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firespirit44

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  1. It was a full moon, the lady of the night smiling in glee upon the milling ants, skittering across the dunes. Clad in their iron shells with their steel weapons, clashes rang throughout the night. A occasional shot, a occasional cry, a occasional death. Tall ants, tiny ants, and big ugly green ants, they were all the same when you think about it. No one ever knows who started what, but all that matters was that there was a mission to be done, order came down 5 hours before hand that the dwarves requested help, wanting to raid a orcish fort. The White Roses never back down from a request from a ally, not to mention idle hands were iblees's hands. Suited up, organized arms, and waited for the marching order to pass. Landing on the beach with around 60 men in total, the soldiers were immediately fired upon, arrows cloaked in the night, piercing the face of men and dwarves only when it was too late. The orcs proved to be strong defenders, despite the breach in the gates, they held out in the basement, poking at any attackers with long sharpened spikes, forcing the troops back. Back and forth the raid-turned-siege continued, until a unexpected person visited the scene. Calling forth the spirits, he smited the soldiers milling about, lightning crackling in the stratosphere. The siege continued in a new fort, about 400 meters west of the original fort. But a clever soldier found a weakness in the walls, and the soldiers poured forth. Those who went in first had a grim expression on their face, knowing that they were the front line of offense. And everyone in the front always dies. Arkus Farrier ran in, great sword reeling in as he lunged upon two orcs defending the gates. Hitting the orc on the shoulder, he rolled to the side to deliver another blow, causing the first one to fall. The second orc had a mean look in his eyes, and he was ready for Arkus. A quick two jabs at his chest, and he was starting to run for his life, only to end up getting cut down from behind. A searing pain coming forth from his left hand, as he suddenly felt his entire grip loosen, his hands unresponsive. A nail stubbed mace has obliterated the left hand, rendering it nothing but a pulp of dangling flesh, frayed nerves, and a gleam of crushed white bones. He was carried to the White Rose encampment, but seemingly left there by whoever who did. Captain Baldir Toov has been gone for a good year now, and no one was appointed to be his successor, as a captain and as the best surgeon in the entire Asulon. The hand might be saved if Baldir was still around, but such is reality. Some things just have to come pass. Calling over Mordin, he weakly requested flint and steel. Only to have a wood-elf-brat called Leric flaunt the item in front of him, only to dance away because he was too busy being a total ****. Having swore silently that if he died, Leric would be responsible for it. Laying the useless hand upon the forge's anvil, blood flowing like a flagon at a dwarven tavern. Ruby red turning into stains of rust, upon the anvil, and leaking onto the grass. Almost as if the blood was giving life to the anvil. Losing blood and losing conscious, cauterization will unfortunately have to wait. Motioning the dismayed Mordin over, having the poor lad strap his ruined hand unto the anvil with thick leather belts, he proceeded to do what every smith feared. With a cleaver from the kitchen raised high, he brought it down with power at his own left hand's wrist. A bloodcurdling scream echoed throughout the camp, howling as if he was plunged into hellfire and dropped right back into the Hanseti peaks. Hot and cold, pain and suffering flared in his body, his mind reeling back in shock as it contemplated what he just did. But the nightmare hasn't ended it. The cracked bones were showing, pearly white in a packet of red flesh. It wasn't severed yet. Two more times it took, and two more times he screamed himself hoarse and bleeding. The left hand finally severed roughly off the arm, flopping lifelessly onto the grass. Fingers curling up as he hits at a angle, giving a mock impression of the living. He collapsed onto the grass, hoarsely muttering to himself "Creator protect" over and over again, until he passed out. Darkness. Darkness everywhere. He felt himself floating, his body whole. He smiled as he felt the use of his left hand, grabbing a tool as he started working on that new gauntlet he was experimenting on. A orb flame came closer, hovering until it was right above his head. He looked up, only to see it descend slowly to his left hand, burning it in its fire. Pain wracked the system, as he was jolted awake. A new face stood among him, the masked man everyone knew was Aureas. And to his left, he saw the missing hand, the stump being cauterized clumsily. Smell of flesh cooking permeated the air, giving off a sickeningly sweet smell of sunday's roast. He thrashed with all his might, desperate to escape the flaming left stump, but Mordin and Aureas pinned him down. "OH GOD OH GOD KILL ME KILL ME KILL OH GOD ME KILL MEEEEEEEEE!" The thought of losing his precious hand, and having witness someone burning his left stump, promptly forced him into deep coma. Only time will tell if the once jovial, ****-talking Quartermaster may ever make a return to sanity again. ((RIP left hand))
