly the same time, "Repeat the plan." Sighard An'Halstaig pipes in, "The sheep must hear." Petting one of the woolen creatures. Renuald gets distracted a moment before repeating the plan, "Kaldrius, still have your aurum warhammer? And, plan is, we enter as one team. The 6 o us will be the vanguard element to provide cover and soak up damage for the mage team. Everyone know their teams?" Kaldrius Synalli nods at that. Switching his warhammer for that of an Aurum one. Ser Lion asks a rhetorical question, "Are we now the Mage team?" Lyeth is also surprised by the change of team names and absence of the bargaining plan being explained. I suppose it's up to the Mage Team to decide. Bartholomew offers some advice, "We best pause to meditate here -- knock back our potions." Sighard trudges forth. He bluntly remarks, "Don't all chug accuity. One screech from god-knows-what, we'd all be down." Assuming that everyone was using accuity brewed for hearing sensations. Lion mentions, "I don't really mess with potions." Looking to Bart who stops himself from chugging a potion, "Ah, right." Vicelin breathes out a stream of fog. Trudging along the path. Frost lining the surface of the many times churned mud. He mutters, "It isn't night yet. Wait until sunset. Until then, we get in position and await the shift of realms." Pereus takes out his aurum waraxe. "Ye readeh lads?" He looks to the others. "...Well. This'll be interesting." Renuald doesn’t answer the question. Instead walking on carefully. Bartholomew grunts. Raising his helmet to peer into the bitter sky to have a last look. Kaldrius, the metallic centurion proclaims, “For Avenel!” Its visor narrowing onto the roadway before the banding group. Lion dismounts the donkey and pats Chappy for what may also be the last. He takes a knee and says some teutonic prayers briefly. Pereus nods towards Kaldrius, "Aye fer Avenel…" The dwarf catches a glimpse of the haunted ruin, he snorts, "Bettah nae take ta' pony in there." Sighard blandly utters in a tone most hushed,  "Cresthome, Norland, King Beo." The sheep then begin to slowly, yet steadily march after the group. Bart stops looking up and loudly stomps after Vicelin. Ser Lion rises from prayer finding his hand grabbed by Lyeth. Looking for comfort in this evil place. He tells his Mage Team, "Keep your eyes peeled. Note your exits." The party passes into the village...

(A lil teaser. Heroes Of The Interstice Pt. 2 coming tomorrow. Also, +1 to the dude to spot the Pulp Fiction reference. Any excuse to use Ezekiel 25:17! Glad you liked the post, Theater Go-Er. If you want more, I'm gonna need you to smash that rep button.)

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Steel Company; 2-11

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Heroes Of The Interstice Pt. 2

 

They prepare for the battle to come…

 

