wyvernbro

A copy of the economic treatise somehow makes it way to Lt. Stafford’s desk in the imperial province of Kaedrin. The dragoon officer reads over it with interest, making a few notes in the margins with a quill. “My comrade has a mind for commerce, no doubt about it. May the saints bless his endeavors.”

On a routine visit to Owynsburg in order to top up imperial supplies, Lieutenant Stafford makes a visit to a certain hall within the 3^rd Brigade’s Peter Chivay barracks. There, in gilded frames on the second floor, hang the portraits of all the previous dragoon captains – Peter d’Arkent and Velhrun Darkwood.

As he looks on these images of his friends and mentors, the Lieutenant makes a silent vow – to carry forward the mantle of the empire just as his forebears had, and honor them as a true Orenian. Taking out his officer’s riding crop, he mutters “One God, One Empress, One Empire,” as his eyes focus on the dragoon crest embossed upon it.

Candidate’s Full Name: Matthias Stafford 

Age of Candidate: 48

Street Address of the Candidate: The Bastille, Officer Quarters 03

The youngest of the Provins house, Charles Michael, overhears some talk about the upcoming party through the door of the sitting room where he’s sat reading a hefty book. He blinks interestedly, cocking his little head to one side as he eavesdrops, before going back to reading about far away countries.

A portrait in the Peter Chivay barracks of Owynsburg hangs on the wall, bearing the image of the first Captain of the Third Brigade – Peter Baldwin d’Arkent. An image that every Imperial dragoon has known for years, as the model for every scout and cavalryman of the Empire.

After reading a certain missive, Lieutenant Stafford takes a moment to look at the old portrait of his mentor and friend. With as much solemnity and respect as he can muster, he renders the image a salute. “Godspeed, comrade.”

+1, a nice and reliable fellow

Lieutenant Stafford gives a salute to the fine Imperial scouting vessel as it’s completed, its sails standing out magnificently against the clear blue sky. “By Horen, we’ll show those blasted daemons what it means to cross the Imperial Dragoons.”

• Candidate’s Full Name: Matthias Stafford
• Age of the Candidate: 45
• Street Address of the Candidate: The Bastille, Officer Quarters 03

“A fine compact between our peoples,” an Imperial cavalry officer proclaims, reading through the various provisos at his desk in the Peter Chivay barracks of Owynsburg. Sipping some fine Priory Black™ tea, grown and brewed courtesy of the local monks, Stafford continues reading over the concordat with a mixture of approval and pride.

“The Empire grows ever greater. Glory to Her Imperial Majesty.” Filing away his copy of the wisely negotiated treaty, the Lieutenant then returns to preparing for the ISA’s next battle with the Daemonic horde to the south.

A good egg, +1

Lieutenant Stafford sets about getting his best uniform pressed for the occasion, and polishes the medal he was awarded during Alstreim’s War, the Mark of St. Tobias, to wear proudly at the coronation of the two new sovereigns.

Later, he sits down with his friend Derik Brashton as the two take a break in the Bastille’s mess hall, sharing some tea imported from the fields just outside Owynsburg. “God save the Empress!”, the Dragoon officer proclaims, raising a cup.

Late at night, an imperial courier brings word of the Emperor’s death to Lieutenant Stafford’s home in the provincial capital of Owynsburg. Upon breaking the seal and reading the first few lines of the missive, the Dragoon officer’s hand begins to shake, until he drops the parchment and staggers past the courier, off into the lamp-lit streets in a daze of shock and disbelief.

A short while later, he arrives at the garrison’s headquarters — the Peter Chivay barracks. The cavalry officer stumbles inside, unsteadily climbs up the winding staircase, and walks along spruce-paneled hallways until he finally reaches it: a portrait of His Imperial Majesty, Peter III, in full regalia, overseeing his troops. The lieutenant stops and regards it for a while, this symbol of Mankind’s greatest heights, as well as the only sovereign he had ever known.

After a long, mournful silence, the imperial officer gives a formal salute to the icon, just as he had whenever the eyepatch-wearing monarch had passed by the troopers in life. “Rest in peace, imperial majesty.”

After receiving word of young Pruvia’s death, Lieutenant Stafford crumples up the missive in his hand, brow furrowed with sadness and frustration. “A damn shame. He was a fine soldier, and a fine Dragoon. I had such hopes for him...” He sighs, steepling his hands on his desk, and takes a few moments to honor the fallen soldier of the 3^rd brigade.

A short while after hearing the news, Lieutenant Stafford takes a walk about the Bastille, looking contemplative, with his hands clasped behind his back. When he reaches the mess hall, he comes across a familiar sight — the old portrait of Colonel Simon Basrid, dated from 1733, which hangs just across from the Lieutenant's old seat he always took as an enlisted trooper.

For a long time he studies the image of the old statesman in his army days, and thinks about how much the world has changed. He thinks back to when he himself was just a young, fresh-faced recruit, and the Archchancellor stopped by to play a game of cards with the enlisted men. A heavy sigh escapes the now middle-aged third brigade officer, his walrus moustache streaked with grey, and he gives a short bow of his head to the visage of the old Rhenyari.

Name: Fritz of Curonia
Race: Human
Gender: Male
Intent on joining (Temporary/Full time): Full time
If temporary, how long do you intend to stay?: N/A
If full time, do you agree to taking on all aspects of the monastic life?: Yes
Do you agree to follow the rules of the Monastery?: Yes

On the second floor of the Peter Chivay barracks in Owynsburg, Lieutenant Stafford looks over the latest list of enlisted recruits. ”Capital!”, he exclaims, nodding appreciatively and turning to look out the window in the direction of Helena. ”The Emperor will not lack for able soldiers – and the blasted Daemons won’t lack for enemies.” He goes to file away the document and get back to waxing his awe-inspiring moustache.

