The Renaissance Of The Old Cross

[Samson Option 9652]

 

Entering the hallowed Cathedral, the mood had begun to bellow like a choir as
Silverblades, Greens, and other noble Houses collect in the scrunched
pews in an assortment of regalities; the Teutonic Order being the
majority of those who were out of uniform as the soldiers were dressed
in chain-mail and forged breastplates. A variety of Sariants such as
Joseph, Tadok'Azog, Erul, Wes, Maur and others filed through the right
aisles towards the back to take seats; looking curtly to find Ser
Jonathan Black only to find him seemingly childish in love embrace;
drawing snickers and hollers from the soldiers in the back as
Hochmeister Mirtok resided by the large doors serving as entrance into
the holy chapel.

 

 

The Sariants had arrived, oblivious to the heart-wrung feeling of love
prospering; merely awaiting at the ready for criminal behavior to taint
the mood and silence the high emotions. It was merely fifteen minutes
that the Sariants arrived that sinister had been fomented in the form of
a figure, one Joseph Vedici, having picked a shadow from the large
cathedral to cast doubt over his being present and aiming a crossbow at
Ser Jonathan Black. The bolt smashed through the window nearly twenty
feet from the Ser and Bride, striking Jonathan with lessened force;
panic had been brought and the following shouts and cries were merely
preaching to the very choir that sat in the back of the Cathedral as
Sariants immediately sprung forth from the pews; knocking over
individuals as they scanned the chapel.

 

 

Uthor Silverblade, having been sat closer to the Ser and Bridge likewise
responded with accuracy as he ignored the chaos fomenting and sprung for
the window that breathed gusts of wind through it's newly rent gap and
successfully tackled Joseph Vedici. The Sariants, having heard Uthor's
action being bellowed out by his wife, looked to Hochmeister Mirtok and
received orders to capture any armed man to be found and to look for
Carrions. Upon the order, Siegmund Carrion, who was crouched beside
Jonathan Black lifted himself up on spry feet and tried to make maneuver
for the smashed window only to find himself wrestled by Sariants and
submitting with hands raised upward and apprehended by Joey Henderson.

 

 

With Carrion in tow, the Sariants clambor back into the Cathedral and begin
to form a defensive circle with swords raised; Siegmund being dragged
off as Mirtok applauds the capture with a smug thinning of his lips upon
seeing Siegmund. Sertorius Cagan looks upward towards the balcony to
see an individual handling an object glinting, a stirrup of a crossbow
reflecting light and causing Sertorius to fall onto his knees behind a
pew and motioning for Tom to do the same by pointing two his fore- and
middle finger from his eyes upward towards the balcony. Withdrawing his
composite bow, he eyes the individual and notices the crossbow lowered
and aimed towards the floor; Sertorius and Tom rush in false fashion
towards the front doors into the Cathedral; only to stop short once
under the edge of the balcony and begin to climb up atop the balcony.

 

 

 

Upon the two climbing up and over atop the balcony, Sertorius scans to find
one Christopher Vedici, a figure in unknown attire, huddled into a dim
corner and calls out,

 

"I recommend yer' put 'way yer' crossbow" and motions with his fore-finger to the identical object in Christopher's hands.

 

"Woah Woah! What did I do?!"

 

"Dun't matter, we ah' confiscatin' weapons an' armed men now. Obey!", upon the shrilled last word, Sertorius reaches his left hand around his neck
to unclasp a leather tie around the pommel of his falx and withdraws
it; holding it firmly in two hands. Sertorius bares his teeth as he
watches Christopher attempt to jostle with Tom, taking the pommel of his
falx and bringing it squarely against Christopher's forehead; knocking
him onto his knees. Upon Christopher's fall, his pocket loosens and lets
slip a coin that rolls on it's round end towards Sertorius's boot,
Sertorius chuckling as he stomps on the coin and keeps it flat out of
sight. With Tom now huddled over Christopher, busy in binding his wrists
and ankles, Sertorius turns to find another individual dressed as a
soldier handling the very crossbow confiscated and dropped by Vedici.

 

 

 

 

Sertorius grumbles under his breathe upon hearing a lame telling of how the
crossbow is of special craft, about how the man, English, desired to
keep it for hobby's sake; only to be cut off by Sertorius explaining
that disarming is taking place due to the assassination attempt. With
one last warning, Sertorius sees off English down the ladders and looks
back at Tom slinging Christopher Vedici atop his right shoulder and
heaving him forward. Sertorius bends onto one knee, sliding the coin
from under the edge of his boot and takes one quick furtive glance;
noticing an insignia of interest and slips it into the shealth across
his back and twirls at the edge of the balcony and bends his knees and
climbs down the ladder with Tom overlooking. The orc, Tadok'Azog,
marches into the cathedral and at the behest of Tom; extends his arms to
catch Christopher Vedici.

