Order Of The White Rose

[Ever 2646]

 

With 3.0 soon, I just wanted to remind you guys again that I will be doing a 2-3 minute video of the WR. Anyone who'd like to discuss this with me can do it through private messages or over skype. My skype is in my sig. Apologies for the ooc post! 

 

[calculusdesola 1658]

 

Chivay family portrait.

 

((Oddly enough, looks pretty similar to how I've been visualizing 'em.  All very prominent and stout-looking.  Awesome work :)))

[firespirit44 1279]

It was a full moon, the lady of the night smiling in glee upon the milling ants, skittering across the dunes. Clad in their iron shells with their steel weapons, clashes rang throughout the night. A occasional shot, a occasional cry, a occasional death.  Tall ants, tiny ants, and big ugly green ants, they were all the same when you think about it. 

 

No one ever knows who started what, but all that matters was that there was a mission to be done, order came down 5 hours before hand that the dwarves requested help, wanting to raid a orcish fort. The White Roses never back down from a request from a ally, not to mention idle hands were iblees's hands. Suited up, organized arms, and waited for the marching order to pass. 

 

Landing on the beach with around 60 men in total, the soldiers were immediately fired upon, arrows cloaked in the night, piercing the face of men and dwarves only when it was too late. The orcs proved to be strong defenders, despite the breach in the gates, they held out in the basement, poking at any attackers with long sharpened spikes, forcing the troops back.

 

Back and forth the raid-turned-siege continued, until a unexpected person visited the scene. Calling forth the spirits, he smited the soldiers milling about, lightning crackling in the stratosphere. The siege continued in a new fort, about 400 meters west of the original fort. But a clever soldier found a weakness in the walls, and the soldiers poured forth. Those who went in first had a grim expression on their face, knowing that they were the front line of offense.

 

And everyone in the front always dies.

 

Arkus Farrier ran in, great sword reeling in as he lunged upon two orcs defending the gates. Hitting the orc on the shoulder, he rolled to the side to deliver another blow, causing the first one to fall. The second orc had a mean look in his eyes, and he was ready for Arkus. A quick two jabs at his chest, and he was starting to run for his life, only to end up getting cut down from behind.

 

A searing pain coming forth from his left hand, as he suddenly felt his entire grip loosen, his hands unresponsive. A nail stubbed mace has obliterated the left hand, rendering it nothing but a pulp of dangling flesh, frayed nerves, and a gleam of crushed white bones. He was carried to the White Rose encampment, but seemingly left there by whoever who did. Captain Baldir Toov has been gone for a good year now, and no one was appointed to be his successor, as a captain and as the best surgeon in the entire Asulon.

 

The hand might be saved if Baldir was still around, but such is reality. Some things just have to come pass. Calling over Mordin, he weakly requested flint and steel. Only to have a wood-elf-brat called Leric flaunt the item in front of him, only to dance away because he was too busy being a total ****. Having swore silently that if he died, Leric would be responsible for it. 

 

Laying the useless hand upon the forge's anvil, blood flowing like a flagon at a dwarven tavern. Ruby red turning into stains of rust, upon the anvil, and leaking onto the grass. Almost as if the blood was giving life to the anvil. Losing blood and losing conscious, cauterization will unfortunately have to wait. Motioning the dismayed Mordin over, having the poor lad strap his ruined hand unto the anvil with thick leather belts, he proceeded to do what every smith feared.

 

With a cleaver from the kitchen raised high, he brought it down with power at his own left hand's wrist.

 

A bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the camp, howling as if he was plunged into hellfire and dropped right back into the Hanseti peaks. Hot and cold, pain and suffering flared in his body, his mind reeling back in shock as it contemplated what he just did. But the nightmare hasn't ended it. The cracked bones were showing, pearly white in a packet of red flesh. It wasn't severed yet.

 

Two more times it took, and two more times he screamed himself hoarse and bleeding. The left hand finally severed roughly off the arm, flopping lifelessly onto the grass. Fingers curling up as he hits at a angle, giving a mock impression of the living. He collapsed onto the grass, hoarsely muttering to himself "Creator protect" over and over again, until he passed out.

 

Darkness. Darkness everywhere. He felt himself floating, his body whole. He smiled as he felt the use of his left hand, grabbing a tool as he started working on that new gauntlet he was experimenting on. A orb flame came closer, hovering until it was right above his head. He looked up, only to see it descend slowly to his left hand, burning it in its fire. Pain wracked the system, as he was jolted awake. 

 

A new face stood among him, the masked man everyone knew was Aureas. And to his left, he saw the missing hand, the stump being cauterized clumsily. Smell of flesh cooking permeated the air, giving off a sickeningly sweet smell of sunday's roast. He thrashed with all his might, desperate to escape the flaming left stump, but Mordin and Aureas pinned him down.