  2. Chapter 1: Siegfreid Varodir White. The colour of purity and life. Weddings always insist on using white for the bridal gown to ensure the bride is pure and unblemished. Snow too, is of the same colour. So pure and white, til it hits the surface and turns colour, the purity blemished. Stained. And if there ever was a stained town among humanity, it would be this. Looking outside of the wooden frame, the town stretches before him. A blanket of snow almost burrying the entire town, save the occasional grey columns of smoke. Humanity's lifeline in this place. Silence hanged deeply in the air, save for the distant tremors coming from the keep. Large black and grey, with 4 tall spires and a dome in the middle. A strange piece of architecture in this god-forsaken land. The snow falls relentlessly, showering the town as the blanket slowly grows in depth. Soon, it might overrun the town, barricading the exits, killing all its inhabitant. Strange how people associate life with white, when we're about to be murdered by it. And maybe it was for the best. The town was really god-forsaken, filled to the brim with lack-wits, second-class races, murderers, prostitutes, sluts, heretics, and the only thing the lord cares about is whether his third born **** will marry into a even better noble house, improving its prestige. 'King' of the North, they call him. Artorous Elendil. Hell, the town doesn't even have a chapel. Absolutely disgusting. Maybe we should all die by the snow. White means purity, he must want to cleanse the town. Grim thoughts circled the youth's mind, his bole brows creasing in thought, lips frowning as he contemplates the Creator's will. He leaves the misty window, turning his head inwards towards the hearth. Glancing into the living room, he sees his family before him, kneeling upon a woolly carpet, hands clasped in prayer towards a altar. His mother, father, and two brothers, praying in front of the simple white and blue altar, with seven tallow candle alit. As his steps creak upon the wooden floor announcing his presence, a small murmur is heard from the smaller of the two brothers. "You're late, Siegfried." Chestnut hair and with a light blue topaz for his eyes, the smaller brother regarded him in contempt. Yet his hands never parted, nor did he rise from prayer. There was another besides him, with fallow hair, but he ignored the disturbance behind him, head kept straight towards the altar. "Keep talking and you might find your face submerged into a puddle, Roy." Siegfried let the threat hang in the air, meeting Roy's gaze with cold steely eyes. Roy flinched, muttering a small curse as he turns his head back towards the altar. Roy might be the eldest, but Siegfried enjoyed a sprut in the bones, towering a inch over Roy. Meditation requires a peace of mind, now is not the time for petty squabbles. A voice rang in his head, chiding him slightly at the small scene earlier. He still hasn't made up his mind if this voice is the Creator's will, or is it him going mad and talking to himself. Well a pastor once said, Ignorance is a bliss. Chapter 2: One in Many There comes a time in a family where one must continue down the down trodden journey known as life. To become something you've always strived for, carrying hopes and dreams of yourself, your family, and maybe your lover. Thats what a childhood was for, to prepare the body and mind when confronted the fork road of maturity. Many would choose to continue their father's trade, and inherit whatever they had after he died. But the Creator had plans for Siegfried, he knew one day he would understand the mutterings of his mind. And in that he prepared himself. The sounds of wars were called, the drums of rebellion shaking the earth as the Wildlings have risen up from the West, endangering the Duke of Westfall. Desperate for aid, the Duke Zibaen Vivyaen petitioned to the council to lead a crusade upon the West, in order to put down all of the Wildlings threatening the County of Sommerset. Emperor Godfrey answered the call, leading the Grandmarshal Mirtok Denurem, various Dukes and their bannermen to the west. And in this call for war, Siegfried did not hesitate and answered with a iron will. At the age of 22, he set forth under the yellow sun blue banner, the Duke Westfall's colours. Leaving behind his brothers George and Roy, his parents and his home in Ildon, Siegfried marched grimly towards the inviting prospect of death and decay. For the greater good. Chapter 3: Cross Hand From the Excerpt of the Templars Codex The title Cross Hand was not always so. It was because Siegfried 'Cross' Varodiir was appointed to this prestigious position. 10 years ago, he fought in the War of the West, riding under the banner the Vivyaen's to suppress the Wildlings. All was not well for Siegfried, for whilst escorting a convey to the Horen encampment, they were sieged. Guerrilla Wildlings, bursting forth from the forest up ahead, slaughtered the convoy and its guards, only 30 men strong. Crouched behind a overturned carriage alongside a pile of dead comrades, he foot tooth and nail for 2 hours, before finally being subdued by 2 crossbows bolts to the back. For it would be more merciful should Siegfried have died from these terrible wounds, but the Wildlings would not give him the satisfaction. Stopping the blood flow from the wounds to a trickle with their barbaric and inhuman medicine of rat heart and everbloom, in their mean little eyes they took out their skinning knife, joyful with glee. For every question they asked in that guttural tongue, they scarred Siegfried's naked body. Despite the pain; despite the option to enter the Void, Siegfried was a man of the Empire, and a man of God. And God knows, his time was not up yet. Having sustained weeks of captivity and humiliation, a band of Uthor's Lances discovered the fate of the caravan, and tracked the Wildlings back to their lair. After massacring all of the Wildlings, they discovered a solitary body, dangling haplessly a feet above ground. And what they saw shocked them to the bone. For it was Siegfried, bloodied, and his entire body criss-crossed in a systematic fashion, to get as many cuts on the body as possible. His face, his body, his limbs. All covered in a intricate pattern of new scars, in a eerily neat checker pattern. Either the Wildlings were too effective on their cruel treatment, or Divine Will of the Creator that got Siegfried through this hellfire trial. Haunted eyes stared forward as the men rescued him, bringing him back to the Red Lances camp. The distrusting yet awed glances from