 

 

 

 

The Sariants, being the last ones in the Cathedral, look onward into the
open sky before them; the Cathedral being on the highest mount within
Abresi.

"Well, ruddy Jonny Black ain' die thankfully, tha' ol' Knight Uthor seems ter'
be hoppin' like a rabbit at his age, we gat' one Carrion an' we ah'
goin' ter' execute this fewl-**** who dun' thinks he is duck-huntin'
wit' a crossbow. Seems our day is rather fulfilled, good job lads. Let's
report back ter' Hochmeister before 'e cusses us out and grows moor'
grey 'airs atop that bald cap af' a head he gat'"

[Samson Option 9652]

[[OOC: So it seems I might just be trying to achieve the impossible, to revive the tradition of the best damn Lore-writing in town, in mirror and hopefully succinct terms as the old Teutonic Order Lore Thread seen here -> http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/9874-the-rise-of-true-rectitude/page-1?hl=rectitude. So pop some popcorn, grab your teas, and get ready to read some great writing being down in this thread!]]

[Samson Option 9652]

The echoes of many armoured Sariants rung within the typically calm Cloud Temple, the visages of wonderment and confusion cloaked behind the shadow of their horned helms. The Hochmeister paced upward the long steps into the enclave, his muttering piqued interest within the Sariants, word of a rescuing was uttered throughout the collective of Sariants. Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog confronts the Hochmeister upon hearing, confused as to whom the target to be rescued may very well be; "Dear Brother" was all that was heard and the Sariants by and large understood. Upon seeing the greaved hand of the Hochmeister's raised and lowered in front of him, motioning for the Sariants to exit and follow his head; many soles patting the sandstone firmly rang out a followed command.

 

 

The path that Mirtok carved for Sariants to lead led from the Temple towards the sandstone wall that demarcated a region neighboring Malinor; a looming forest exhaling shadow and pollen stood to be entered with a lit crescent moon half-hidden by high reaching branches. The path was wide, allowing a concrete march that was reminiscent to an Adunian ambush; the Risen had come forth as arrows were pocked and drawn and salivating drudges danced their mere silhouettes against the grey stone of the road. The scene was as layered with an element as opposite as day and night, the clash of swords between the living and the dead had rung out from this forest as a sprawling cretin made his way nimbly away from the scene. Within an hour, Sariants had begun sliding their blades flatly against their pantaloons; leaving smeared residue of curtled flesh and chanting ominously as the Risen fallen once more were picked apart for what they carried.

 

 

 

 

Hochmeister Mirtok upon resting on a spruce tree root that was laid out upon the ground like a worm after the rain orders the Sariants to search the now-naked woods; no inhabitants to err upon their following of commands as bushes were shuffled with and calls were heard. Upon making a sharp turn on the road, Lion makes himself known as he steps out into an opening in shadows; moonlight illuminating both his and Ari Horen's disheveled condition. The two were evacuated back to the pools of christening within the Cloud Temple after a short time, Greywynn now stirs with the talk of a spider advanced in size, one that would make even horses neigh in fear upon closing into; whether it was an illusion or not as no Sariant witnessed it could never be determined upon the reflections of ale within the Keep reminiscent of it's spherical eyes.

[Samson Option 9652]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q40vAbSQafU

 

With Daeron by his side, the Sariant marches across the rough stone path, the constant cold making the desires of smoothness a non-existent want in a harsh environment. With the helm laced with chain-mail bobbing awkwardly on his head, Daeron lets out a gasp that shakes the helm like the sound of the trinkets laid along a bellydancer, the North Gate stands ominously and traps the sights of the young elf as he shudders from the tinge of the crisp air.

 

 

"Welcome to the North Gate, our shield against whom I have spoken to you before. I do believe your memory still encompasses around the boar-men that I described, of those that which plagued your woodlands out of spite that we keep them at bay?"

 

The Sariant arches a thick brow towards Daeron, face grim as want to propagandize, the North Gate was no mere joke. As Daeron fumbles with his tongue finding best manner to speak in awe, the Sariant continues his speech with arms clasped together behind the Sariant's back.

 

"Welcome to Greywynn, only the bravest do survive here. If you are not the bravest, we will drill you until such is true of yourself. This Gate is the foreboding of what the Order must always expect and has always since the histories of the First Continent have always responded to. Like Konigsberg, the one true bastion untouched by the nefarious Ibleesian benefactors; we stand guard and send any invaders to the pit of death in throes of angst. No boar-man has enjoyed his time here, yet they unconsciously lash out against the wrought-iron gates. It was a mere two months ago that a big-bosomed Witch thought herself audacious enough to challenge us. Pray tell she did not feel the serration of the Black Cross against her gullet."

