Avacyn

I really wish you the best of luck, but I'm going to tell you this. If you plan on existing outside of Oren, and being antagonistic, and being heretics, you will be crushed swiftly and brutally by any of Oren's well-stocked military orders like the White Rose, The Chapter of the Lion, or the Teutonic Order.

New Guilds tend not to be successful unless you have a completely unique idea, and a lot of people who are willing to join. If you can bring outside people in, just bring them to an existing guild... they can always use more members.

already enough similar orders, join a pre-existing one so as to not spread out RP.

This is really great and all, but to be honest, I don't see why it's necessary to put this through the Lore Team... Wouldn't each race just naturally do this, as this is how they live and how they would develop their own styles based on the world around them? Just in case it really is necessary, +1.

The Man Who Was Once The Inquisitor Rorik receives the letter, as he is traveling through the woods. He pours it over, reading it top to bottom multiple times, almost obsessively. When he is done, he grins, adjusting his porcelain mask. "The hunt begins." He sprints off into the forest.

Character Name Doctor Gregor Ludivic Nicknames: "The Mad Doctor", "Crazy" Age: Thirty-four years. Gender: Male. Race: Human, Hansetian to be precise. Status: Alive. Description Height: Six feet, three inches. Weight: 149 pounds. Body Type: Very slender, but tall. Lanky. Not much muscle present. Eyes: Baby blue. Hair: Pale blonde, almost white. Skin: So fair, that his skin is translucent. Markings/Tattoos: His face is covered in patches of different skin that he's sewn on, and he has a message carved into his forehead. "Only in Death do we find the cure to Willpower~" Health: Physically, healthy. Mentally, far gone from sanity. Personality: Psychopathic, relentless, but with a strange sense of macabre humor. The only thing that matters to him is progress in medicine. Inventory: His set of surgical tools. A scalpel, forceps, arrow remover, tonsil guillotine, and of course his trusty bonesaw. Wickedly pointed, a mahogany handle, and a serrated blade fit for tearing through skulls in record time. He keeps to vials of Curare on him at all times, a poison that acts quickly and paralyzes for short durations. He keeps a small sewing needle pinned inside his sleeve, coated in this poison, ready to be used to neutralize potential "donators". Further Details: Constantly on the lookout for those who will donate their bodies to medicine, voluntarily or not. Life Style Alignment*: Lawful Evil Deity*: None. Religion: Science and medicine. Alliance/Nation/Home: Nobody. He wanders around Oren usually. Job/Class: Surgeon, self-proclaimed Doctor, Apothecary Title(s): Doctor Profession(s): Medicine Special Skill(s): An almost unnatural knowledge of the mortal anatomy, and herbs. A mathematical mind, he calculates risks and outcomes. Flaw(s): Psychopathy. It causes him to almost always take the "stupid" route, whether it be blurting out his murderous intentions or attacking somebody in the streets. It's all perfectly reasonable to him, though. He is physically weak, and really can't fight very well. Magic* Current Status: Searching for a teacher. Arch-type: Dark Arts Sub-Type: Necromancy Rank: Searching Weakness(es): N/A Strength(s): N/A Current Spell(s): N/A Weaponry Fighting Style: Surprise. Trained Weapon: Small knives, like scalpels. Favored Weapon: His scalpel, or his bonesaw. Archery: Nope Biography Parents: Ernest and Anya Ludivic (Both Deceased) Siblings: None Children: None Extended Family: None Pet(s): His Cadavers History A cold cellar, sheeted in snow and ice, as the house is in Hanseti. Behind a heavy iron door, a small glass window covered in frost crystals gives a hazy view to the work that Doctor Ludivic is doing inside. His newest patient is bound to an iron slab, leather straps restraining his arms, legs, and head. He screams, yelling for help, but his shouts only bounce around the room full shelves. Lining the shelves are glass jars, each a different organ or body part floating in embalming fluid. A small table sits next to the slab. A set of surgical equipment, unsettlingly clean lies here… a scalpel, forceps, bonesaw, tweezers, and a needle tied with specially hand-woven thread. A set of gloved hands hovers above the set, looking for the right tool. The gloves are the color of bone… not stark white, but more of a yellowish color. The fingers wiggle a bit in excitement, and finally the scalpel is grabbed. The sound of boots crunching in snow, and the Doctor now looms over his patient. The man bound to the table goes silent, voice lost in utter fear. The silver blade is gently placed against the side of his face, just under his ear. A small cut is made, the