soldiers eventually came up with the nickname 'Siegfried Cross Hands'. Chapter 4: The Self Exile Jolly songs were heard from the stage, comely wenches coming and going, titillating the soldiers with their assets and drinks. The oaken tavern was lit by a warm hearth, the bartender a fat and jolly man, generous with the flow of drinks as long as the pockets were not empty. The soldiers were enjoying their rewards, away from the blood and death of the fields. Finally after a good 6 year campaign and clean up afterwards, the war was heralded towards a end. Pockets of resistance still flared upon the map once every now and then, but Siegfried choose to be among those discharged. Sitting alone by the quietest table, he sought solitude in the most unlikely of place. It was the voice's urging Only in a crowded place, can one feel solitude. To be solitude in a forest is not true solitude. Echoes of the advice still ripples throughout his mind, taking upon a harsher tone since his forced captivity. Nobody paid him any heed, and his mutilated face probably accentuated his presence of wanting to be left alone. As the soldiers boasts about their exploits on the field, Siegfried is filled with cold dread as he recalls painfully what happened. Scouts reported small movements in the bush, I paid them no mind. A armoured soldier may easily take down 4 wildling by himself, and after Emperor Godfrey routed the main force, what else is there to be scared off? Never was I more wrong in my life..... Screams of death replay in his mind, as they were shot from all angles. The Wildlings were smart, they learned from their foe the weapons they used, and adapted them accordingly. The bolts were rusty old bolts, from previous battlefields, but made of iron. It was their turn to feel defeat. Guilt rose unbidden in his heart. The what ifs, if only I had, there should have been another way plagued his thoughts unrelentingly for the past few weeks, ever since he was recovered from the depths of hell. So close to breaking he was in that cave, taunted jeered and tortured. His unshakable faith being slapped around thoroughly like a dead pig ready for the butcher. While he was lost in reverie, a man quietly sat beside him, pouring himself a glass of wine. Wine? This is a tavern, where did that come from? Wine is a expensive commodity, and only the higher ups were allowed to consume it. It was ale for everyone else. He laid his gaze upon the new uninvited guest. Sporting red and white robes with a outline of gold, the man lounged. Placing both feet unseemly on the table as he drank from the glass. He had luscious dark hair and sharp slit eyes, giving him a alluring look. One might even mistake him for female, if not for his male garb and the lack of a protruding chest. He did however, have a necklace of the cross, a symbol of the clergy. So a clergymen, eh? Probably another *****, looking to ask for the story again. The two made no motions of acknowledging one another, until finally a look of irritation crossed the man's face. He said in a clear haughty voice, finally breaking the silence. "So you are Siegfried Cross hands? You dont certainly look like much." And that was a standard insult to anyone who disbelieved his accounts. That was alright, he had no desire to argue anyways. Head down, he bear the man's mocking as he continued sipping from his goblet. If the Wildlings could not break him, what could a snotty clergyman do? Seeing no reaction, the man's reaction changed to a sneer. "So this is what the Creator gave his protection to? A man who just sits alone like a vegetable, socially inept and probably mentally unstable? I lament the day he ever choose to save you instead of the others!" Choose to save you instead of the others. That particular phrase struck him like a blow, his entire body turning rigid. After all I endure, all that blood I had to spill, my sacrifice was not enough?! "I'm sorry you feel that way, 'Father', but I dont plan to know His plans, I held true to faith and He let me live despite the odds." A curt answer, barely able to escape his clenched lips. The clergyman leaned forward, eyes slitting in displeasure. "You know what, 'Cross'? I think you made a pact with the devil. I think you defied his Holiness and prayed to the Baphomet for freedom, in return for your soul. I have met with stronger men, smarter men, more capable men in that caravan of yours, and you're telling me only you, a lowly soldier, survived? Heresy I say." The tone of his voice was now dripping with malice, venom seeping out of his every word. "Mark my words Siegfried, I will come and exorcise you one day by the trial of fire, should I be proven correct." And with that, he left the table, striding away as if he was never there. He didn't even know the priest's name. And that really disturbed Siegfried. Was the voice within him all along Baphomets? That cant be right, it advocated studying, praying. But then again....it did advocate killing of people. Could it be- No. Stop it. You've set yourself on the path of the Creator, and what this clergyman says proves nothing. So disturbed Siegfried was, he spent the next few days in the barracks contemplating the meaning of the meeting. Finally on the 3rd day's dawn, he set forth from the barracks with his bedroll, and nothing else. He traveled to the end of the gates, where the guards challenged him to cross the border. He replied simply. "I'm looking for the Creator." Chapter 5: The Wandering Wastes [OOC Note: This is my character Siegfried Varodir, a man who has seen much in his life. I shall attempt to record his past, and edit it accordingly. I do not think a app is useful for describing my character, and this is mainly for me to refer to.]
  3. I feel so sad for Naal, and this is like the Game of Throne version of Drows. Its got that dark edge of survival, but also very deep character emotions. Although there seems to be a overtly amount of fighting. Sorry buddy, but Chis the Templar girl is my favourite :3