On the main deck of the Ansar, Matthias leans against the railing and looks across the dark waters at the great column of smoke rising on the horizon. A chill goes through him at the thought of what they had left behind in the land of the Qalasheen — the spurts of malflame which spread and consumed all in their path, the daemonic horde descending upon the city, and the cacophony of horror which it had brought.

The Imperial officer bows his head and reflexively reaches for the prayer beads in his pocket, as he begins to mutter a prayer to Exalted Owyn. “O Purifier, whose protection is so great, so strong, so near to the heart of God — I place in you all my hopes. May we be your light in the coming darkness. Amen.” With that, the Orenian soldier turns his eyes back to the horizon, a look of grim determination etched into his features.

28 minutes ago, 01wagwan said:

Sergeant Willem Galbraith would be woken up early in the morning by an abrupt knocking at the door of his quarters, in an outpost on the northern fringes of the Empire. He would slowly get out of his firm hay bed and yawn, lazily putting on his uniform and searching his desk for a cigar. “What the bloody hell is it…” he would mutter, as he would slowly make his way to the door.

A fresh recruit would be standing there, passing the sergeant a small copy of a letter. The grizzled sergeant would lay it down gently on the desk as he would offer the recruit an appreciative nod and a murmured “Thank you”. He would take a seat, opening the letter with a long dagger from his belt  and would carefully scan the text—blowing a large puff of smoke in the air and muttering to himself as he read over it. “I don’t recall approving such a thing.. I must have overslept.” He would turn back to the letter offering a small sigh, frowning.

Later that same day, Lieutenant Stafford goes over the affair with Sergeant Galbraith in the command center of the outpost. The 3^rd Brigade officer shakes his head bemusedly, setting down his copy of the missive and leaning back in his oaken chair. “Your family is an odd bunch, comrade. Lucky they produced a good soldier, eh?” Stafford chuckles, exchanging some more information and banter with his friend, before wishing him farewell as the NCO heads out on another dangerous scouting mission.

IGN: wyvernbro

RP Name: Matthias Stafford

Events: hunt

(If for team PVP) Team member: hudsun202

1 hour ago, Paulobig said:

Sir Alaric DeNurem sat among one of the wagons amidst the lengthy ISA convoy, riding along with Lieutenant Stafford, the Captain keeping his legs stretched out along the journey. "Seems too clear of a trip here, Lieutenant" He muttered along the way, keeping his eyes keen to the forests and hillsides. 

The approach to the sandy landscape of Korvassa being relatively accessible to travel in, the multiple bridges established among small isles being sturdy enough for the escort. "At last, safe and sound has the escort arrived. Now ist the beginning of a new phase in this holy quest against the wrong, it ist now that the intrepidity of our comrades will be tested. This ist no conventional conflict, rather one that demands mind over brawn" Perceived the DeNurem, having arrived at the position considered of a campsite.

Lieutenant Stafford gives Captain DeNurem a nod, pulling on the reins to bring the horses driving their wagon to a gradual stop. All around them, their comrades set about unpacking the supply caravan and further fortifying the desert encampment’s defences. The Lieutenant leans back for a moment, letting out a sigh, and shields his eyes from the scorching sun to scan the southern horizon. His brow furrows, and his eyes take on a cast of grim determination.

“I fear you’re only too right, comrade. We have made our move in this game… and now the enemy will make their own. Destiny will have a few surprises for us, make no mistake.” The Lieutenant sighs, leaning forward for a moment and rubbing his moustache anxiously, before letting out a chuckle and turning to DeNurem with a smirk. “At least we’ll be good and warm. I prefer being scorched here to freezing in Morsgrad, eh?”

On the second floor of the Peter Chivay barracks in Owynsburg, Lieutenant Stafford looks over a copy of the mural on his desk. He leans forward, pouring himself another cup of tea, and nods appreciatively. “For the Empire, and all those we have lost.” He bows his head for a moment, before turning to look out the window toward the south, where far away the daemonic hordes are waiting…

In the lower levels of the Bastille, a group of young Orenian field officers sit around a roaring fireplace, smoking Amador cigars and sharing tales of Mankind’s ancient heroes. As they listen to the valorous tale of Captain Martin, Lieutenant Stafford gets up and pours them each a glass of Pruvian port, to toast the Captain’s memory.

“To Martin, and the glory of the empire! Oren stands as long as we defend it!”

A detachment of Imperial cavalrymen, under the command of Lieutenant Matthias Stafford, go thundering across the eastern Crownlands on horseback whilst conducting a routine patrol. Catching sight of the red outline of the poster on the door of a nearby granary, the Imperial officer orders a halt and stops to inspect it.

“Capital!” he exclaims, walrus moustache bristling with pride. “By Horen, we’ll put down these daemon rascals and restore order. GOD save the Emperor!” Pausing to give the image of General DeNurem a crisp salute, the Lieutenant gestures to the detachment to move along, galloping across the Orenian roads with renewed confidence.

While out on a routine patrol, Lieutenant Stafford comes across a copy of the missive pinned to a public noticeboard in the ruby city. He stops and gives it an appreciative nod, then smiles under his prodigious moustache. ”CAPITAL! An excellent show of solidarity, this is. A good parade keeps the people’s confidence in us.” The cheery officer then goes back to his patrol, whistling the tune of an Orenian marching song and looking forward to fighting alongside the HRA in their next bandit-slaying session.