 

 

 

 

 

 

With a coarse curtsy in the form of clicking his heels and toes together, the Sariant observed Daeron and stared into the Elf's eyes coldly.

 

"Your homeland has been rendered molested by these cretins for they have no other passage into the continent except through your trees. They shade these bastards for they cannot stand the light glinting off of the Order's sword and buckler. You will have your moment of striking back as we defend this hallowed ground from any invader be they sinister bandits who are libertine or boar-men pushed by accursed spells and chants."

 

[Samson Option 9652]

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCTWp7heCaU

 

Only a trail of demarcated mud, filled with the dew drops of yesternight, bore witness to the many men marching. Glinting chain-mail, reflective plate armor, and the distorting torsion of leather was all it saw as Sariants marched outward from Greywynn and lined up in neat form. Marching from dawn, the son has yet to sliver, the rays of the sun silver the rising fog as men dressed in white and black take their places, the horned helms prominent and an ode to the days of the First Continent when Hochmeister Gaius Marius made love with the grandest capital of Al'Khazaar. Five times to bed and a nation raised from birth had saw the Teutonic Order's line orderly with the sons, grandsons, and veterans of the Order of early; Hochmeister Mirtok DeNurem taking the field in traditional suit of armor and zweihander in hand. With a raised hand, Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog takes to his side and they begin to raise their heads as the sunlight creeps with more heartening spirit to illuminate the field and the grand army that stands in grim satisfaction. As in the times of elder, the Sariant-knights begin to raise their heads to the heavens and let out a shrilled voice collectively in match with Mirtok leading the foreboding chant:

 

"When we reap the lions, we are back on iron fields
When we see the signs, we are back on iron fields
When we kill your father, your mother and your son,
When we will call the arms, we are back on iron fields"

 

At that moment, a din is heard as some Sariant-Knights withdraw their swords and board, curl their shield arm and begin to tap their swords heavily against the shield and with a growl; they supply choruses in Marian of dark intent. Marching forward in a clamor of boots against roughened earth, a field to the left is approached by the Sariant-knights as they note the Blackmonts attempting to flank through an edge of forest. Upon arriving in full to the field, the front rank bends upon one knee, all Sariants withdrawing their short- and composite bows and nocking arrows in unison. With the experience of the past, Hochmeister Mirtok prepares the first volley of barbed arrows and turns the Sariants loose at the traversing Blackmonts.

 

 

The barrage of arrows was only the first assault, successful it was, onto the Blackmont falsehoods; the Ordenmarschall Maur orders the infantry to engage in melee as the Blackmonts attempt to seek refuge behind the oaken and spruce woods; using them as testudoes against the arrows. What metaphor could do justice to such a charge escapes the mind of witness, Sariant, or fallen Blackmont in what denizen of afterlife keeps them impaired. Who could describe the livid nature of the sinister befriending the fallen? Who could describe the triumphs earned in the halls of Greywynn and the reminder it had to the First Age of the Order when one sees the splayed, spliced, and sacrificed Blackmonts strewn through the field; the Sariants had a honorific guffaw as Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog in traditional Orkish fashion piles the bodies of the False House and poses upon it as he discovers his heart's contentment..

 

Upon the victory, the words of a many Sariants spread forth firstly from taverns as men sought to give tale; their eyes demanding their mouths to harken all to the glory that was had...

 

Ordenmarschall Maur'Azog

 

Maur stood in the front ranks, quickly letting out a shout ordering the Sariants to nock and aim their bows and crossbows. Maur drawing out his crossbow, aimed for the row of Blackmonts attempting to scramble to their positions on the opposite; waiting there for the Hochmeister's orders to fire. Maur stood there watching the Blackmonts attempt to ready their own missile volley, noticing that the Sariants clearly outnumbered them; a grin growing underneath his helmet. The Hochmeister gives a loud shout counting down and ushers his army to begin their volley of arrows, Maur quickly lets a bolt fly towards the Blackmonts right after Eldak, the Sariants quickly do the same. Once three rounds of arrows and bolts had been fired, Tadok'Azog shouts 'Dey iz flankingz!'. The Hochmeister quickly orders seven Sariants to answer the flanking maneuver. Maur knew that if they failed to secure flank, the Blackmonts will gain an advantage in the ensuing battle, thus he takes command of the front lines while Mirtok DeNurem helps on defeating the Blackmont's flank.

 

Sariant Victor Venator, Lord-Slayer, Defeated Augustus Blackmont
                            

Anticipation.