 

"OH GOD OH GOD KILL ME KILL ME KILL OH GOD ME KILL MEEEEEEEEE!"

 

The thought of losing his precious hand, and having witness someone burning his left stump, promptly forced him into deep coma. Only time will tell if the once jovial, ****-talking Quartermaster may ever make a return to sanity again.

 

((RIP left hand))

[Bashar al-Assad 120]

((Sorry but I found many of the ranks exact sentences within a different article, I assume this is plagiarism, and should be dealt with. As it is still the same general idea, changing around 2 words will not help anything.))

[Peter Chivay 2492]

((Sorry but I found many of the ranks exact sentences within a different article, I assume this is plagiarism, and should be dealt with. As it is still the same general idea, changing around 2 words will not help anything.))

lol

[meg 1993]

​((Please pm a Forum Moderator next time you see an issue with Plagiarism, instead of posting it for everyone to see.  After looking through it, there are similarities between the two posts, however the OP does not claim what he posted to be copyrighted or of his own work, thus it is not entirely plagiarism. It would have been better if it was edited more, however knightly ranks are something very common, and found in history. No punishment shall be given. All OOC is to cease, brackets are to be used, and any further issues are to be brought up to me via PM.))

[Mr_Boomer337 56]

*Laying at the bottom of a cliff William Henderson lays with a bloody tabard with the rose ripped from it. A small note is left in small scribbles of writing*

 

"Let this be a reminder, his soul has broken the grasp of the roses' iron chains"

[wealthypiano 394]

*Laying at the bottom of a cliff William Henderson lays with a bloody tabard with the rose ripped from it. A small note is left in small scribbles of writing*

 

"Let this be a reminder, his soul has broken the grasp of the roses' iron chains"

A small rowboat expedition comes ashore not too far from the body. The crew, a veteraned rose, Mathus oftsea, and several scrubby men, all sailors simply searching for nothing inparticular. Mathus stops at the body, bending down to pick out up. He reads the edgy words, an edgy look in his eye. He captures the edginess of it. He nods once to each of the men with him. "Holeh' damn lads, we found an edgy plougher. No room for edginess in de rose."

[Esterlen 4462]

The White Roses and their associates gathered around the stage within the keep, chatting among themselves of trivial matters and important ones. They had been promised a performance to commemorate the travelling to the new world, and they would get one. Hadrien de Sarkozy looked to the crier and gave a nod. A long, drawn out horn sounded throughout the keep for a few seconds before ceasing abruptly. The crier began to shout.

 

"A production funded by the Baron de Sarkozy!"

 

Sarkozy gave a smirk, and gestured for the musicians who had already taken their place on the stage to begin playing.

 

 

As the violins and the lutes began to play, a figure emerged from behind the stage's curtain. He was bald, with heavy-set eyes and he wore a long red raiment and a papal cap. The man appeared to be grotesquely tall and fat, too, and was flanked on both sides by two scantily-clad human women donning grey paint on their cheeks and face.

 

The scarlet figure descended onto the stage, waving his arms vainly as if signifying the comedy's watchers to bend the knee before him. Instead they gave rowdy applause, and a figure from the far right of the stage began to shout over the sound of the music.

 

"Tha' Lord Inquisitor Baldir Toov!"

 

'Toov' gave a smile full of arrogance and grandiose as he made his way over to a chest on a pedestal at the center of the stage. With some effort, he flipped it open to reveal it was full of gold coins. Reaching down into the container, he withdrew a handful of minas and avariciously laid them over his red robes, watching them fall to the ground. The production's viewers gave a laugh, and in unison with them the actor gave a deep throaty laugh as the 'dark elven' women caressed his shoulder and threw the money upon him.

 

Turning about-face with a flourish of his robes, the actor looked upon the scene's other prop. A large Lorraine cross protruded from the stage.

 

Rather melodramatically, the figure fell to his knees and fervently traced the sign of the cross on his crimson raiment before leaning forth and kissing the bejeweled cross in a mocking fashion.

 

 

Standing up, the actor turned around once again to the blare of the violins and other instruments, only to see a middle-aged man sporting a blond beard standing in his way, shaking his head in disapproval at the inquisitor's sinful antics. The man seemed to be stopping the red-robed figure from moving forward.

 

With exaggerated rage, 'Toov' struck the man across the face with the back of his hand and he fell to the ground, clutching at his chest, his heart having evidently stopped. 

