Order Of The White Rose

[Urahra 5360]

Copied from "The Long Road Home".

Tanith's days passed with a steady beat. She woke up at sunrise, made a breakfast of fried potatoes, eggs, and toast for Viyr, helped him get dressed, and once he was off, she began her daily chores. For a few hours, she'd comb the farm plot, yanking up weeds and carefully trimming and tending the vegetables. The carrots had been growing especially nice this season. Tanith looked forward to stewing them together with potatoes and beef and cabbage during the winter. Cold weather always seemed to sneak up on them and the men would surely be grateful for something hot and hearty to warm their bones after a patrol. After tending the vegetable plots, Tanith would stand in front of the ovens they'd placed near her tent and contemplate what all to cook the men for dinner. Meat was forever in short supply. Though Tanith herself lived quite happily without eating meat, Thomas complained bitterly if he didn't get a fat cut of steak every now and then. Tanith mostly worked on making things that could be stored- salting meats, canning vegetables, and making preserves and jellies out of fruits - but the soldiers deserved hot meals as well. After a long day's work, she would go back into her tent, massage her sore muscles, and curl up under the woolen blankets of her cot.

One might think that this steady, uninterrupted process, as immutable as the passage of time itself, would leave Tanith little chance to sit and long for her husband. Still, the fact was there. Busy as she was, Tanith could not help but think of him and wonder about him. He was gone, never coming back, but that did not mean he was banished from Tanith's thoughts. Sometimes, as she sat stitching up holes in Viyr's tabard, she would glance over at her adoptive son and notice how the sheen of his hair so resembled his father's. Or, when cooking apples for jelly in her little tin pots, she would recall once how she'd served him a breakfast of apple jelly pancakes and coffee. The little memories lingered around her consciousness like flies over a particularly appetizing bit of garbage. They never stopped her from working, but each memory made her pause for a moment. The smell of a food he liked, or the sharp hiss of a sword sliding free of it's scabbard, or the crackle of fire, or the gleam of a stranger's blonde hair. All of it served to remind her of the person she had lost.

She wondered if he remembered her in the same way, if he was still alive. Did the delicate color of peach blossoms remind him of her hair? Did the smell of bread baking give him that same, somewhat bittersweet nostalgia? The color of red wine or the slate grey of an overcast sky; did little memories of her still cloud around him like gnats?

There was always a chance, if he was not dead as she'd suspected, that he'd moved on. Tanith could imagine him, living somewhere far away - perhaps somewhere cold, near a churning, teal colored sea - with a rosy cheeked wife and a hearty, big boned child. Maybe he'd put the mistake of marrying a dark elf behind him and thought no more of the red tabard he'd thrown aside. Maybe he had a big dog. Maybe his new wife had another child on the way - the precious continuation of the forgotten Gaesgro race, the child Tanith could never give him. Maybe the color of red wine only made him think of richness and merriment. Maybe he only looked at a grey sky and thought "Snow" or "Rain." Tanith hated to think that, though. Maybe even with his fertile, pink wife and precious Gaegro child, he occasionally looked up at the sky and thought of the times they'd stood outside in the cool darkness and watched the stars together. Maybe.

She felt closest to him when she performed the magic he'd taught her, though healing left her feeling painfully ill and weak. He had always said that his healing was tied to his love for her. Perhaps across thousands of miles and many years, maybe even the border between life and death, that thread of magic still connected them. It was his parting gift to her, the last testament of their love, the proof that he had been here and had been devoted enough to teach her. Her healing was a shallow parody of his, half as strong but twice as taxing, but it was a metaphorical red string tied to her finger. Even if death had claimed him, or if he'd moved on and forgotten her, she had proof that she had once been cherished and acknowledged and loved. So even though the stress of healing left her lying out cold on her cot or vomiting blood behind the tent, it was worth it. Maybe the gentle tug of that red string would guide her back to him one day.