Sighard An'Halstaig walks along with his herd. He explains to the others, "They can charge if they hear my shouts." He takes a step up and bellows out, "PERCIVAL STAUNTON!" To prove his point. Leaving an awkward silence until the sheep came ramming through the woods. Loyal beasts. A morale boost. Vicelin cuts the excitement of the fact, "We shouldn't encounter anything during the day." Kaldrius chimes in on Vicelin’s remark looking too and from, "Hopefully.." Vicelin then adds an order, “Now is the time we should split up and get into our starting positions.". And so, the herd suddenly stops by the entrance, the name still successfully instilling order and fear in them. Oakshade. Suddenly an Auctioneer comes rushing through. He hastily hooting and hollering as he flees the overgrowth. Unfortunately with nothing to sell. Damn looter. The gang stands still. Most instinctive twisted into combat stances at the sudden action. Pereus eases the tension, "Erm, an' watch out fer traps." Kaldrius untwists from his battle-stance, "Damn right." At that moment, Feremyr af Highcliffe appears with a smile. Petting one of the fluffy sheep with a smirk before turning away. Marching on. Vicelin draws his sword with a metallic hiss. Resting the ridge of the blade against his shoulder. Renuald aep Dyffryn takes similar precautions to Vic, saying, "Aye. Ser Lion, take charge of your team, send them where you think your lot will be best. My team. Drain some potions once the sun starts to set and focus yourselves." The Marked stir into action. Sighard promptly raises his head as he'd unsheathe his blade. Tightly holding it by his side. At the front of Team One, Bartholomew drones out, "Might be some insectoids left." Reaching over his shoulder to brandish his longsword from the baldric. Beside him, Feremyr grasps the hilt of his sword. The blade making an odd 'shling' as it exited the sheath. One of the many side effects of the Oakshade curse. Meanwhile Pereus' sword 'shling's' in its hilt, making strange noises. Lyeth looks at Lion, wanting to get this show on the road, "Lead on, Boss." The knight uses both hands to articulate a aurum halberd through the overgrowth. Careful not to snag it on the environment. The land he dwells is unnatural. Quiet. Almost torturously quiet. Kaldrius has similar feelings to Lyeth, "On you, Renuald." The metal man nods. Lyeth adjusts the cello briefcase on her back, leaning on the pole of her aurum halberd. The dwed follows along keeping his shield lower and his aurum waraxe rested on his shoulder. Ser Lion lets Renuald pick his direction before moving his team behind them. The ancient knight then encourages the gang, "If you're going through Hell. Just keep going." The teams split for the first time. Vanguarding, Vicelin and the Marked, Team One. The Mage Team of only Lion, Lyeth and Pereus are to confront the Djinn with a bargain after its subdued by Team One. Sighard looks about at the empty overgrowth and comments, "Wild creatures during the day have been culled. Ever since Avenel killed the Leshen." Renuald aep Dyffryn draws his longsword, placing it on his shoulder, following his team forwards to the gate. "We'll head down the street, Ser Lion. You've flares?" Lion shakes his head, his attention shifting elsewhere, "Can't say I have flares. Though, I’ve got a popper..." Pereus declares, "We won't need 'em. Ah got good lungs Ah can shout." Renuald gives a half-assed nod. Reaching into his dump pouch, "Here." He pulls a set of pop-up flares anyways, "For trouble." By the time he looks up to offer them. Lion has already turned off to survey what grabbed his attention. Renuald grumbles and looks instead to the other elf, “Lyeth, hold onto these. You lot get in trouble, send them up.” He pauses, “Kaldrius, Bart! Let's go!" Lyeth accepts them. Stuffing them in her shirt, "Okay boss." In the background a joyful raevir starts to hum the wonderful tune of 'remove courat' (remove kebab) out loud. Following Vicelin. Lyeth then exclaims with some motherly advice, "Bye guys! Remember not to get mad and try to kill me! Keep your calm!" Feremyr states, "By Godan, do I hate this town of barrows." Vicelin lowers his tone, glancing up at the webbing strung out across the building to his right, "No sign of movement." Looking to his team, "We should set up at the smith." Sighard sasses him, "Y'mean the lodge... right?" Lots of advice on where to set up crops up now. Feremyr asks and points, "What about the safehouse?" Vicelin quells them all, "Safehouse too. We can secure both routes." Renuald attempts to follow the original order, "I'll take my three to the Smith." They're sarting to march off. Sighard An'Halstaig looks after, "Renuald..."
 