 

The inquisitor stepped over him only to find a hooded man bearing a long scythe as black as night facing him. The actor raised his hands in protest but before a scream could be heard the man swung the scythe, slitting Toov's throat. The actor grasped at his wound and with an extremely overacted twirl fell to the ground, dead.

 

 

The seductress dark elves from before had disappeared, only to be replaced with a couple of devils with flaming skin and ebony horns. Grabbing Toov by the elbows, they yanked him upwards and turned him around to the curtain.

 

Upon the curtain was a huge painted tapestry. The music slowly changed to serene and heavenly tones as the inquisitor fell to his knees and clasped his hands together in prayer, his afterlife supposedly secure.

 

 

The curtain was pulled upwards and the tapestry slowly disappeared - in its place was a maw of inky blackness emitting stifling heat. Tears began to pour out of the actor's eyes, finally coming to the realization that he was damned to the Nether for his sins. The crowd gave nervous laughter and another devil stepped out of the maw, this one larger than the rest. He bore elaborate horns and filed teeth.

 

He opened his mouth with a deep and sinister chuckle and extended his hands as if he was welcoming the inquisitor into his domain.  

 

"Welcome to the Nether!"

 

The actor put his hands to his face in despair and gave an ear-piercing scream of terror as the devils began to push him into the maw.

 

 

The crowd applauded with veritable vigor, cheering and whistling as the production ceased.

[Avacyn 1706]

Marcus Briarwood steps out from behind the backstage, taking off the dark hood he had worn for the play. He leans the scythe against the side of the set, and goes out to greet the audience warmly, leaving behind the weapon he once used in Baldir Toov's service...

[Urahra 5359]

Tanith stood in the doorway, clutching her tray of drinks. Her knuckles turned white from gripping the handles of the metal tray, her hands trembling wildly. She stared wide eyed at the supposed "play", the stage lights and painted backdrop reflected on the lenses of her glasses. She'd been asked to fetch refreshments for the innocent entertainment Sarkozy was going to put on. She had hopes for Sarkozy yet. Before the incident with Isabella, they'd gotten along fine. She had even given him some advice on how to appear less threatening and unusual to the ladies - advice which he'd cheerfully taken. Though the incident had left a giant rift in what Tanith thought was a friendship - a giant rift in her entire relationship with the White Rose -- Tanith was willing to forgive the baron. And indeed, they hadn't had any bad run ins since she rejoined. Sarkozy didn't seem to acknowledge her at all, but that was all right. At least he wasn't acting hostile. 

 

Hot tears stung Tanith's eyes. She sucked in her breath, struggling to hold onto her tray. She closed her eyes tightly, trying to block out the ugly images of the play, but the tears still seeped out and ran down her cheeks. Something deep inside her chest ached. The cups rattled on the tray, shaken by the force of her trembling. Inhaling sharply, Tanith set the tray down and turned to leave, but she didn't get far. Her knees buckled beneath her and Tanith sank to the ground in a sobbing heap, her entire body shaking. Curling into a fetal position, Tanith wailed softly into her hands. 

 

Baldir -- her beloved Baldir, love of her life, the sunlight of her world. He had been gone for nearly a year now. Every letter Tanith had sent in hopes of finding him had returned unopened. Nobody could tell her where he was. She was beginning to fear it - to fear that he was dead.  Sarkozy, with his tasteless play, seemed to only reinforce her fears. He would never have done this if he feared Toov would some day return. Some months back, she and Toov had made a promise. He whispered to her as he held her in his arms, saying softly that no matter what evil tried to tear them apart, he would always stay by her side. And she, in turn, promised that if any terrible thing - such as war or sickness - ended up claiming his life, she would happily go with him into the dark unknown. Perhaps that was the only reason why her Baldir hadn't returned to her. Knowing the promise he made, he would have never left his wife behind here. No, it was clear now. That was the only reason he wasn't back.

 

Tanith picked herself up slowly, face swollen and messy with tears. "If we go to the Nether, we go together..." she says in a soft voice, inaudible. It didn't seem as though any of the men watching the play had noticed her. "Laugh all you like, Sarkozy. I won't let this go unpunished..." Tears still running down her face, Tanith slinks off into the dark.

[Ezo Karasuga 356]

* Saul walks up to the White Rose fortress and delivers a sealed wooden crate*

 

Inside is a hand written letter,

 

 

 

To the Order of the White Rose,

 

We are thrilled the Order has safely made the journey to Anthos.  Thrice again, our facilities and grounds are nearby.

 

As a token of friendship I am delivering an Image Press recovered from our move from Kalos.  Jonas found it in the spare images and we did not have a use for it.

