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.

Ser Jon Stirling sits at his desk, sorting through a rather large pile of applications. Today, he had drawn the short straw of having to sort through them all, to cap off a night of huge redemption for Jon. He looked proudly at his medals, which had not seen light for years, along with his newly forged gilded steel helmet. Today, Jon was a real knight again, by any measure. However, the pile of applications tonight was rather monotonous, filled with the desires and overambitious of poor peasants, unorganized riff raff, and general ne'er do-wells. It is at the near bottom of the pile, again, that a relatively acceptable application is found. Jon raises eyebrow at the application of Adrian Pryce. Headsmen oft forget the meaning of being a soldier, and the virtues of battle when they spend their whole lives lopping off heads of the weak and defeated. Still, the application was acceptable, as a recent influx of unbloodied and ambitious men left the camp green and inexperienced. He claps for the servant Winston, much to the young wood elf's dismay. The camp was a mess tonight, and Jon was only further adding to the world load of the servants. Jon dips his stamp in black in, pressing it firmly against Pryce's application. He shoots a sharp glace over to Winston, who quickly nods, running off to file the application. Jon then proceeds to take out a fresh sheet of parchment, beginning to draft a reply to the original sender. When he is done, he again calls for Winston, who at this point is exhausting, huffing and puffing heavily. "Oy've 'lready drafted th' reploi, 'nd everyfing. Call fer ah messenger boi 'nd 'ave it deliver." Jon says, his vehement voice blooming throughout the Hearth Hall in the middle of the night. Thedric grumbles lowly, his room only across a wall from Jon's office, trying to regain his state of slumber. Winston nods, taking the sheet and does as he is bid. After a few days, the message arrives at the personal raven cage of Adrian Pryce's place of dwelling. The paper is now, through travel, ripped, weathered, but for the most part, still legible. Should Adrian open the letter, it will read... "For the eyes of Adrian Pryce, It is with great pleasure for us to state that we have read and reviewed your application. If you are still interested in being a part of us, please send a message to my personal raven cage, so that we may make arrangement (My IGN is LoTC_Celia). As an alternative, show up at our gates, if you know where they are, as someone should be on duty. If you are, however, unaware of where our place of dwelling is, we would be more then happy to send a runner over to guide you. Best wishes, Ser Jon Stirling, Captain of Company 2-11."

Jon sits at his desk, tapping his finger on it's fine wood as he take a few minutes to scan over all of the applications. He squints his eyes at the applications of Gambino, Fist, and Croseus, simply tossing them into a pile labeled "Felix". The next application he pulls is Sofie's, crumpled up tightly and at the bottom of the pile. After taking some time to review the application, he nearly spits out his scotch in laughter. "Har, har, har! A big *****, tat's wot we need. She sound loike she got 'eart, oy'll give 'er t'at." Jon says, smirking across the table to Leone, clad in his black iron Lion armour. "Oi loike it." Sandor replies, taking the letter out of Jon's callused and rough hands. "Lord knaes we meed more people 'round 'ere t'at ain't big *******, har har." Jon nods stoically to Sandor, taking out a fine nib, along with a small pot of ink. He begins to pen a reply to Sofie. "To Sofie, It is with great pleasure for us to state that we have read and reviewed your application. If you are still interested in being a part of us, please send a message to my personal raven cage, so that we may make arrangement (My IGN is LoTC_Celia). As an alternative, show up at our gates, if you know where they are, as someone should be on duty. If you are, however, unaware of where our place of dwelling is, we would be more then happy to send a runner over to guide you. Best wishes, Ser Jon Stirling, Captain of Company 2-11." With that, he dabs his finger on his tongue, before sealing the letter, and whistling loudly for a messenger boy to come and deliver the letter to it's place of origin.

Ser Jon Stirling rubs his beard, dumping a few small pieces of parchment paper from the dropbox onto a thick wooden table. He sorts through the letters, raising his eyebrow at Lawrence's application. "Har, har, har! T'is un got 'eart, oy'll give 'im t'at!" He pens a thick reply, made out to the bird station of the sender. "To Lawrence of Aldersburg, We have recieved your application and would like for you to visit us for an interview and orientation, if you are still interested in joining Company 2-11. If you are unaware of where we can be found, please do not be afraid to pen a reply, as we are capable of sending a guide to the Cloud Temple. To ease methods of communication, please send us the location where we can reach you by post the easiest. ((If you have skype, tell us!)) Sincerely, Ser Jon Stirling, of Company 2-11." He grumbles under his breath as his raven takes off. "Floi, ye feckin' bird, floi!"