blood slowly dribbling down onto his neck. Ludivic continues cutting, his goal to remove the man's face. Behind his bird-like mask, the only emotion present is one of focus, utter concentration on his target. He cannot hear the man screaming bloody murder as the skin around his face is slowly cut, because he does not care. All that matters is progress. How did the Doctor become this way? Ludivic thinks about this. It began as a child. Gregor Ludivic was born to two loving parents, Ernest and Anya. His mother, Anya, worked as a seamstress, sewing clothes and selling them at the village market. His father worked in the business of death. It was his job to look after bodies. He was in the funeral business, and all day long he listened to grieving widows, children, and husbands cry their eyes out. He dressed the bodies of knights, noblemen, and later buried them, putting them to their final resting place six feet deep. Every day, the dead would come and go. Gregor wasn't really interested in sewing clothing, and so his father began to take him to work at the age of 5. They couldn't afford any schooling for him, or even afford to live remotely near other children, and so Gregor began to spend his days with his father, watching dead people come in, and then be placed into the earth later. Gregor grew fascinated with the idea of death. How could one die? What was the body like after they died? Even as such a young child, he carefully studied the corpses, seeing what wounds or what illnesses had killed them and how it had affected their body. One might say his only friends grew to be the dead bodies he looked at all day long. The years passed. The Doctor thinks about a time, many years later. Gregor has taken over the cadaver business. His father is sick at home, and his mother died three years ago after slipping, and bashing her head on the ice. Gregor is twenty-one years old, and the business is good as ever. He is known as a miracle-worker, for the bodies he's given seem to go to their funerals without a scratch on them. Perfect condition. Nobody knows how, but it just happens. Well, that is a lie. Gregor knows how. When he was a teenager, he began practicing on the corpses nobody cared about. Cutting parts off, placing them onto the wounded, messy parts of bodies, and sewing them back on. He took a few needles and thread from his mother. A nobleman would come in, dead as a doornail, missing two fingers and a stab wound. That was no worry, for there were plenty of peasants lying dead in the street… just a few cuts, a couple stitches, a bit of makeup, and the man is good as new. But he's still dead, of course. Word of "Doctor Ludivic" spread among those who needed bodies cleaned up. But Gregor grew obsessed. He noticed every imperfection in everybody, his mind nitpicking at everything. Soon all he could think of was what body parts needed replacing, and where he could get them… whether they be corpses or living specimens. He began the grisly practice of finding "donators" (not always willing ones) and taking small samples and pieces for his work. It was an unfortunate day when he was caught in the act of taking the ring finger of a Count. He barely managed to escape, coming home to find his father had passed on from his sickness. Not caring one bit, he dragged him downstairs, into the icy cellar beneath their home, laying him next to his blue and white mother, frosted over. He proceeded to take everything he could downstairs. Food, supplies, clothing… and then burned the house to the ground. It was then that his work began. Alone, forgotten, he carved a tunnel out of the ice and snow, the entrance masked in the side of a stark-white mountain, a heavy iron door blocking the way. More years passed, as he came and went, looting graveyards and battlefields all over the land, now obsessed with creating the perfect person. He couldn't help but notice imperfections, and how they could be fixed. He had one goal in mind now, learning everything he could about the mortal shell, testing its limits, finding the peak of perfection. He has created 289 prototypes, and still thinks himself only beginning in his work. Once he creates the perfect person, his next step will be bringing them to life, and is currently seeking such a possibility on the side of his work. His dear mother and father still sit in their chairs, bodies stiff with ice, heads tilted, eyes fixed in an eternal gaze upon their son's work, awaiting their time to be a part of his process. Artwork

moogle says yesssssssssss

Marcus Briarwood steps out from behind the backstage, taking off the dark hood he had worn for the play. He leans the scythe against the side of the set, and goes out to greet the audience warmly, leaving behind the weapon he once used in Baldir Toov's service...

9/10 I know joo, Ledward Zeppelin :3