 

We hope you enjoy it and look forward to business

 

- Saul VonSchlichten

Chief Engineer of VonSchlichtenCo

 

*

A heavy glass plate is inside:

---

Seneschal Lucien - By Jonas Walkingsnake

---

 

---

[Temp 2006]

A weathered old man approaches Temp's home. His figure wrapped in robes, his face hidden in the shadows of his hood. He halts a few feet from the door, looking it over closely. For an akward moment the figure simply observes the building, the sign stating ownership of home and the skull set atop the fireplace, peering aimlessly into streets.

 

The figure pulls back the hood, a deeply wrinkled, scarred and bearded face emerging from the shadow. The man's head is shaven and several long scars mark the top and sides of his head. An eyepatch lays across the space where his right eye once stood. The man moves to the door of the home, unstrapping a sheathed two handed blade. He leans it against the door, and slides his hands beneath the robe. He retrieves a worn iron throwing axe from beneath the robes and for a moment the man looks to the axe, a distant almost bored look across his face. The man abruptly swings the axe at the door, the axe lodging deeply into the wood of the door.

 

Without word the man steps from the door, smirk slowly forming across his face. He turns and moves away from the building, pulling the hood over his head as he heads off.

[ACanadianCraft (Nate) 682]

Jullius’ iron boots clanked against the cold cobblestone
ground as he walks down the road running through Westerland March. He looked to
the side, and briefly observes the wall on his left. The wall looked quite nice
in his opinion. Then he slowly turned his head and glanced to the wall on his
right. It was a bit overkill to have two walls right beside each other, and
Jullius would normally feel claustrophobic in such a situation, these
particular walls made him feel a tad safer as he stood between them. Although,
the erection of these walls had drawn the attention of many unwanted onlookers.
Those in question were mostly Elves who would call it unnatural. A blemish. A
scar on the face of the world. But it didn’t matter what they thought, because
Jullius liked it. In his mind it represented a lot about The Empire which he
served without question. The Empire, like the pare of walls on either side of
him was powerful, and would remain standing no matter what other nations
thought or did.

Jullius strolled into the White Rose Headquarters, the clanking footsteps of
his iron boots muffled by the grass beneath his feet. He made his way for a
ladder which was propped against the wall and climbed up it. He then stood
above the chasm-like road. He looked down from the wall and spotted a group of
Elves being funneled down the path looking slightly perturbed. Shortly after
they came into sight, the three in unison all glared up at Jullius, eyes fixed
on the White Rose Crest displayed on the front of his tabard. He maintained a
blank expression, looking back unphased by their piercing glare, and the
malicious thoughts that surely accompanied them. He watched them until they
rounded the corner, and just as soon as they were out of sight, one of the
Elves shouted out “You stupid Valah and your wall will fall!”

Jullius remained passive and said out loud to no one in particular “Edgy.” He
looked up over the adjacent wall and into Malinor. He cared nothing for what
The Elves thought. The wall was not coming down until someone knocked it down,
which in opposition to The White Rose was very -very- unlikely.

[ScreamingDingo 16993]

A gruff, bulky northerner lies in the keep. Sitting on the green fields with a strange contraption next to him. The man starts to adjust certain bolts on the contraption, his mouth widening to a grin as he adjusts a few more bolts. "Mebbe this'll beh wot I'm gonna do fer da roses..." He scratches his beard before stepping back, glancing at the contraption on the grass.

"Toime tah see if dis ploughin' thin' works properly!" The man clasps his hands together, glancing around the fields. He spots a cow that grazes on the grass on the outskirts of the walls. He pulls out a small bag of freshly torn grass, walking towards the cow carefully. The cow moans a large "moo" as it stares at Robert, he reaches into the bag and starts to throw grass onto the ground, which the cow instinctively follows and starts to chew on. He continues to traverse through the field, edging back towards the contraption that lay open on the grass. He tips the rest of the grass onto the open sides of the trap, he steps forward and crosses his arms, watching the cow. 

 

The cow's foot lands on the pressure plate as the two sides fly inwards, the blades digging into the skin of the cow as it moo's with pain, letting out multiple grunts as it tries to free itself. Robert smiles as he draws his sword, looking at the trapped animal and grinning. "By Aerial's ploughin' ****! IT WORKED!" He raises his sword in the air as he roars with triumph. He then walks over to the cow and promptly decapitates it, leaving the corpse to fall onto the ground, the leg still stuck in the contraption. "Tis' da Elgan contraption ov' marvels! Used tah catch edgeh darkies! I call dis..." He sighs, scratching his beard with his left hand. "Da Darkie muncher?" He shakes his head. "Da Dragon Jaw! Dis is da dragon jaw!" He chuckles as he walks back towards the keep, his new contraption still fresh on his mind, "The Dragon Jaw" trap.