She had cried and screamed too much already. She had crouched in dark corners and wept. She had contemplated all manner of dangerous and reckless things. She had thought that maybe if Toov wouldn't come back to her on the mortal plane, she could meet him again in the afterlife. The wicked sharp blades of her kitchen knives had often beckoned. But she was determined not to fall into darkness again, no matter how deeply her heart hurt. He had rescued her from her personal gloom and it would have hurt him to see her slip back into it.

So Tanith healed. And Tanith hoped. Tanith remembered him and wondered if he did the the same. After four years, the painful wrenching she'd felt when thinking of him dulled to bittersweet nostalgia and quiet longing. He wasn't coming back - she had accepted that- but if he did, he would find Tanith quite the same as he left her, except with perhaps a little more sadness behind her red eyes.

Much like a forest after a wildfire, she still bore the ashy marks and black scars of her mistakes, but she had still grown up again verdant in it's wake.

[Knightei 317]

       Borric walks through the Rose checkpoint from the North-East, a large pale bag over one shoulder, a slight sound of clinking and tinkling issues from within. Upon Borric's waist is tied his more favored blade: '***** Splitter', the other more used strapped to his back. Upon his person was black mail, a large gold cross upon an equally black tabard displayed on his breast. Borric's hair was wafting gently upon the wind, the black threads waving, in contrast to the seething mass of coarse wire that comprised of his beard.
 
        Borric stares intently upon the earth before him, his fate settled for once. He had made a choice, and this was the fruit of it.
 
       Now, for those who do not know the checkpoint's layout, let me elaborate. It lies upon the northern end of the Anthos Highway. As you exit Salvus, theres a rickety wooden bridge, the end of which is devoured by imposing stone walls. These walls are not for show, but for practicality. The twin towers lie either side of the road which passes under their only link, a gate. Following this road, you'll eventually reach a fork within it, a Stone Pillar marking which way goes where. To the west is Malinor, where-as the East is Oren, specifically Brigand's Pass. Upon the eastern road also, are two extra gates, both of which lead into the 'Compound' the actual living areas of the Roses, as well as their training grounds and farms. And at the very end is Brigand's Pass, where Borric arrived from.
 
       And while we're at it, lets go back to Borric.
 
       Borric looks up slowly, seeing the gate to the Rose Farms ahead, he ignores it and instead heads into the compound proper. His head bows slightly under the gate, not due to his height, but instead because of what it symbolizes.
 
       Power.

       As he passes into the next gate into the Rose's main castle, he treads right parallel to the wall. He knew the way. As he walked, he reflected upon what he is doing, and what it's consequences are. Borric then shakes his head, he doesn't dwell on things, he does things in one way and that isn't the path of thinking.

       He passes into the Tower in the corner of the Castle, the current 'Office' of it's commanders. Thomas looks up at Borric, and then the bag. Borric Looks at Thomas and grins slightly. "I got a Transfer.." The Two men conferred and when Borric exits the tower, his clothing was different. Gone was the black mail, and in it's place was simple grey. Gone was the tabard, and instead of a Black one, with a Golden Cross, his was Red, with a White Rose, the green leaves and yellow centre contrasting with it's white petals.

 

       Borric is now a White Rose.

[Urahra 5360]

 

Portrait of Lorin.

[Gaius ~ Sertorius Cagan 62]

"Quick, quick! Make for the woodlands!"

 

Yanetian
slides nimbly through the intertwining branches of the pine tree-line
that he was sitting in, Benedict Aves having found him earlier and
decided to participate alongside him. It was the first encounter of
companionship between Arbiter Yanetian Thoruntor and a Sentinel; a
Commander to be more proper in Benedict's light. Yanetian had bolted in a
different direction, the first and obvious manner to assist in breaking
up the streaming line of knights in White Rose tabards who came forth
to respond to the sighting of covert agents. After twenty minutes of
rushing through the forests, Yanetian takes a swift glance over his
shoulder; noticing no one immediately on his trail. Taking shelter by
pushing himself through the bristly needles of a pine tree and
recollecting his breathe, he watches two White Roses race past his tree;
oblivious of it's guest.