  4. Thanks for sharing where you got that Drow pic from. Loving Drowtales.

  5. While its against the rules to post OOCly on a guild page, after a discussion with Aryon, its decided explaining the reasoning for hatred/racism ICly will benefit those who might have any doubts oocly. Therefore I have re-approved most of the posts concerning the various personal White Roses reasoning. If anyone has any qualms with this, feel free to message me.
  6. Complete with a new Riolan.

    I chuckled. But gotta unapprove that post. Sorry buddy. (At least any old Fms above viewing the topic will chuckle.)

  7. Your current forum title as [Ex]Admin could be very misleading should anyone seek advice from you. Therefore I have made it blank. Please do not insinuate you are Ex Admin. Cheers.

  8. Right hand on the middle of the shaft, thumb pointing upwards. Left hand on the back, leveling the tip towards the naval of a 6 foot tall person. Right foot forward, left foot back. Using the left arm to become a lever, so the right arm performs a small crescent swing towards the man's ribs, he aims the blade slightly behind. The man dodges backwards, using his claymore to smash Arkus's seemingly overextended head. "HAAAAAAH!" Quickly reposturing himself, he brings forth his left leg, and uses the butt of the halberd in a quick uppercut thrust towards the man. Barely glancing off the man's nose, startled, he tumbles back a step. A wide feral grin is plastered on Arkus, as he now performs his last dance. As both his hands are above his head in the earlier uppercut thrust, he now positions himself for the vertical stroke, effectively becoming a guillotine. That shadow warrior never stood a chance. Panting, Arkus plants the halberd in the sand, taking a sit on Peter's chest full of ****, as Thomas so aptly puts it. He closes his eyes, back to last evening, when the White Rose mobilized towards to Solace. Every Order was heeded. Every Order was carried out effectively. Even the line was never broken. It was a small pity, the adversary was some sort of misguided pumpkin-man, but the Commanding Officers would not relent in their strict discipline. "VAULT!" A uniformed line of plate-cladded soldiers, vaulting over the overgrowth, their weapons already on the draw, bow and arrow notched while the melee soldiers flanked the sides, protecting the archers. Excellent. Captain took Brann and went ahead to apprehend the freak, as the rest remained in formation. Raindrops fell as thunder roared in the sky, the droplets eventually becoming as big as pumpkin seeds. Heated words were exchanged between the Cleric and the Officers, and in the end Thomas was firm. With just a mere wave of his gauntlet, the archers reshuffled and followed his hand. As it went down, the arrows were let loose. 1, 2, 3 arrows all struck the pumpkin man, as he fell to the floor of the gazebo. Lifeless, the light dimming in his sockets. It was beautiful. A shiver was sent down his spine, as Arkus looks at both his palms shaking in excitement. The prospect of doing a job well, and everyone pulling their own weight. Uniformed in clothes and mind. This far surpasses anything the Oren Lances, the Knights could ever achieve. This was a true Military Order. This was the Order of the White Rose. A slow curl comes unbidden to his lips All we need now is a real army to face.
  9. Forgot to rp type it out, but I sent another 300 to you since the economy was broke/reset