Vicelin reigns them in, "Two groups, Renuald." He mutters, “Not three.” Bartholomew confirms his position, "The cottage, then?” Sighard stirs the pot, "This 'battle buddy' **** is stupid. We're two groups. We're all our battle buddies." Feremyr echoes him, "Mhm." Renuald grows impatient with the blathering, "**** it. Forwards." Vicelin wades through the bushes. The forest utterly silent barring the calls of a lyre birds high up in the canopy and buzzing flies. Bartholomew grunts, advancing through the foliage after them. The construct Kaldrius dryly joked, "Looks like someone forgot to mow the lawn..." Sighard lets out an equally dry laugh at that, "Hah." Renuald asks, "...What's this thing you call mowing?" He pushes through brush, slipping through under it where he can. Lyeth raises a point before the last Marked vanishes into the foliage, "We need somewhere where you lot can keep an eye on us and we can keep an eye on you.". Pereus says, "Ah got an idea." "What's that?" Asks Ser Lion. Pereus, "We wait en ta' cottage 'till night. "Ta' crossbow one." Lion reaches to his utility satchel, "Aye. I brought playing cards." Lyeth punts some shrubbery with the end of her polearm. Shoving it out of the way. Ser Lion enters the cottage and operates the siege crossbow that's mounted on a swivel. Aiming the unloaded weapon in random directions to figure its restrictions. Sighard is heard in the distance, "I can dig traps around the lodge, Vic." Vicelin doesn’t seem to answer him. Heard asking, "How long until sunset?" Kaldrius automatically chirps, "We've got time." Lion can't seem to actually see them until they occasionally come bursting through the leafy growth thenforth. Pereus steps into the room Lion’s in. Pushing the leather flap out of the way. The matter of time is once again raised. Feremyr is finally heard elaborating, "Six hours." "Mhm..." the Mage Team can see the Shepherd. Sighard raises his head through the skies, gazing through the foliage. Feremyr’s voice gets more specific, "Five rather." Bartholomew confirms, "Give or take." Vic ends the debate, "Good." Lyeth explores alone, "Hrrm." She grumbles, carefully moving through the overgrown ruins. Pereus says, "Someun' shoul' take a post on ta' roof, see ef baddies be commin'." Lion nods, climbing up the roof with elven tact, making chat, "You ever gone to war before, Pereus?" The dwarf says, "Aye lad."
 

 

The sun would slowly set, the darkness falling upon the group. Slivers of sunlight extinguished by the falling sunset. The Marked setup traps and Siegmeyer joins the Mage Team. The winds pick up violently at dusk. Surging before a loud audible snap is heard from the makeshift forests near the house Pereus and Sigmeyer take shelter in. A small funnel of vicious wind forming. Lyeth and Lion are able to see this strange anomaly of weather. The tornado brushing against the edges of the house the dwarf is in. Planks ripping off and lodging themselves into the trunks that have been splintered from the path of the tornado. Loud resounding cracks break through the silence of night. The rotting wood breaking clean off the roof and tearing everything beneath it. Pereus and Siegmeyer narrowly missing the brute force of the winds as they escape towards Lyeth and Lion. The winds howl violently as the night falls. The tornado smacking against the center of the building and tearing it asunder. It seems being around this area is dangerous. Debris flies violently from the sides of the tornado. The tree trunks bending outwards and swaying from the sheer force of the anomaly. Leaves and branches caught in main bulk of the tornado. It seemingly edging towards the building the four in the Mage Team are now scrambling into. Then, out of nowhere; black shapes would quickly swarm the skies. Screeching rapturously. The bark of the trees tearing away. Growing many anguished faces upon the trunks. Ser Lion crosses his heart, whispering to God, "Protect us from the demons."



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(Stay tuned for more...)

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Steel Company; 2-11

mDw-PAz4_lZjqouiAHjMSEG6TRoFmnjzOgl4qcez5uy1hAuPAsPETZR35QBPw8XURX3Z7jWMjdbM9HRz6CjY_0Z_uHiFu-IQWQESiDrxz2ZjQc9pKFIo-_lTiV3J2NzetoqmuXBY
Check Thyself. Before Thy Wreck Thyself

 

The Amber Cold, 1631...