 

His
entire body eases on a bed of smashed needles as he leans into the pine
tree, leaving a minute to pass to ensure no White Roses intervene with
him as he pushes himself away and back towards the Fortress of the White
Rose. He starts out with a light jog, leaving himself to breathe fully
and capable of taking in his surroundings, the thought of Benedict and
the possible fates quicken his pace. As the fortress comes into sight,
Yanetian makes his way into the fortress through means meant in stealth.
Upon sighting the inner citadel, he scales the walls and enters the
upper-most level, realizing it an unfinished piece of architecture and
able to spot to the bottom floor. Upon looking down, he spots Thomas
Chivay as he walks about and observes indescribable details that
Yanetian could not view; he snaps out of the wishing-well view as he
notices Chivay walking into the plaza of the Citadel.

 

Sliding
on his feet as he takes into account possible and safe paths to the
ground of the Citadel, he keeps Chivay in view and notices him entering a
tower; Yanetian takes the chance to reach the ground and bolts lightly
to the tower. He slows as he nears the door, leaning his head to look
into the tower hollow and notices Thomas Chivay standing about and
facing opposite the door. Making his steps lighter, arcing his foot so
that the heel sticks upward and allowing him precise steps, he slowly
unslings a crossbow that he had confiscated from a checkpoint earlier
and sluggishly cranks the tension and readies a bolt. Hearing the door
begin to open, a smirk of satisfaction draws itself upon Yanetian's jaw;
he lifts the crossbow up as Thomas Chivay walks out.

 

There
was no word, but merely the blinking of eyes. There was nothing left to
say as the bolt entered the cranium of Thomas Chivay, but there was
plenty reason to investigate his person for keys, for the currency. As
he did such, as blood pooled about they caved head of the Chivay;
another walks into the Citadel. With the crossbow expended, Yanetian
reaches for his belt and withdraws his falx with an amused look on his
face. With the boost of confidence, his mind crescents as he observes
Peter Chivay meticulously, his spirit high. The Elves would unite with
the greatest boost of morale of all, news of the assassination of the
leader of the White Roses; but what would come next would have been
demoralizing if the account was ever able to be recounted. As Peter
began to cuss as Yanetian came closer, a freshly wielded sword now in
Peter's hand, the clashing of mail against marching legs became
prominent as a line of White Rose knights enter the Citadel. Upon the
arrival of the many knights, a reversal of smirks and dismay took place
as Yanetian took into his account his fate. Perhaps as Humans do in
sagas and stories, he would rush forth to clash swords with Peter Chivay
and meet his fate with falx in hand.

 

[[This
is just the account of the amazing event that had occurred late evening
EST on 23rd of March. Neither Thomas Chivay or Yanetian Thoruntor are
perma-killed, I thought it should be written up about and I had plenty
of laughs and veteran gloating with both the Elves and White Roses. If
anything, I thought mixing the drink would make for interesting
encounters and so far it is proving correct. This account is NOT
remembered by Yanetian, simply written for the forums and
out-of-character enjoyment. Better than sitting on the forums, b-tching
and complaining ;)]]

[Temp 2006]

After hours of working on the siege workshop for the Order, Temp takes a seat atop a small stack of logs. He fans over the blueprint of the workshop and compares it to the finished product. After some petty consideration and comparison, he decides the work at hand is satisfactory and shoves off the logs, heading back into the keep.

 

For a while he simply sits in the messhall, fanning over documentation and blueprints. Finally, a thought comes across his mind. He rises from his seat and leaves the room, unimportant documentation slumped over the end of the table. After quite a bit of time, he returns towel in hand, and head shaven. War had returned, and battle was nearing.

[3andD 1716]

A deep swing, the swords bite extending to the dummies shoulder, Gwenael grins to himself, arching his blade skyward once again.

The hours seem to fly by when he was In front of the dummy, life stopped while he was beating the dummy, a sort of trance, which is what he liked to think of it like.