    Uhm. I'm really dumb, but how do I cut and paste the face onto your skin? xD

  10. Can you get online around now? I'm in a rush and I'm not sure about tomorrow :/

  11. Git on yer stupid whoreson. We're gettin medals!

  12. Malaysia? Well this is very odd. You from Kuala Lumpur?

  13. Are you still willing to trade gunpowder?

  14. I'm glad a few people like it in theory, but I'm still looking for ways to improve it if it is ever come into play. Any words from Viper?
  15. Well the idea is that any event team member can create their own story line, but it must meet the requirements of 1) It has to be doable oocly. Its impossible to ask a anyone to recreate Karik because of a dwarven ghost builder 2) It must have a time limit. And a punishment upon failure of completion. Rewards are up to the ghost, vengeful ones rarely give 'good' rewards. 3) The result must be reported, so there may be a cumulation of things on the 31st of October.
  16. Just awaiting confirmation from a Event Team Leader, I have no idea which GM heads it atm.
  17. I'm sure the actors will be able to play their dead chars, i'm not too sure about giving regular players the ability to play ghosts, since the possibilities of powergaming is high. Ghosts have the ability to become invisible, have the ability to talk in someone's mind. It might be mindless rabble, or it could be trying to impose their will on mortal beings. Aka rping through the /tell system. It might be subtle at first, but then it could turn out to be a fully fledge war inside someone's mind. Here's a neat little example. http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/44781-having-some-fun/page__p__324417__fromsearch__1#entry324417 It started with subtle changes, suggestive at first. By setting my name to 'You', I emoted *notice out of the corner of your eye, a ghostly apparition stands in the middle of the Tavern. The emotes may or may not be public. If you wish to target a specific person, you should try using /tells. As funny as it is sometimes to see people confused in ooc, its probably not a good idea to disrupt everyone if you plan on getting just one person involved. And ghosts can be not just one, but an entire group as well. They can be from all races. Perhaps a squad of orcs that died fighting in the Alras-Dwarf battle, and their lament is that they just wanted to bring honour to their clan? A dwarf that died when the mines collapsed, and all he wanted was just a diamond for his gravestone? A group of soldiers that were massacred by zombies, and they wont rest til you bring them the flesh of at least 20? A mage that had his life drained by a lich, and now seeks your help to kill it so it may rest? The possibilities are endless, since these are a cumulation of mini events each decided by the Actors, which I am sure are pretty capable of thinking something fun for themselves.
  18. I thought this would be great, a server wide event that lasts many days, and all that rp isn't wasted by finally accumulating into a decision that could affect Asulon. I want the rp from Halloween to leak into November, and December, and the next year. And people will look back on Halloween and say "Dont mess with ghosts pls."
  19. Editing in progress. Thank you Comet
  20. Event Planners, MC Names: firespirit44 Event Type: Continuous, with a climax on the Eve of Halloween, the 30th of October. Event Date: Starting from...20-30th. Factions/Nations effected by the event: Everyone in Asulon Event Location: All over Asulon Summary: If you would so kindly read a short little story below, the summary is after the story. Concept Images/Screenshots: Its a bit difficult to explain. More info below. Other Information: - Do you need the Event Team's assistance?: Yes. If so, do you require actors and/or builders?: Builders not really needed, but it may change. As many actors as I can find for this event. Night falls. Running through the woods, praying you dont meet a zomvie or a skeleton hiding behind a pillar. Light, flickering before you in the North. You hurry there in haste, to be greeted by a warm campfire and a fat fellow, playing his guitar, with his back against a quaint little caravan. The steeds seems to be missing, but you do not care about that now. A brief exchange later, the man joyously ushers you to the campfire, as he sings you the song of his people. Odd music, high pitched and shrill. High enough to make your hairs stand on the end, and yet hauntingly beautiful. The song dies and he stops, all is quiet as the leaves rustles and the fire crackles. He looks at you with his bright green eyes, asking if you would like to listen to a story. Secretly yearning for another song, and deciding it would be rude to reject the man who gave you shelter, you acquiesced. " In the dark of the night, all is quiet in the Darkmyst Cemetry It has been many years since the Dead have been laid to rest, and who says they are at