A response is penned to Gallagher, sent to the post office of origin. "To Gallagher the Human, We have recieved your application and would like for you to visit us for an interview and orientation, if you are still interested in joining Company 2-11. If you are unaware of where we can be found, please do not be afraid to pen a reply, as we are capable of sending a guide to the Cloud Temple. Sincerely, Ser Jon Stirling, of Company 2-11." Jon released the raven from his hand, letting it fly away.

English Version: The Steel Code Don’t act without seeing payment first. We bend knee to no man, crown, or banner. When you join, you renounce all previous allegiances. Cowards shall meet steel. Regardless of your race, gender, or any other factor, if you are capable of swinging a sword or serving, you can join 2-11. You are held accountable for your actions. Disrespecting a client or guildmate is grounds for punishment. Your superiors are to be respected and their word is concrete, lest it be overridden by someone even higher in the chain of command. The men of Company 211 are like your blood, which shall not be spilt. You are held responsible for attending a training at least once an elven week, unless you give notice. Furthermore, you must show up for at least one out of three major battles. The Bounty Share System Our modus-operandi is that if you get a kill on the battlefield (which should be personally kept track of), you get a bigger share of the earnings. If you are responsible for picking up the contracts, you are guaranteed at least fifteen percent of the earnings. Bounties placed on individual work different. The principal that the retriever of the contract being entitled to at least 15% stays the same, however shares are split equally between bounty hunters. The fact that we take the highest contract in any scenario should be kept in mind. We do not fight for someone if their opponent pays more for our services, as when you join Company 2-11, you renounce your previous allegiances. All earnings will be processed by a captain or lieutenant, before they are fairly distributed. An example of a battle contract: “A thousand coin for fighting in the battle. One hundred and fifty minas will go to the contract securer, ten percent extra for getting a kill (this multiplies up to five times). The rest is split equally among remaining combattants. If you are knocked out, or die during the battle you are not entitled to any of the earnings.” An example of a bounty contract: “Five hundred coin reward for killing a target. Seventy five minas is guaranteed to the securer of the contract. Everything else is split equally among the hunters.” The Chain of Command Captain. They are the leaders of Company 2-11. They make the final say on decisions. The position of captain is manned by Sandor Leone and Ser Jon Stirling. Lieutenant. There are usually one lieutenants. They are in charge of the sergeants and make sure that order is kept. With the support of their sergeants, they can start of a vote of non-confidence against a captain. Sergeants. They make sure men-at-arms are trained, equipped, and well fed. They are charged with discipline of soldiers, and turning men into soldiers. Men-at-Arms. They are the soldiers of the company who have proven their worth. They are assigned to a specific sergeant that oversees their well-being. Whelp. An unbloodied recruit, who has not yet proven his worth with the company. When a whelp has shown he is capable in the fields of battle, they become a man-at-arms. Servant. They are separate from the chain of command. Servants help the soldiers in performing non-combat tasks, like farming, cooking, blacksmithing, and the like. (Soldiers are not exempt from doing these types of jobs in free time). They take orders from sergeants and above but they are directly under the lieutenant's sphere of control. Badarse Drunkard Version (Recommended!): Ye lookin’ tah join dah bes’ fookin’ freeman companeh in dah lan’s? Look nae furder, ye stumbled upon Companeh 211, mercenaries fer hoire. Weh dun foight fer anyt’ing less den dah riches. We dun fookin’ bow tah nae cruwn, bannah, faction. Pay us dah roight amount a dah scum gits ‘illed, simple as dat. How tah join: Link up wit 2-11 on dah road to ‘anseti and request tah talk tah some’un. Ye can ulso leave ah lettah ef ye can fookin’ read er wroite en our drop box ((Forum post or PM me!)). Wot ye get outah joinin’ th’ companeh: Fer yer little shitey arse joinin’ us, t’ere be some tings ye get. Asoide from a fair share