But every trance has to come to an end. Gwenael turns from his dummy, panting heavily. The courtyard was empty, such a desolate sight. The keep walls and turrets seemed to scrape the skies, yet the courtyard was empty. Sheathing his blade, Gwenael shivers as the cold night breeze tickles his skin. It was night, and he spent his day training, again.

[TheBreadmannn 110]

-A crow flies over your head, dropping a note by your feet. As you begin to read it, the note says: Hello, my name is Corvo Dracaena and I wish to become a white rose. When you get some time, reply to this letter.

[Temp 2006]

Moving along with the huddled mass of blood-stricken tabards, Temp shoulders an end of a loot chest, wide grin across his face, "Damned Elves.. 'ardly fought. Felt like a damn game o' 'ide an seek." The column moves on, several groans and grunts, with the occasional joke or prod emitting from the group.

 

As the column moves on, a note falls from the sky, draping itself across Temp's face. He continues movement, genuinely baffled by the note. He slides it from his face and unrolls the letter, fanning it over. "Righ', seems we've another interested recruit. A damned shame I 'ave no idea where 'e is or 'ow to find 'im." Temp shrugs, crumbling the note and tossing it aside.

[Urahra 5360]

 

Here, my crappy attempt at digital painting. It's Lorin with her new short hair.

[Urahra 5360]

 

More crappy drawings? More crappy drawings.

 

Thomas's daughter.

[Esterlen 4462]

hadley, why don't you draw edward chivay he is by far the best of thomas' children

[Knightei 317]

Borric grins as he reads the parchment infront of him, the flesh creasing in its usual fashion. His teeth flash as a short chuckle is issued from his lips, his broad chest raising and lowering swiftly. His blue eyes flash the yellowed vellum once more, the notice being displayed to him.

The grin lowers into a smirk, a smirk that speaks of insolence and plans of the more evil nature. 'So our wishes have been granted... An edict from a decade ago has been destroyed, and in its place is the forging of conflict within the empire.

 

His Imperial Majesty was wise to lower it, for the movements of war were set long ago. Rumors and whisperings of battle inside the empire have been present for many moons upon Anthos.'

Once again he smirks, as he walks away from the hide, as he ponders to the stable, his feet crunching upon the Albresi paving, the dis-content looks from the surrounding crowd ignored, for this was commonplace now.

"Looks like Thomas got what he wanted then." He murmurs aloud.

[Stevie 1598]

"Candlen!"

The shout resonated throughout the citadel. All through its stone walls, the sound bounced about, soon finding its way into the small room of the scriptorium, where two men sat partially hunched over their angled desks; surrounded by books and tomes of all kinds. One wore the simple brown robes of a friar, signifying him as one of the clergy, and the other adorning a long red robe with a white rose emblazoned on its front. His hair was a shaggy dirty blonde and his face showed youth, intelligent youth. The shout had now echoed into the scriptorium, and the man in the red robes rose his head, tousling his hair lightly as he releases a short sigh. Standing from his desk, he hefts the large tome he was scribbling into off from the desk and tucks it safely under his arm, turning on a heel to rush out from the room. Turning the corner and shuffling down the hall, his soft leather boots made almost no sound on the fortresses' stone floor. He entered the throne room and strode up to meet his lord, bowing low and formally as he adjusts the heavy book under his hand.

"My lord...you requested my presence?"

"I did. I wanted to see 'ow yer progress wiff the primer is goin'."

"It is going well, my lord. The aid of Seneschal Lucien, Ser Toov, and other Order members has helped my work tremendously."

"Good...good. An' 'ow long do ye expect it will take to finish the primer?"

"I can expect within the Elven week, my lord. I will present a draft to you before making use of the Seneschal’s underlings to reproduce and distribute the document once finished.”

“Excellante. I await the finished draft, ‘enry.”

“My lord...”