Lion notices a chair right next to the door. A few leaves randomly splattered all alongside it. The door to the hut he dragged the Marked to still closed. The Lion looks at what seems to be a trap. Not what he left at all. He screams, "Sighard! All are dead now. Your blade is here." He lays the slayer steel sword on the grass. Looking for signs of an archer, for Sighard. Finding no sign of anyone around, the chair and the leaves having nothing particularly strange about them to most. No rope, pits, or anything could be spotted. Overall, the landscape seems unmoved except for the chair. Perhaps Sighard was still dozed. Grand Master Lion really doesn't appear to have a desire to approach the house. The moved chair truly unsettling him. Not even noticing the other details. Twitchers or a pissed off Marked; Either way the scene spells caution. The birds would be chirping, their calls unphased by any previous conflicts. The landscape is still peaceful and unmoved. Lion kneels and says a teutonic prayer. Talking to God, "All I wanted to do was kill some monsters, but no. Jesters. Zealots and Madmen by the numbers. Infecting my head with confusion.” If only Lion had enhanced senses of any kind, he could hear a few crunches to his left. If only. For the steps were unnaturally light, and the leaves provided good coverage. The Lion stands hurling a stone at the door. "Michael!" He speaks now to the leader of the Twitchers. The lobbed stone off its aim. Hooking off into the window nearby the shack. Landing right inside with a small thud.
 

The armoured Grand Master leaves the sword on the ground. Wondering about the morality and ethic of the Marked like Sighard he shares space with, "Perhaps they not see eye for an eye..." Just then, a thanhium hailstorm begins to cry out. Covering the land in frosted death almost instantly. He takes off towards the gate. Hearing as he makes an exit, "Lion..." The voice rings from an unknown source. The helmet around the armoured knight unable to distinguish its actual direction without accuity involved on this instance. Regardless, the Lion recognises the voice, "Sighard! I didn't need to bash ye, but it happened that way! I ask you consider my perspective!" The thanhic hail still heavily falling. Lion worries even now about the health of the Marked man. Sighard seems to find no concern about the storm, his agenda set, "Sit on the chair, or I'll kill you, Lion." The voice shouts from the general direction of the house and it's surroundings. Lion warns the voice, “You'll die in there with this storm! I myself can't be out here too much longer!" It then responds, “I'll get to kill you before, then..." The voice seems to get closer. Crunches barely audible throughout the storm. Noises that Lion figures to be a Twitcher. Readying his warhammer. "Either way, I'll die. To live again." The warhammer wielding knight moves off from the hut he was pressed against. Eyes darting in every direction as he looks for signs of movement. The visual being his strongest sense in this world. He's moving towards the city… The grassy crunches seem to come closer, emanating from Lion's left. Still seemingly addressing Sighard as one of the Twitchers he warns, "Michael, we both know my TAC mask is about to fail... I'd dread being in this without..." His armour begins to freeze where the hailstones congregate in his creases and folds.

