Stevie

Imperial Citizenship Form 1.0.0 Name: Thomas Chivay Surname/House: House Chivay Age: 49 Gender: Male Race: Human Citizen Ship Class (A or B): A Physical Description Height: 5'9" Weight: 189 Eye Color: Brown Hair Color: Brown Skin Color/Shade: Caucasian Outstanding Markings/Tattoos: Varying small cuts and scars along his hands and arms; nothing substantially noticable. Personal Information Home Address (Leave blank if unknown): Imperial Capital Nation of Residence (Choose one: Renatus, Salvus, Hanseti, Seventis): Renatus Profession/Occupation: Grand Marshal of Oren Oath(s) of Loyalty For all classes of Citizenship (fill your name in the blanks): "I, Thomas Chivay, hereby swear my loyalty the Emperor of the Holy Oren Empire entirely by my free will. I swear to read and obey the laws of the Empire and understand the punishments and penalties that will be incurred should I violate the law." CLASS A CITIZENS ONLY ((OOC OATH)): "I,SKiddles, hereby acknowledge and give my consent to the OOC rule that should my character be found guilty of High Treason within the Empire, the Emperor personally (and only the Emperor) has the right to execute permanently my character. I accept this condition and make it entirely upon my free will."

[[sorry, Levirad, you weren't invited, lol.

Thomas smiled widely, leading her off to the other pairs of dancers, commenting as he walked, "Well, that makes two of us. I've only evah danced... free times. Les' jus' 'ope we're not the centah of attention." Smirking, he squeezes her hand a moment, finding himself off towards one side of the dance area, where less eyes would hopefully be on them. He turned to face her now, taking her other hand gently, rising both her hands up between them at chest level. He grinned reassuringly to her, bobbing his head for somewhat of a countdown, "One... two... free." He sidestepped to the right, with Lynesse following close behind him. His feet glided, but certainly not well. It was an overall shoddy effort from the lead, and his dancing experience was clearly shown in his few missed steps and stutters. At first he grunted at each, holding back a curse every time he faltered, but as he rose his head from the deep concentration he set on his feet, he found who he was dancing with; and a large smile, creasing from ear to ear came over his face. He squeezed Lynesse's hands happily, and lead her about in the dance, having little care of his experience and the eyes that would be watching. He enjoyed his time with Lynesse, and he would not let his lack of proper dancing interrupt his warmth and happiness he felt when with her. He was happy, and his expression clearly showed it. A miserable man turned joyful; and from a half-Elf, no less.

The Grand Marshal shuffles through a few old reports, coming across the parchment detailing the detachment of the Holmstrom Vanguard. Raising a brow a moment, he sighs as he is reminded of its official disbandment with the passing of Aedric. He rubs his forehead a moment, closing his eyes as he mutters under his breath, "Damned Ulfhaedyn... would've been grand to still see 'im around." A soft grunt comes from the Bearded Marshal, centering the paper on his large oaken desk and reaching for his quill, which had been enjoying a peaceful rest smothering its tip in a black pool of ink. He brings it up from its bath, tapping the top along the edge of the inkwell as he slides it over the parchment, writing calmly, the sound of scratching on parchment piercing the somewhat serenity his quiet high-ceiling room had offered. He finishes his scratching, rising his hand as the ink quickly dries on the rough parchment. _________________________________________________________________________________________ The Norsemen of Holmstrom - the Emperor's Vanguard, has been officially disbanded and all former titles and positions regarding the organization are null and void in the Holy Oren Empire and all military forces of Oren. Signed, Grand Marshal Thomas Chivay _________________________________________________________________________________________ [[Will request deletion/archiving of entire thread in a few days, once the message has had ample time to get itself across.]]

