Lord of Boars

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THE GOLDEN SEWERS RUN RED

13th of Sun’s Smile, 1784

     When the sun doth reached its highest point in the sky, succeeding the consecration of The Cathedral of Exalted Owyn, The Brothers of the Flamenic Order of St. Robert gathered in Drumm Hall in defense of a common scourge, scourge all but forgotten in recent year. Those deemed most foul by the wisest of men among us men, horrid worshipers of him most unholy, Iblees.

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-A Dark Descent-

     Gathered with all the resolve and steadfastness as a pack of wolves, The Brothers, accompanied by affiliated men similarly drawn to the cause, descended into a wretched sinkhole which had emerged in the productive fields of Kaedrin most recently. The group, though well trained, would be entering battle under this regiment for the first time. As they crept into the once sealed Golden Sewers of Ves, an otherworldly odor plagued their nostrils. One of blood, sulfur, and rusted iron. Through the depths they trudged, persevering until the last wisps of natural light were swept from their eyes, the only stronghold of light emanating from a small oil wick lantern. As they turned a corner through a rusted gate, a new sound joined the ambient drips of water and scurrying of pests. The sound of chanting.

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-Happenings Most Horrid-

     Rounding a corner, the regiment of men came across a small threshold which provided entrance to a sanctum most profane. Surrounding many a demonic sigil lay the prone bodies of the aforementioned scourge, clad in black robes stained by blood. A sacrifice had just been made, and this horrific waste of a life would not go unpunished. Charging into the sanctum valiantly, The Brothers took the cultists by surprise. Only through the bloodshed of the accursed worshipers would the lands The Brothers call home be saved. Although the battle was long and arduous, it was a victory well earned. The entire group of cultists had been slain at the steel of The Order, holding next to no damages to their own legion.

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-Faced With Death-

     Continuing their campaign through the infested sewers, The Order swiftly dispatched every cultist gathering they encountered, purging the tunnels of Iblees’ influence. Emboldened by their sweeping victories, the joyous men hardily marched into the inner sanctum of Iblees. There they encountered what never could have been imagined. Flexio chants rang in the ears of the men, their skulls pounding with the overwhelming noise. In that room they came face to face with a stone effigy, blood seemingly dripping from its eyes. The effigy depicted Iblees, and at its side was an old man clad in similar robes to the rest, yet somehow more blood-soaked. The man stood up and ceased his chanting, though the chanting did not stop. He cackled maniacally as he revealed his abilities, a hemomancer emboldened by his worship of Iblees.

    Verily so, through GOD’s favor alone did The Order succeed in this encounter. After dozens of failed attacks on the ancient hemomancer, one lucky strike was found true through a gap in his defense. The effigy was shattered, and so too was the hemomancer’s will to go on. He collapsed, begging to be put out of his misery. His pleas were swiftly answered as his blood joined the many pools dotting the stone floor of the sanctum. 

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Recruitment:

Should any able-bodied man or woman wish to join our ranks in the fight to protect His faithful, they should further a notice to The Order’s address.

     Heavy rain befell the town of Owynsburg, drenching any man found outside the comfort of home. If one were to look upon the Drumm Hall in this moment, all that could be seen would be a cold, unfeeling facade hiding a mountain keep. Deep within its atrium, however, the hearth burns bright as a meeting of red-clad folk convenes. Discussion on the acquisition of an arsenal entrenches the gathering, rumors of abandoned caches heretofore having borne no fruit.

Suddenly the warm atmosphere of the hall is broken as the outer doors are pushed open by an aging, red-haired veteran.

“A late arrival, landser?” rasped the grizly man at the head of the table.

”Indeed, my apologies,” the landser would take his seat at the table, tuning in on the discussion.

Disregarding the newcomer, a similarly clothed man would interject, ”The sewer cache was never likely, we were foolish to go after it!” The table would erupt into debate, all the while the unpunctual landser sat silently, formulating a rather clever plot.

”Cease, I believe I know where we can obtain our arsenal.”

