XOCO

𝕿𝕺 𝕸𝖄 𝕯𝕰𝕬𝕽𝕰𝕾𝕿 𝕱𝕽𝕴𝕰𝕹𝕯𝕾 𝕬𝕹𝕯 𝕬𝕯𝕸𝕴𝕽𝕰𝕽𝕾, happy easter to my big guys and champs. 𝕾𝕴𝕹𝕮𝕰𝕽𝕰𝕷𝖄, 𝖃𝖔𝖈𝖔𝖑𝖆𝖙𝖆𝖕𝖍𝖔𝖇𝖎𝖆

THE CATAPHRACTII OF SAINT LOTHAR PREAMBLE Officially formed in 101 B.A. under Marshal Demetrius var Ruthern’s extensive reforms, the Cataphractii represent the newly instituted cavalry division of the Regiment of Saint Lothar. Upon witnessing the devastating potential of mounted combatants in the Aevos Coalition War, Queen Sybille I saw fit to raise her own detachment of cavalrymen. This unit was then promptly assigned to the responsibility of Banneret Jovan with the oversight of Marshal Demetrius var Ruthern. The Cataphractii of Saint Lothar are first and foremost lancers, equipped and trained to break through infantry lines otherwise considered unassailable. Armed with platemail made from Portoregne’s finest smiths and riding atop only the most robust of Balianese warhorses, these cavalrymen are spitting images of the patron saint from which the Regiment derives their name. STRUCTURE AND SPECIALISATIONS There are no requirements for leadership of the Cataphractii other than being a member of the officer corps and exceptional horsemanship. As such, it is not uncommon for junior officers to be selected to lead the Cataphractii well into the closing years of their careers as senior officers. Such an officer would be titled the Don Cataphract. Conversely, there are strict restrictions on the admission of recruits into the Cataphractii. The Cataphractii is open to application by soldiers ranked militant or above, and who are also adept horsemen. Recruits are then assessed by officers of the division in a jousting competition and, following inspection, are accepted or rejected from service. The Cataphractii have three specialist roles; namely the farriers, the scouts, and the drummerboys. The farrier is responsible for the general care and maintenance of the horses. Among their responsibilities, farriers are expected to trim hooves, forge and fit horseshoes, as well as treat, or in some cases, dispatch of sick and wounded horses. The unit’s farrier is distinguishable via their yellow plumes. The scout is a lighter armed cavalryman well versed in skirmishing, mountaineering, and reconnaissance. These men are armed with javelins alongside the standard equipment of lances and sabres, but ride considerably faster horses in battle. Scouts are a versatile unit, and thus, are called upon for a number of unique and strange duties compared to the rest of the Cataphractii. They are distinguishable via their blue plumes. The drummerboy is a unique role; while they are expected to accompany the men in battle, they are not given lances. Instead of the customary lance, a drummerboy is given a set of kettle-drums. While seemingly an irregular practice at first, it becomes apparent upon inspecting the unit that only the most loyal and vigorous of soldiers are afforded the privilege of becoming a drummerboy. In battle, it is the drummerboy who ensures the morale of the troop, and as thus, it is also the drummerboy who is the last to break. Outside of warfare however, the drummerboys are more involved with the ceremonial side of the unit rather than the maintenance and drilling that the majority of the Cataphractii are subjected to. It is the responsibility of the drummerboys to ensure that the Cataphractii have polished their gear to a flawless sheen in preparation for parades, as well as, of course, playing as a part of the Regimental marching band. The drummerboy is both mascot and backbone to the Cataphractii, and as such, is distinguishable via their vibrant tricolour plumes. UNIFORMS AND TRADITIONS Unlike their infantry counterparts, the Cataphractii sport a broad range of colours in their uniforms. Indeed, special emphasis is placed upon the plume of each cavalryman’s helmet. The colours of these plumes denote a variety of information, specifically; rank, specialisation, and even commendations. The majority of soldiers within the Cataphractii will sport a white plume to begin with. Upon the adoption of specialist occupations such as becoming the unit farrier or joining the drummers, these soldiers are given a new plume. Non-commissioned officers sport black plumes. Regardless of whether or not an NCO is involved in a specialist occupation, they are expected to continue to sport the black plume. The only exception to this rule is the farrier, who, due to their veterinary knowledge, must be easily identifiable by their yellow plume. Similarly, commissioned officers all sport purple plumes. The one exception to this is the Don Cataphract, who instead may choose to sport their familial colours if they are of noble heritage. Finally, there is a red plume awarded only to one soldier at any given time. This soldier is designated the Master of the Sabre, as per old Orenian tradition. The Master of the Sabre must be a warrior unparalleled in skill, and as such, represents the strongest warrior of the Cataphractii. The process by which one becomes the Master of the Sabre changes in accordance with the commanding officer of the Cataphractii. While one might simply designate a soldier as the Master of the Sabre, others may instead hold tournaments, or even adopt a system of open challenges. Signed, His Excellency, Ser Demetrius Laonicus ‘Al Valiant’ var Ruthern, Count of Marsana, Baron of Turanov, Marshal of the Regiment of Saint Lothar, Constable of the Royal Duana. Jovan, the Don Cataphractii, Banneret of the Regiment of Saint Lothar.