peace? Ambitions, Love, Regret, Hate. One does not leave the earthly planes without fulfilling their deepest desire. Caged in the earth, their spirits forced to sleep and be silent. And yet, there comes a day. When the moon shines so bright, and the hour strikes past midnight The caged are freed, the Aenguls and Daemons lulled to sleep. And on that day, the spirits roam free. " A slight shiver is sent down you spine. Zombies and Skeletons are certainly real, reanimated corpses of once living things. But a entity that only has 1 goal, and will not be laid to rest by a blade or arrow? The thought it unnerving. The Fat man glances at you from the corner of his eyes, and laughs rambunctiously, slapping his thighs like your face was the funniest thing he ever saw. He grins broadly, and sets his guitar to one side. "Careful lad/lass, there too exists those who have not been laid to rest. Their bodies defiled by worms, and never given the proper burial. And in these acursed woods, a shortage of unnamed corpses are a plenty." [so thats the end of my short little story. So here's the gist of the event. For a week, including Halloween the event team shall roam around the lands, having the ability to fly and be invisible. They will choose to haunt certain areas, and each event team person will have their own 'desire', that players need to put them to rest. Failure to do so will result in haunting the person, or just causing them a nuisance in general. For example there could be this 7 year old kid ghost, that has been killed by a wolf when she picked flowers by the stream. All she ever wanted was a nice bouquet of flowers on her grave. This simple sentence already provides so much potential rp. Depending on the 'ghost', the players MIGHT have to find 1) Where is the body? You have to lay the body to rest. 2) What does she truly want? She might whisper hatred of wolves and recall her anguish of never getting flowers, but which does she want more? A body of a dead wolf or just a simple bouquet of flowers? 3) And what happens if you try running away from her? Will she continue to haunt you or return to her usual spot of haunting, which is near the stream? Basically this event, is calling the event team to assemble a ton of mini quests by the actors all over Asulon on their whim. Each ghost has a different story, therefore the way to treat them is differently as well. You might not even want to try and help the ghost, but kill it instead with holy magic. But who knows what might happen if you dispel a vengeful ghost? Depending on how the general public preceive these ghosts, further rp will accumulate unto the day of Halloween, where the choices made by the players will affect what happens on Halloween itself. FOr example, if tons of players choose to 'kill/dispel' said ghosts, the ghosts might band together into one giant being known as the Nightmare, and in all its hate and terror it might sweep its vengance across the mortal beings. Aka boss fight route. But if enough players accept and complete said mini quests, these ghosts might get together and leave for 'Heaven' on the same day, forming a spectacular light show, and gifting all those who helped them a small present, knowing their spirits can finally leave this plane of existance for the next.] So...what do you think?
  21. From deep within the Keep, coming from below the stairs, you hear a faint chant, with a orchestra of clink-a-clanking with a bang-a-banging Hooooo~ The mighty bellows blow~ To caverns deep~ Chimes of hammers rhyme~ Furnace roaring in the night~ For all of timeee~ The Fire was Red~ its Flaming Spread~ The metal like stars~ Blazed with light~ Over and over, the man chants as the hammer falls unto the anvil, making a resounding crash. Brown hair streaked with grey, the embers of the forge give his rugged face a nice orange tan. Brown eyes twinkling, as he concentrates on smaller, more precise strokes of the hammer. He grunts, stopping the song and music as he lays the sword to cool in the water. With a satisfied look, he takes the unfinished sword and starts sharpening it on the whetstone, humming a cheery tune as he sharpens the edge. Finishing the sword off with some strips of wood and leather, bound to make the hilt. Looking over to the new recruits waiting patiently at the side, he grins and hands the lad a standard issued White Rose sword. A long sword with a brown hilt, a Rose carved onto the butt of the hilt. "I'm Arkus, son of Farrier. Quartermaster of de White Rose. Ye need any smithing done, ye come ta me. And dont let me see ye drop dat sword, or I'll pick it up and shove it in yer arse."
  22. I did not delete your post, I think perhaps it was Cappy who thought the wording of your post was not really helpful to the case. Would you like me to bring it up with him?

  23. Would you like for me to reapprove your post, so you may edit the post accordingly?

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