The scribe trails off and lowers his head in another formal bow, spinning about on a heel as he strides out from the throne room. He returns to the scriptorium, the silence of the room broken once again; but this time with the sound of a calm scratching from the desk where the clergyman sits, his quill etching carefully onto the large parchment before him. The scribe shuffles to his seat and slumps down, setting the large book back onto the desk as he hefts it open. He did his job rather well, Henry Candlen. A diligent young man with the intelligence and writing prose almost doubled that of normal men. He was educated in his own way, and he was content. A dab of his quill into the inkwell, and the scribe was back to work, tirelessly working to create the will of his lords.

[ACanadianCraft (Nate) 682]

Jullius slung his White Rose Arbalest Crossbow back over his
shoulder as he strolls toward the White Rose Keep.  He crosses serenely under the gateway and into the courtyard. It was, as it was every night. Cold, and devoid of life. Although he could not see much, the lights from the starts above assisted his journey. Not that he needed them, as this was a path he had traveled countless times. The silence was only interrupted by the click of his iron boots against the stone courtyard floor. After several moments of striding through the dark courtyard, he approached the main Keep itself and was met by the warm glow of the torches within, and before long he was could hear the familiar dull roar of the troops within the keep. He took these final moments to look to his side to verify that his gruesome charge was still in his position. With the help of the soft light emanating from within the fast approaching keep, he was able to see that he did indeed still have it within his possession.

Finally, he entered the Main Keep. He did as he normally did, and acknowledged nobody. There were a few footmen in the front room, presided over by Sam Carter. A few of the footmen’s eyes darted to that gruesome item hung by Jullius’ side, and then to the blood which ran down his tabard and onto his leg but he disregarded them. He hung a left out of the front room and up a staircase. He made haste down the hallway, until he reached the scriptorium. He eagerly ducked inside, grabbed a piece of parchment, and sat himself down at a desk. He reached into his tabard and pulled a quill out from within it. He set the quill momentarily in an ink well. He then reached down to his side, and roughly tugged the gruesome item free of his belt as a few droplets of blood fell to the floor. Once it was free he lay it to rest on the desk in front of
him.

Jullius narrowed his eyes at the severed arm before him, looking the
bloodstained appendage up and down, laying his gaze to rest on its hand. The skin on the hand was dark, though that he had no particular interest in. He had seen his fare share of severed Elven appendages. After all, he was there at The Sacking of Malinor, a bloodbath unlike any other. He looked up, recalling the events momentarily as if they were yesterday. After a short time, he shook himself free of those thoughts and lay his gaze to rest once more on the dark flesh of the feminine hand.

He was not focused on the limb itself however. More so, what was on that limb. On the back of the hand lay what he suspected to be runes, which ran all the way up the forearm. After his careful observation, the plucked his quill from the inkwell, and set to work copying down the runic symbols onto the piece of parchment before him. In the back of his mind he had a sneaking worry that the symbols would prove little more than tribal Mori’Quessir symbols, carved into the skin. He pushed that idea aside for the time being, and continued his work until every last symbol was copied down onto the sheet of parchment.

Once he had completed his task, he stood up from his seat. With a content grin, he looked over the piece of parchment.

“I will have to do further research myself, but I’m sure that Captain Toov will
be fascinated when he sees these! Finally I will have something to do other then patrol back and forth between the checkpoints!”

Jullius nods curtly to himself once more, before folding the paper and tucking
it away in one of his tabards many pockets. He then breathes a deep sigh before
exiting the scriptorium.

[Urahra 5360]

It was a chilly day in early spring when Tanith first began to suspect that she was pregnant. At first, she'd hardly believed it. Surely, the symptoms were something else. She had long ago given up hope that she would ever have a baby of her own. After thirty years of marriage and no luck, it seemed as though God had condemned her to remain infertile for the rest of her life. It was an unpleasant thought - Tanith often mentally scolded herself for being a poor wife, for having a 'broken' body - but there seemed to be nothing she could do about it. No potions, no herbs, no secret cure-alls could lift the curse that she'd inherited from the elven all-father. Malin's curse afflicted elven women more heavily than it did the men, which always struck Tanith as horribly unfair. The curse of infertility didn't affect the strength of a man's seed, only the fertility of the woman's womb. So when she missed her monthly bleeding that spring, she could hardly believe it. Against all luck, there was a chance she could be pregnant.