Hearing another set of crunches right behind him as he turned his back to look at something rustling in the trees. The noises coming ever closer through the dirt. Back facing the direction of the noise, he noticed the glimmering slayer steel sword to be missing. His TAC filter bogs up with thanhic dust. His helmed face begins to whirr mechanically. Stalling, spluttering. Killed... the filter inside the helm has run out of juice. He panics. "****. ****-****-****." He picks up the pace towards home. Standing in the portcullis now. He keeps his back to the inner gate. Looking out to where he came; a frozen hell. Out of the range of the thanhic hailstorm’s frozen grasp. He stares absently. A squire’s ash before his feet from the fight before it started to rain thanhium. From the frozen hell, a large figure appears. One sword held in his hand, a large mask covering his visage. The Lion sees this filter mask arrive. Sighard's clothing. He beckons, "Get inside!" Instead Sighard takes a detour. Kicking back a broken door as he'd enter the gatehouse. Doors swing open as footsteps on cobble seem to get further inside the gatehouse. Grand Master Lion watches him side-off. The man doesn't look happy. Causing Lion to ready his hammer. Simply standing before the iron door Sig will have to get through eventually. Ready to bash what comes through. The knight shouts, "This need not end in death! I don't want to fight you!" A voice blurts from within the gatehouse, rasped in a guttural tone, "Your steel makes you clanky." Sighard then adds, "This won't end in death." Grand Master Lion grounds himself in. The steel warhammer handled in both gauntlets. The blood of a Strength Spirit coating the steel gauntlets and granting the user the strength of an orc, "Clanky, but sturdy. You'd better pray any blade made it far enough to stop me before I stop you. One blow, Sighard. Don't make me." A few more fumblings can be heard from within the gatehouse. Another door swinging open. Lion would be able to hear Sighard's single, hushed muttering. He continues to repeat. Rasping the same muffled thing yet again. Barely audible to Lion. The final door still adamantly closed. Finally Sighard speaks up, "This won't end in death, Lion. It'll just hurt...." Lion takes a breath. Saying a litany, "May death come swiftly to those who bring dishonour to their word." He wheezes, "Open the door slowly. I won't kill you if you mean not to kill me." A silence. In it he prays, "Doe Shvemish hteaati vaeace nogleaden. I live, I die, I live again." Sighard promises in reference to the events leading up to this, "I mean to return the favor." He'd rasp followed by one last muttering of the same word. This time said in a louder tone, "Availer!" The door suddenly violently swings open with great speed, a large fireball emerging out of the doorway in an extremely swift manner, approaching the knight's torso in a fiery blast. Expecting a running man and not a fireball, the Lion was stepping to the right through a doorway. Taking the unexpected fireball to his chest and left arm in a fiery explosion!

 

Sighard An'Halstaig watches, "There." He'd simply mutter, his expression, hidden by his mask, unphased. The scroll burns in his hand as the fireball hit Lion. Meanwhile the blazing knight curses and hollers. The warhammer in one hand now. He employs more power to the magic gauntlets to wield it with the same strength as if he were two-handed. The muscles scaling to a nearly bursting size. The adrenaline is flowing. He turns to swing a blazened hammer at anything in sight. Dusting some cobblestone and not much more. Ripping the armour off his arm now as it singes into his shoulder. Sighard comments, "The sheer fact that you'll boil in that tincan for a while evens the odds, bub. Lower your weapon." Lion stops, drops, and rolls. A voice rings from the other room with a bland tone, "Don't ever hinder me from my work, Lion." Then Sighard slowly and cautiously paces towards the entrance way. Blade held by his torso in a relaxed manner, his other hand scooping up as to remove his mask, revealing a face, widely bruised in the area of his left cheek. Where Lion had knocked Sighard out earlier. Now he’s laying on the ground crippled by fire for casting the first stone. A smouldering wreck. His elven beauty tattoo'd by flames. Leaving branded impressions of chain across most of his left body and third degree burns on his arm and shoulder. He silently screams. His voice long gone now. Sighard approaches his proximity. A foot extending as to kick the warhammer aside. Finding it firmly in place with Lion’s unrelaxed death-grip around its handle. He shows no reaction to the pain of kicking the hammer. Sighard’s other hand scoops up to his baldric. From that he pulls quite a large flask that he uncorks. The bottle branded 'Emergency'. He'd pour the GREATER healing potion over some of Lion’s exposed burn marks. Dipping his head as to watch him. "Even.” The potion hisses as it comes in contact with the chestplate the Lion couldn't get all the way off before the flames ran their course. Though, the leather straps singed enough to rip free. It's the first thing he does as he roars to a sit up, the potion giving him new life to survive the fire’s aftermath. Letting the healing potion work its temporary abatement. An'Halstaig sighs, turning about as he'd slowly pace around the room. Carefully corking the flask and placing it back into it's designated spot. Grand Master Lion tears the helmet from his head. Clutching his burned face in his hands wondering how he’ll remain a capable knight… a new force of motivation stirs within The Lion…

 

(He who casts the first stone shall get a return to sender. I write for the single user who acknowledged they liked HOTI pt. 2. Tell your friends about 2-11, feel free to reply to this post with some of your own RP. If you’re interested in learning more, reply in RP or in a PM, or find a member IG.)

