Lynesse {Celia/Jazzy}

Jon sits at his desk, a bottle of vintage scotch and a glass cup accompanying him. He sits idly, sifting through a pile of applications. Taking Fancy and Garion's, he has them stamped for approval. Jon calls for Winston, his loud voice resonating through the lower halls of The Lusty Lion. He hands the applications of Garion and Fancy over to the young wood elf servant, for them to be filed. He makes no effort to write a letter to them, seeing as they have already checked into Company 2-11 in person. He belches loudly, looking to Winston as if to say "Please, have some manners!", before he pushes his chair back, moving to his bed to get some slumber and to be filled with dreams encompassing pretty elven lasses.

Jon pens a simple reply, sent the the place of origin. The letter eventually finds itself at the lap of Iman Tanner, where he may make his decision on whether or not to open the rolled up piece of parchment. Should he choose to glance over the sheet, the words etched on the paper would appear to be... "To Iman Tanner, The freemen Company 2-11 would more the love to have extra hands around, especially at this time of labor where we all must work to set up a foothold in these new lands. If your interest still persists in joining Company 2-11, please feel free to send me a direct bird message to my personal cage ((LoTC_Celia)) and I would be more then happy to make arrangements. Sincerely, Ser Jon Stirling, Captain of Company 2-11."

10th of the First Seed, 1497 At the least, the fires kept them somewhat warm through the harsh winter. Snow and ash intertwined on the cold winter stone, blowing around heavily in the wind. The blaze, engulfing the roof the tavern had just been put out. A large fire took over the camp, presumably at the hands of Kovachev, Carrion, and Decturum bannermen. The assumed betrayal was quite literally bone-crushing. Though, it was not to Jon to remember. A thick haze engulfed his mind as he struggled to recall the events of the past day. For him, it hurt to move. He hobbled around the camp at a slow pace, though in some retrospect, he could consider himself to be among the luckier of the day. The ash that covered the camp in a thin layer was not only that of the remains of the the proud thatched roof buildings that one stood strong, but also the remnants of many comrades, who did not receive a fate as favorable as Jon's. The thought brought great guild to the grizzled old knight, accompanied by the constant sharp pain in his chest, where he was presumably gored. Lion was no where to be found amiss the chaos. He was off finding zen again, Jon assumed. His wounds that befell upon him put him in condition to take garrison. Two, the near-mute stood silently as ever upon the gate, the duty now befallen upon him. Meanwhile Elizabeth, Lieutenant of the once numerous and strong Company 2-11 lead cleanup and rebuild efforts. A looming aura of defeat filled the camp, it seemed like. Jon would have no more of it. He slowly made his way up to the wall, by means of a slow and stumbling hobble. He stopped mid step, a cold breeze, that should've taken it's course far away, for spring seemed like a distant dream, though the month was the First Seed. There was a bitter irony as Jon stepped back in the cold wind, bundling up. It had been right after the Company had taken two massive steps forward, only to be knocked down by a cold wind of betrayal. He eventually made his way up to the top of the gates. A sharp pain pulsed through his body as he attempted to speak, his once booming voice seemingly gone AWOL. Still the old knight was able to gain the attention of some of his men. "Ordah! Ordah!" he said as his echoing voice scoured the camp. "Drop yer tools, 'nd stop wotcha doin'. Gathah boi th' gate 'nd let th' old mon speak." Paddy said, standing ever vigilantly beside Jon to assist him, lest he fall down the side of the wall. It hurt to talk, though Jon was determined to make his point. Eventually the riff raff settled down, standing below Jon, who was on top of the gate. It did not take a great read of body language to assume an air of demoralization had filled the lungs of Jon's troops. They gave him questioning looks still, wondering what he had to say that would make them stop their work. "Oy'll cut straight tae th' shite, lads. T'is week, we got fooked ovah. Our fort 'as been burned tae th' rubble 'nd we gots men tae bury. Oy'm not 'ere tah command contractors or gravediggahs. If t'is ain't wot ye wont, leave. Th' gate open." he said, gesturing to Two as he pulled the lever to open the wooden portcullis. Slowly a few men edged towards the gate. Elizabeth spat on the ground as they made their leave. "Oi'm not 'ere tah command fookin' bandits 'nd brigands 'ere evah. If ye wont tae go loot th' countrysoide, take yer torches 'nd pitchforks and gu." Jon said, his eyes scanning over his men. Gambino, Fist, Oslo, Felix, and Croesus were nowhere to be found, along with the traitor of Aldersburg. "And gud riddance tae t'em if ye asked me!" Jon thought to himself. "We losin' ah identity as mercenaries. Ovah th' past year, we've 'ad brigands, traitors, 'nd fookwits in ah midsts. Ye lads one of t'ose?" Jon asked, snarling at the crowd. They remained silent, though a few gave a small shake of their head. "Gud, 'cause we startin' **** essentially ovah. Ye wont tae get rich and doi wiff t'ree pretty whores on ye cock? T'en get workin', 'nd don't ferget t'at we mercenaries, nae bandits 'nd brigands. Oy'll see tae it t'at th' glory, binniss, 'nd success ah Company 2-11 be restored." With that, he nods, waving his hand in dismissal and sending the crowd back to their work. He turned around, looking at the newly rising sun. Mayhaps this signalled a new day or dawn for Company 2-11. There was no doubt one was sorely needed.