 

For weeks, Tanith kept silent, waiting for some further proof. One month passed, then two. Her monthly bleedings had stopped entirely. There were a few fretful mornings where she'd woken up with a terrible feeling of nausea roiling in her stomach. Those were the mornings she spent kneeling over the chamber pot, vomiting up what little breakfast she'd managed to choke down. Then came the odd cravings. Tanith, who had lived her life as a strict vegetarian, began craving meat and fat and salt. The smell of bacon wafted more frequently from the keep's kitchens. If the men stopped to ask why Tanith had been frying up so much bacon lately, she would laugh awkwardly and pretend to be cooking it for Lord Chivay. Everyone knew that Thomas liked his pork, after all.

 

She could feel a steady ripening in her body. She started wearing looser dresses to accommodate the growing baby. She had always predicted that, if she and Toov were lucky enough to have a baby, their child would probably be a big one. After all, Toov stood at an impressive eight feet tall. While Tanith was only six feet herself, she was still an elf and elves were known for their height. A half-giant, half-elf would be a sizeable creature indeed. It wasn't long before the baby started causing Tanith backaches, making her feet swell and causing difficulty maneuvering. Just getting up and sitting down became tiresome procedures. Working in the fields and cleaning became more and more difficult as time passed. The baby sapped Tanith's energy and strength. Toward the end of her pregnancy, she spent many a day simply sitting and reading in the keep library, telling herself that she would work twice as hard after the baby was born to make up for the slack.

 

Toov had taken measures to prepare for the baby as well. Tanith did not have much culture to share with the child - after all, she'd grown up among humans, not among her fellow dark elves - but Baldir had an entire culture to preserve. He spent more time in the new smithy they'd built in their barony. Tanith would often glimpse him in the open air forge, the leather apron of a blacksmith tied around his neck. He'd begun to practice the art of sword-craft again. Tanith had not seen him at the forge since the early days of their marriage in Rivia. Sweat glistening on his forehead and neck, he brought the heavy smithing hammer down on the hot metal, causing sparks. The swords he made - practice for the blade he'd eventually craft for their child - hissed like snakes when he doused them in water. It was custom for Gaesgro fathers to smith swords for their sons. It was a ritual. On the day of their child's birth, Toov would craft a custom Gaesgro blade for their son to use once he became a man. Along with his time spent in the forge, Baldir had decided to tattoo himself once again. He'd burned his Gaesgro tattoos off long ago as a way to cleanse himself of his blood soaked past, but the birth of their child meant a return to his culture. The tattoos were a relic of his long-lost people - the people that would find new life in the child Tanith now carried.

 

So much rode on the child's success. Tanith would at last have the baby she'd prayed for. Toov would at last have someone to pass his culture on to. The metaphysical weight of the baby made Tanith worry. What if things didn't turn out the way they planned?

 

Tanith's water broke one night in late winter, just as she and Baldir were planning to retire for the night. Baldir had rushed to find someone to assist with the birth, but not before making sure his wife was comfortable. Leaving Tanith alone with the help, he made his way out to the forge. The glow of hot iron lit up the cool, blue evening. Between her gasps of pain, Tanith could hear the steady clang! clang! clang! of hammer on iron. After hours of painful labor, Tanith gave birth. Their child, a hefty, healthy baby boy, was born with the pale grey skin of his mother and the bright orange eyes of his father. Light blonde fuzz covered his head. Sobbing with joy and weak from labor, Tanith could barely hold her child. When asked what the baby's name would be, Tanith could only wipe her eyes and stutter out a brief phrase:

 

"Geralt. His name is Geralt."