 

That was the only adjective that came to young Victor Venator’s mind as
he waited in the war room with his brothers. The Teutons that he had so
recently come to call family. Thoughts ran through his mind as the
Hochmeister spoke of blood and valor. Thoughts of home. Would his mother
know if he died, so far from home, so far North? Would his father be
proud? Would he die a coward, running from the battlefield only to be
shot by an arrow?

It was Victor’s first battle, and at that time, he wondered if it would be his last.

The Hochmeister spoke a final word, and chanting, roaring filled the keep.
The Teutons were on their feet, shouting, banging their fists against
their mail and armor. Gauntleted hands felt for swords, and gave a
reassuring pat when they found them. The order came for helmets on, and
all the Teutons he came to know vanished before a mask of anonymity.
They were puppets now, dancing to the strings of some unknown puppeteer.
Puppets with swords, and gleaming like silver. Victor put on his own
helmet, the vision limiting his view, and already began to sweat. The
marching of footsteps sounded throughout the keep, and the beating of
drums and the sounding of trumpets heralded the great Order as they
pounded forward. Down the stairs. Up the ladder. Down the ladder. Across
the bridge.

And there was to be the battlefield. Already his brothers, the Knights of
Winter, stood formed up in a vigil, watching across the battlefield. And
there were formed the Knights of Summer, rowdy and sinful. Their red
bandanas were the color of blood. Flame and blood. Victor felt a moment
of last apprehension before the battle began. Time slowed for him, and
he felt a sudden calm come over his mind. Then, with the twang of a
thousand bowstrings, the battle began. Soldiers on his left and right
began falling, black feathers sprouting from their armor. Hurriedly,
Victor drew his own sword. He, being only a Plebeian, had only just
learned how to use it. Rushing headlong into the battle, Victor was
surrounded by his brothers. All of a sudden, he was surrounded by
Teutons and Blackmonts alike. The Battle raged on around him, and Victor
found himself whirling about, striking out whenever he saw a red
bandana, but never hitting anything. Then a small space cleared, and
across the din and noise of men dying and the sound of swords clanging,
Victor saw a figure with his back turned to him. The figure had his
sword up to the hilt in another Teuton’s chest. With a short chortle the
figure kicked the dead man off his weapon, and turned. Slowly,
confidently.

Victor charged forward, and nearly stopped short at the sheer waves of hate
emanating from the man’s eyes. They were eyes full of scorn. They mocked
Victor, slowing his footsteps. It was as if a wall of anger kept him at
bay. Out of the corner of his eye, Victor saw his brothers engaged in
battle. They were winning. With a sudden burst of hope and confidence,
Victor leapt forward with a wild, untrained stab. The figure was still
turning when, with a wild, primal roar, Victor stabbed him through the
side. One of the many red bandanas fell to the ground. The man behind
the mask was simply a man. But the eyes gave him away. Victor spat to
the side and jerked his sword out of the man. Even dead, his eyes were
filled of hate.

Victor knew he should feel something from killing the man. Anger? Sadness?
Regret? Maybe even ecstaticness. But Victor felt nothing. It was his
job. He was a Teuton, and he had done what had needed to be done. As
this strange emptiness descended around him he looked around him and saw
Teutons cheering, as the remnants of the red ones fled the field. The
Knights of Winter had won.

 

[[What is better than screens? A video]]

[Samson Option 9652]

Looming overhead, it's swarthy beard swaying in a mildewy and shaggy form as the Giant overlooked from the mountainous perch throughout the grounds of Greywynn. A gruff gurgle is heard as the Giant unloads the large crate strapped to it's back, made of rigid snapped timbers of coarse spruce hardened with the winters that it acclimates to, boulders spilling forth in a tumble. As the cold air snaps like ice cracking upon it's forewarned melting, the daylight begins to crawl through the fields of green that tinges with frost often, lighting the merriment to be had as the Giant begins to sway left and right walking down the mountain range.

 

Besides the swaying of wheat seed in a curtain motion, waves upon waves of amber germs undulating, there was something off upon the harsh environs for Sariants marching about, tending, and patrolling. Yet as offing as the feeling was, with some Sariants simply shrugging shoulders nonchalantly, the feeling was truly growing; a tremor. Looking down in brow raising astonishment, the feeling of the ground shake beneath their feet at what merely manifested in the mind as a quake only dragged the attention of the people on the ground as a large boulder crashed and slid through the farmland; another in succession toppling timbers. The curtled shriek threw eyes upward and around as a third boulder smashed into the road; sending shards of rock and gravel into the bodies of a few Sariants in utter shock...

 

[To Be Continued]

[Danny 2232]

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