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With a loud sigh, Renna Talraen slammed the ledger shut. It was not the chill of wind, howling between the towers of Adelburg and seeping into her office, nor the extensive marks indicating discrepancies, adorning the Administration records, that irked her, no. She reclined in her seat, casting a brief glance towards the flickering flames that illuminated the spacious room before delving into her thoughts. It has been there for a while, she thought to herself.  She sat there in silence for a brief moment, her gaze wandering away to a spot in the distance, idly twirling a lock of her once dark hair, now nearly grey. How long has it been since the first time? Twenty years? Renna sighed once more, raising her hand towards the light to examine it. As steady as ever, she noted, but yet burdened by unease. It has been far too long since she grasped a dagger. Years since her trusty blades had brought relief to one of the unworthy. Her inner voice suddenly resounded within her mind, so charming, yet so terrifying, sending a nervous tremor down her spine. "Do not forget. The task never ends. Never!" it echoed.


The other voice responded, exalted and vigorous. "The Law must be upheld. The Empire is sacred." Renna eagerly nodded in agreement, completely swayed, sending a stream of thoughts to them both. "It is our duty," she confirmed. "I vowed to serve the realm of Man. I swore my undying loyalty." Her mind hastily wandered off - towards thoughts of service and honor, memories of staunch Imperial loyalists she admired. Those who brought her home back. His Imperial Majesty, noble and glorious on his throne. Felix Fitch, a hardened veteran. Ser Lion, a man of legends. The first voice then interjected, slicing deep through her memories as if it were her flesh. "No. It does not matter. The task never ends. Do not forget."


"Do you not recall?" she desperately bargained. "One does not exclude the other. We cleanse the world through our service. The Law must be upheld," she concluded, the other voice sending forth whispers of approval. She thought of the criminals her vigilance brought to justice. To a swift death, towards final relief and a step closer towards completing her task. It was the right thing to do. Her friends, her heroes would have approved.


 Renna leapt from her chair, lunging forth towards the desk.  Her gaze locked onto a piece of parchment, displayed beside her ledger. She quickly scanned through the report - one of the Marked Men, of their dealings with Ser Lion and his assortment of adventures and squires. "You see?" she whispered, a hint of desperation in her tone. "They do the same. The task inches ever closer to completion. Relief must be brought to the unworthy. The Law must be upheld."


"That is not enough," the terrible voice resounded again, almost as if mocking her. "It is your clouded judgment that assigns their actions meaning and importance. What you do matters. The task never ends." Renna said nothing, letting the voices fade into the void. But she needed confirmation; her hand crept towards the quill, a blank parchment brought to the desk. Moments later, a majestic raven already braved the wind, set for Mordskov - carrying a letter that read:


"Ser Lion,


The word of your continuous brave deeds has reached your friend in Adelburg. I wish to find out more about this company of yours - would you be so kind to inform me about it at your earliest convenience? I look forward to hearing from you, or meeting you in our Capital once more.


Yours truly,
Renna Talraen"

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An elven wanderer going by the name Av'maehr would curse as he's missed so much during his absence from Mordskov but he'd pick up his broadsword and begin the journey to his home. The thanhic hell of Mordskov.