"Fack me, now it's twoice as 'ard to bag me a boytoy!" The devilishly beautiful Philomena Potte remarks, dabbing away her tears with a tastefully embroidered phlegm-green handkerchief. "Oi guess oi'll 'ave to resort to kidnapping me men again then..."

Somewhere up above, two old comrades reunite. "About time, Lieutenant. A shame you never got that promotion, eh?" The knight lets out a round of raucous laughter, giving Solomon a hearty pat on the back. ~ Meanwhile, on the opposite side deep below the earth and engulfed in sizzling red, the great menace of Rivia howls and cackles with glee at the news. "Facken' 'ad it comin', yew fat old prick!" The bastard bellows, shaking his fist. "Oi 'ope yew 'ad a bloody stinkah of a death, yew shtewpid wa-" Perhaps it was divine intervention, but before the filthy Potte could finish his sentence, the flames had engulfed him once more.

Paulinius Potte grinned at the declaration, raising a bejewelled goblet in toast of his liege. "That'd be Lord Baldeh, Prince o' House Vilac to yew lot!" He exclaims, laughing along with the merry men of the Verbantine Company.

The famed Rivian Princess of Love and Beauty Bertha Potte would study the missive carefully, in addition to the letter penned to her by her Galbraith patron. Though the beau herself was older than the Vilac, she did not mind the carnal appeals of a fresher, younger man. Indeed, her last lover had already ascended to the seven skies a year ago, and so the prospect of new love was positively tantalizing. "Let it be known! Oi, Berffa Potte answer the call o' romance from this Balianoite fellah!" She declares, clutching the missive tight against her buxom figure.

The Rivian Champion of Love and Beauty Bertha Potte sat silently at her window as the news was delivered to her. As sorrow burned through her bountiful bosom, she found that she had no words to express her grief. It was only after her handmaids had left her for the night did the beau speak. "O' sweet Gerdy... Oi'll miss yew so..." She declared, a single tear streaming down her pox-scarred face as she closed the window to her tiny tower overlooking Pottesville.

Discord: xoco. MC Name: Xocolataphobia RP Name: Paulinius Potte RP Race: RIVIAN. Timezone: GMT +8

"Yer one to talk, oi saw yew eyein' up that fatteh of a tavern wench the other night. Like 'em robust, ain't cha, m'lord?" Paulinius too would proclaim, laughing coarsely as he struggled to fit into his plate. ~ Elsewhere, the charming Bertha, famed beauty of Rivia, gazed out of her window at the rolling fields of Adria, as a handmaid combed her flowing locks. "Oi bet 'em handsome knightleh fellas'll come flockin' roight to me!"

"A Richard o' Riviuh, yew say, eh?" Paul asks, jabbing a crooked finger at the poor scribe he had forced to read the paper aloud. "Well... 'e sounds loike 'e knows wot 'e's talkin' about. Aye, a propah well written piece o' hist-" He pauses, sounding out the word carefully, "hist-o-ree-o-graff-ee." The Potte nods to himself, "Aye, jolly good job if oi say so meself."

A boy would glance down at the knight from the walls of his keep, his hand slowly curling around the pommel of his arming sword. "Deus vult," He utters, as the men of Acre raise their blades. ~ Elsewhere, a knight, more akin to rattling bones in a rusted suit of armour than a soldier of many Kingdoms and Empires past, tugs his cloak tighter around him. He marches warily towards Serheim, seeking death, glory, or both.