from the earnings, we alseh provoide ye wiff housin’ fer yer sorry self if ye a man-at-arms or ‘bove (servants as well), ‘long wiff weapons ‘nd armour, though we puhfer ye ‘ave yer own! How tah hoire Company 211: Maybe yer not feckin’ interested in joinin’ but ye wont tae hoire us tae do yer dirty werk fer ye. ‘gain, we can be found in th’ elven lands on tha road tae ‘anseti. Drop a message or contract fer us in th’ dropbox ((Forum message to me or Minecraft PM Temple_Monks, Dokahn, or LoTC_Celia)). Alternatively, ye can ge intae feckin’ contact wiff wun ‘o our soldiers, ‘ou can relay th’ contract tae high management. Dis be dah lettah o' applicashion: Dah fookin’ code: Dun lif’ yer fingah wit’out seein’ dah riches. Bend nae knee tah no fookin’ crown, bannah, er faction. W’en ye join, ye renounce any existin’ loyalties ‘r allegiances. Cowards’ll fookin’ meet our namesake. It dunnae mattah if ye ugleh, piggy, or dark elf. If ye can put yerself tae good use, yae can join. If ye get too drunk tah shwing yer sword we’ll put yah in a barrel til ye got yer wits. Ye talk shite, means ye be pickin’ a fite. Rehspect th’ peoples ou be highah ranked t’en yeh, ye pathetic piece ‘o shite. Th’ men ye foight besoide be yer bruvahs, ye ain’t ‘ere tae bluddy t’em. Ye gots tae show up fer trainin’ once an elvish week, ye feckin’ *****. Also, ye gots tah report fer atleast un ‘o th’ three major battles. Dun be a feckin’ *****, ye feckin’ *****. Dah fookin’ way shares work: Roight, ‘ere’s dah way we be oper’atin’. Ye get a kiel ondah field o’ battle keep track o’ dat shite and ye’ll get a biggah fookin’ share. If ye pick up a contrac’ fer dah companeh ye’re ‘titled tah Fit’teen percent o’ dah reward even if ye doo fook oll. Bountehs be diff’runt. Same fit’teen fer foindin’ et, but yee share wut’s lef’ equalleh among yer fella bounteh ‘unters. Remembah, we take the ‘ighest contracts. We dun foight fer yer feckin’ muvah or sum’n ‘less t’ey offah th’ most gold. W’en ye join Companeh 2-11, ye renounce yer previous ‘legiances! Ah cap’n or lieutenant handles th’ moolah first tae process it ‘nd split it fairly. Fookin’ example o’ a battle contrac’: Doushan coin reward fer foightin’ in a bah’tle. un-fitty tah dah contract securah, ten percent fer gettin’ a kiel. Senty-foive tah dah contrac’ securah. Erryt’ing else is spilt equalleh among dah ‘unters. If ye get knocked out or die loike a dumb fecktard in th’ battle, ye dun get ‘ny of the earnin’s because you’s a fookin’ idiot. Fookin’ example o’ a bounteh contrac’: Foive-’undred coin reward fer kiellin’ some poor fooker. Senty-foive tah dah contrac’ securah. Erryt’ing else is spilt equalleh among dah ‘unters. Dah fookin’ chain o’ cahmand: Capt’n. Dah leadah(s) o’ th’ moighty Companeh 2-11. T’ey call dahshots ‘nd t’ey the biggest badarses ‘round. Th’ cap’ns be Sandor Leone ‘nd the Ser Jon Stirlin’. Lieutenant. T’ere be usually un lieutenants. ‘e er she beh en charge o’ th’ sergeants ‘nd make sure ordah is kep’. T’ey can start ah vote ‘o non-confidence ‘gainst a cap’n, wiff th’ votes of the sergeants. Sergeants. T’ey ‘re th’ uns ‘ou make sure th’ men-at-arms ‘re trained, equipped, ‘nd shite. T’ey be charged with disciplin’ th’ boys, ‘nd turning t’em intae men ‘nd real soldiers! Har har har! Men-at-’rms! T’ey th’ soldiers of th’ companeh t’at prove t’ere worth. T’ey be assigned tae a certain sergeant t’at acts as t’ere supahvisah. Whelp. Ye a fookin’ whelp, tat’s wot ye are. A whelp be unbloodied, ‘nd hasn’t proved ‘is worf wiff th’ companeh. Unce t’eve showed t’ere capable in th’ fields ‘o battle, t’ey become a men-at-’rm! Servant. S’perate from th’ chain ‘o command, servants ‘elp th’ soldiers by doin’ non combat tasks, loike farmin’, fishin’, ‘nd otha ***** shite (soldiers be not exempt from t’is toipe ‘o works in toimes of peace!). T’ey take ordahs from th’ sergeants ‘nd above but t’ey respond directly tae th’ lieutentant. ((OOC)) Guidelines of Joining Company 2-11 When you commit to joining our RP group, you agree to be a good roleplayer and a positive influence to the community. Flamers, aggressive trolls, and general assholes aren't allowed in the company because they reflect a negative image of Company 2-11 towards the server. The leadership group behind us reserves the right to kick anyone out for these reasons. Don’t be a dickwad just about sums everything up. :> OOC communication is important as well! We’d prefer that people who join have skype, so that it makes it significantly easier to communicate out of role play Thanks for reading!