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Steel Company; 2-11

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The School Of The Scroll

The Deep Cold, 1633


"Tour with me, Inductee."  The Grand Master offers his arm to Candra whom has a broken leg. She carefully stands. Immediately slipping from her chair to her feet and as instructed takes his arm. From their position in the Mess Hall there were many Outlanders here. Xion folk it seems. An oddity. An anomaly of activity. One stands from his position. An elven X.O.G. that was loyal to his Kingdom. Having stated a judicial case to the Father of 2-11 to be the judge of. The loyal soldier stands up from his seated position at the table and excuses himself as he sees Lion has stopped listening to the case and intends to pace about the household, "I will be off, actually. Van'Ayla. Four Lords guide you." Candra’s let down tone quickly chimes up by the end as he exercises the manners of a true 2-11, "Oh- safe travels, be safe." The Grand Master notes this as he walks on, blessing the steadfast guard before he goes,  "As thou wilt, Osildur." Turning back to Candra,  "Have you seen the Record Hall, child?" He speaks calmly despite the mechanical whirring of a filter-device. Sealed under his faceplate for the use of protection against the thanhium dust in the air. It distorts his voice to sound like that of an iron rattle. Candra excitedly announces, "No I haven’t!" The Father laughs and comments, "So much joy! I feel it too, Inductee." Having walked forward as they spoke. Into the Record Hall with Candra pacing with him. She says in wonder as her eyes draw across the hall, "This is magnificent..." The Lion gives a signature single nod of acknowledgement and tries to explain, "Flink asked for it. God delivered… Yet, It's not yet finished. God’s good architect is still adding more details. Candra accepts that and lists her eyes to and fro, "I rather like it.." The two walking through the wall-to-wall room of books. On the left half is a restricted section.The right half public records for those with access to the chamber. The two reach the top of a staircase after some time. Lion ask the Inductee,  "Perhaps you're more of a Scholar than a Soldier?" She responds quickly, with passion in her tone, "Yessir, I am in the order of the pen- or I would like to think I am.. I am not good with a blade- but I may study for hours and uphold knowledge." Grand Master continues on his point with contemplative tone, "Aye..." He turns to Candra. The decision final. He bellows a 2-11 litany, "By Scroll or Sword, I ask if you would like to be risen from your lowly status as an inductee to that of a member of this Family. The Steel Company; 2-11?" Candra explodes with faith, "Of course I would, Sire! I would be honored!" She bellowed back with loud pride, her chest swelling as she put on a face of determination. Grand Master Lion responds to her exuberance with a promise, "Thy will be done!" He stops supporting her with his arm. Leaving the medic with the broken leg to stand on her own two feet. Plainly stating, "Bend-d-knee. Create your vow to The Family. Make it your own. Align it with your motivation and desire to uphold the Cause." At once she carefully slumps upon her left knee. Broken tibia throbbing as she huffs in pain. Laying a hand upon knee, she bowed her head. Grand Master Lion raises the religious hammer made of steel over her head. Its face carved with all manner of religious scripture and Godly symbols. A relic from his service to the High Pontiff during The First Empire. Holding one handed, the memento steady over the Inductee. Looking like a priest who was holding the good book over a devout. "Candra. To what will you promise The Family of 2-11 and all that we stand for?" She almost doesn’t need to think when she promises, "I, Candra Kerron, pledge to devote myself to that of the 2-11 Company. To the best of my ability whether it be medicine, swordsmanship, or companion. I will fulfil my duty for our shared mission and cause. I will not lose my heart in desperate times. I will keep respect and honor to the 2-11's name, and I shall live, die, and live again." The Lion smiles. An expression hidden by the forged metal mask worn by the Father 2-11. A knight of the Mortal Realm. He repeats the litany, "I live, I die, I live again!" Raising his hammer straight up. "Rise now, Scholar Kerron of the 2-11." Candra carefully stands back up with a wince. Her leg hurting her further as she tilted her chin upward in confidence. At that, Grand Master Lion tours on. "You have begun to walk the Path Of The Righteous."

And so on that day, she saw light. Entering the family. Growing God's cause. By book and blade. Thy will be done...



(+1 For the Cult of the V8... haven't updated in a long time, but I assure you, it's because the guild has taken all my time. So much RP to be had! It's reasonable to not take anymore members on. Focus on those we have. If you're interested in joining; show me what you got in terms of RP skill. Roll-players and powergamers that don't RP basic exhaustion and emotion without good reason are poo. No drama-queens.)

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