An Eye For An Eye The Death of Montgomery Potte, better known as Pisspot the Foul, Goldbarber, and Monty. "Fock or get fock'd" Potte House Words “It seems tae me a Rivian chill jus’ passed t’rough,” The Rivian knight grinned, the telltale rasp of a blade leaving its sheathe immediately signalling his intent. At once, the soldiers launched into action. The object of their ire? A certain Helton Helvets, the young heir to Cathalon. Steel cleaved into flesh, and blood painted the stone walls red. Men fell one after the other in rapid succession, either dead, or damn near dead. But Pisspot did not falter. Yet. Bastard. That was what they called him, at first. On his fifth birthday, it became Montgomery. A name chosen by his father, the Viscount Rivia - Phillip Galbraith. A decision spurred on by the death of his mother. A decision that occured out of mere chance, and yet, a decision that would set the boy on his sinful rampage. By his tenth birthday, the Viscount Galbraith had deemed him fit enough to serve in the Rivian levy. The boy was unnaturally large for his age, and stocky from tending the fields. Yet a boy he still was - and the violence of the men around him settled deep into his mind. By his eleventh, he had burnt his first man. Scalped his first dwarf. Sheared his first elf. And on his twelfth, his name became Pisspot. When the last of his boyhood was strangled out of him through a stream of urine leaking past his breeches. Of course, the boy had gotten his revenge on the brigand, but the outcome still remained; This was no boy anymore. The years blended quickly into one another. In his early adulthood, the onset of the Tripartite War sparked his infamous legend. His first proper victim: Gildroc Goldhand. Humiliated, belittled, and defeated, the poor dwed took his own life. But not before spreading the name of the foul demon that destroyed him; Pisspot. And then, the Brother’s War. The sacking of Darkwood Manor. When Rivia was at its peak, with their greatest monster at its helm. As the manor burned, the sick beast could not help but grin. News spread of the Rivians who had destroyed the house, and at its forefront stood one man; Pisspot. And now, a rampaging creature cleaving through the Acrean meeting hall, hungering, craving… hunting. The child-killer known only as Pisspot. Pisspot grunted as he brought the weight of his boot into the Baroness' chin. There was no remorse to be had. A simple gesture to remove a complication from the grand Rivian equation. Not that Pisspot could actually do equations, mind you. The soldier thundered forth, and with a mighty swing of his left fist, sent another lord sprawling over the meeting room table. Another obstacle removed from his path. A wild slash tore open the Helvet’s gambeson, wetting his blade with crimson. Then, as if that brief taste could not satiate the rabid beast within, he drowned his blade in crimson. The peasant knight plunged his blade deep into the young boy. It was not long, however, until his rampage had come to an end. As the boy fell to the ground, limp, those that had survived stepped forth to confront him. A knight by the name of Uther wrapped his arm around the beast, thrusting his blade deep into his exposed armpit. Enraged, the mad dog of Rivia fought back in spite of his impending doom. Armed with the dagger at his side, he thrashed about, as if in some savage trance, trying desperately to do something. His blade however, would not be enough. As he yanked his dagger out from deep within Ser Uther’s hip, a loud snap echoed across the room. Pisspot was dead, and he had died as he had lived; Cruelly and violently. His eyes bulged from his sockets as the knight snapped his neck, and as his lips parted, only blood spewed forth. Crimson spittle flew through the breaths of his helm. Steel tore, rended, sundered his flesh, as the arming sword delved deeper into his chest, till finally, it pierced his heart. But alas, a cruel smile spread across his lips, for the boy before him was undoubtedly dead. “An eye for an eye,” He grinned, as the world before him slowly turned grey, “Makes the world blind.” Shoutout my biggest hater @UnusualBrit You can rest easy now that Pisspot is dead.

Pisspot grins, finally back on the trail with his trusty steed Mrs. Potte.

Somewhere in the shadows, a man lurks. He waits, he watches, he listens. "Goldhand," rasps a man known only as Pisspot.

Pisspot grinned darkly as the news was delivered to him. "Come fer round two t'en, eh? Toime tae show ye tae fock off propah." ~ Elsewhere, an ageing knight could not help but smile at the news. "Two birds, one stone." He remarked, saddling his horse for another patrol.