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 leaned quietly on the railings of the balcony, jutting out of the rickety wood tavern. He held himself to a brief glance of the the area, a large snowy taiga region, seemingly engulfing everything around him. The cold was not good for his old bones, but the rough voyage was arguably worse. He was not among the company of friends evidently. Despite the hustle and bustle of Company 2-11 workers, who were now about furnishing their new home, a small tavern in the Greenedge. However, most of the people around were that of the Teutonic Order, clad in black and white tabards. His slowly deteriorating body would not allow him any more time to survey his surroundings. He made a slow hobble to his newly carved wooden seat, taking a small sip of his fine scotch, one of the few things he brought from Thales. The Teutonic Order had made a point that this was to be a new start, in a new land. Though Jon often clashed in ideals with the Teutons, mayhaps because of the thick Orenian blood that once pumped through his veins, he welcomed the fresh start as any, and he certainly did not mind the Order's hospitality with giving them land.

well i like rice so i guess this was an ok decision

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!"

Jon lifts his visor, tilting his head at the message pinned on the local message board. He takes a minute to read the post, admittely with some difficultly before rummaging through his satchel, pulling out a sheet of crisp fresh paper, along with two worn pieces of parchment paper. He begins by tacking on the two older pieces of parchment paper. (http://www.lordofthecraft.net/topic/113990-guild-company-2-11/#entry1084578) Finally, he begins to pen his own reply with scratchy scrawl. The writing is messy, but for the most part, legible. "Attached and enclosed, I have posted information about a mercenary company that I captain, by the name of 2-11. We believe that there is honor in the position of a servant and would be more then pleased to welcome you among our ranks, housing, food, and protection included. If you are interested, please send a bird to my personal post office, and I will be more then happy to make arrangements. Sincerely, Ser Jon Stirling. "