     Upon the dawn of the next morning, the skies were clear. If one were to inspect the inner sanctums of the Drumm Hall, they would find it empty, hastily departed far before the stars abandoned the sky in the wake of the Sun. Far away, at the foot of the Fennic Mountains were that red-clad order, being led to an abandoned fort secluded from trespassers and forgotten by time. Its yellow and black adorned palisades would be crumbling, years of abandonment taking their toll. Deep within those forsaken halls, a treasure trove of weapons and armor lay dormant no longer. Piles of longswords, crossbows, and tower shields would be piled into wagons by the mysterious scarlet robed men, their giddy exuberance stifled by the stiff secrecy of this operation. Before noonday, the arsenal had been stowed in carts and wagons, wheeled to the Drumm Hall’s armory posthaste. 

THE FLAMENIC ORDER OF SAINT ROBERT

In Service to the Priory of Saint Robert

13^th of Tobias’ Bounty, 1783

MISSION

The Flamenic Order is a brotherhood of like-minded individuals dedicated to protect the churches, faithful, and shrines they see fit. Trained in traditional Kaedreni swordsmanship, The Order is well equipped to dispatch those converse to their cause.

RECRUITMENT

Should any able-bodied fellow seek enlistment in the Order, they ought to further a notice to the Order’s address. It is reccomended, however, that one ensures their eligibility, the pretenses of which follow;

One must be of pure, unfaltered lineage.

One must profess the Canonist faith.

One must disregard the degenerative tendencies of lesser beings.

Full name:

Age:

Experience:

Race:
 

[OOC] Username:

[OOC] Discord:

[Join our discord: https://discord.gg/sEB3HuN]

A small pack I made that makes item frames less obtrusive and more RP friendly.

SHOWCASE:

DOWNLOAD:

Upon reading of the glorious battles Faust Johann Wolfgang das Goethe would make a standarte salute and exclaim, "Heil Heusmann!" 

“Heil Heusmann!” Faust would shout.

Faust das Goethe would scratch his hairless chin before muttering: “Totalen Krieg bedeutet Totaler Krieg...”

Name: Faust das Goethe

Age: 18

Experience: Street rat

Ethnicity: Waldenian 

[OOC] Username: biffed

[OOC] Discord: biffed#3004

“I’m just a common man, unamused by politics, but this Bohemond guy sure would make a good senator, “ says Lansen, glossing over the missive.

My fellow countrymen. It has come to my attention that there may have been ELVEN INTERFERENCE in the 1736 Helena Mayoral Election. Allow me to explain.

Now, pay attention to the details here. When running opposed by a valiant man of great stature, then Liveryman Candidate Lansen das Ross won unanimously among a ballot cast to every man, woman, and child in attendance. Not a single person in that room voted otherwise. This being said, how could it be that a council meant to represent the very people who adored Lansen das Ross so greatly would vote against him in the mayoral election? The logic to the situation simply eludes the mind.

BUT, who stands to gain from all this? Who would stand to gain from a traditional man such as Lansen das Ross operating as Mayor of Helena? Elves. Elves are at the center of all of this. 

In order to preserve the legitimacy of the Mayoral office, I propose a recount among the Council of Liverymen for the position of Mayor of Helena. Only Elven shills and those who hate democracy would be opposed such a democratic decision. 

Upon hearing an insult from the evil dwed, an unknown Caer Bann soldier would question, "What the **** did you just ******* say about me, you little *****? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Caer Bann training academy, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on the Frostbeards, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in ignoring warfare and I’m the top swordsman in the entire Vesnian armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the **** out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this realm, mark my ******* words. You think you can get away with shouting that **** to me and running away? Think again, fucker. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across Urguan and your clan name is being researched right now so you better prepare for the storm, shortshit. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re ******* dead, dwed. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the Vesnian Cavalry Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you half heighted ****. If only you could have known what HOLY retribution your little clever comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your ******* tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you GOD damnded idiot. I will **** fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re ******* dead, dwedsman."