Thomas sways his hips a bit, looking down to Siegmund from the raised dais. A large grin creases his face as he claps his hands together inaudibly, stepping down to meet him at eye level, chuckling with joy. "Ah! 'ouse Carrion finally arrives! An' wiff their renowned drink, I can see! Excellent, excellent. Go find Tanith - the Dark Elf who should be around wiff a servin' tray. She'd be glad to take that from ye an' serve it at dinnah, which is soon to start. I 'ope ye all came wiff an appetite fer more... lavish foods." He grins widely, patting Siegmund hard on his shoulder, giving a brief nod of farewell as he moves to step back towards Lorin, his smile almost permanently plastered on his face, "Excuse me fer a bit, Lorin. I'm goin' to find a lovely lady to dance wiff." He winks to her a moment, spinning about on a heel and striding down from the dais, avoiding the cleared space where many guests have already paired up and began their festive dancing. He maneuvers through the onlooking crowd and cliques, searching for her once again. He hadn't seen her much throughout the party, and he was beginning to wonder, even worry. Meandering about the crowds, he spots no flicker of red hair, and a feeling of discouragement comes over him, the plastered smile fading from the corners of his mouth. And just as his confidence faded, it just as suddenly struck back up again as he caught the flicker of red through a passing guest, his jacket and breeches much too extravagant to be comfortable, he thought. The flicker of hair flashed again as the guest passed fully now, and there revealed the Princess Lynesse, sitting in a chair off to the side with her brother. Thomas set his eyes to her, almost starstruck at his distant view of her, appreciating the beauty and sheer stunning appearance the Princess showed; and it was not the first time the bearded Marshal froze up in this shock. He did it many times in her presence, and the flutter of butterflies constantly swam around his stomach each time she smiled, each time she laughed. He set his feet to purpose, swerving in and out of guests and servants, finally approaching the small Hightower entourage, smiling with a warm radiance as he nods to each of them. "Hullo to all of ye. I 'ope the Hightowahs are enjoyin' the festivities an' entertainment. It's no royal ball, I can assure you, but I 'ope the Imperial Family will take themselves to enjoyin' themselves wiff wot we 'ave offered 'ere tonight. From drinks to appetizers, an' our fine dancin'..." He trails off a moment, turning to focus on Lynesse now, giving a slow bow of his head, "To which I'd like to ask for the lovely Lady Lynesse's hand for a dance, if she would allow it." Leaning forward he takes her hand gently, bringing it up to his lips and giving a soft kiss, smiling warmly as he awaits her reply.

A mysterious hooded figure approaches the notice board, hearing of this organization by word of mouth. Nothing more. He approaches indiscreetly, plastering a parchment near the original poster. _____________________________________________________________________________________ Name : Timothy Chives Fighting ability : Master Assassin, swordsman, and agile as a Cat-person. A brief autobiography, so we can slot you in, giving you a role in the Reformation : I am Timothy, and I have had it with these oppressive White DAISIES! They burned down my village, pillaged everything and used the children's skulls as DRINKING CUPS! They took my family from me... and I will get them back for this. I will have my revenge on all the evils they bring upon the world. In the words of Malin, 'I'll rip their c-ocks off'. Why do you want to be part of the Reformation? : To bring down these terrible White Weeds. They need to be stopped before they conquer the entire WORLD! Do you swear undying loyalty to us? : Of course. Forever and always, me and the Reformation. Where is a location we can meet? : Sarkozy's bar. I hear its a safe place, away from the prying eyes of Oren and the evil Off-White Flowers. I await your word. For the Reformation! _____________________________________________________________________________________ The hooded figure makes his way off quickly, hunching over as his body seemingly convulses. ...He was holding back a fit of laughter.

Thomas chuckles, smiling in amusement at her enthusiasm, approaching her, "It's alright to be nervous, Lorin. This is a special occasion fer you, an' yer dress is testament to that. Beautiful as evah." He extends a finger up, pointing to the ceiling between the two as he speaks, "I can see yer ready, so wait jus' a moment. I'll go gather the crowd's attention. Get out some last nerves, I'll be back." He smiles widely, turning about to head quickly down the hall, the tapping of his boots clacking against the cold stone as he comes finally to the double doors, still open and flooding the otherwise quiet hall with the bustle of the party's many sounds; from a jeering laugh to a gentle strum of a lute. Thomas turned off to his left, making his way onto the dais where the two thrones sat, turning to face the active crowd. Nodding to the few guards stationed about and waving a hand to the troubadours to pause their calm rhythmic music, Thomas grunts heavily, clearing his throat before addressing the crowd, who were just noticing the bearded marshal, quieting down to hear his words. "Ladies an' gentlemen. Guests, friends an' all, I'd like to fank you all fer attendin', an' I 'ope ye are all enjoyin' our festivities." He pauses a moment, allowing the last amounts of chatter to die down, all attention focused on him. "The Holy Oren Empire. A nation we've all given patronage, 'omage, loyalty, an' service too. We've bled on fields fer Oren, talked wiff diplomats fer Oren, an' ate at parties much like this'un fer our most illustrious Empire. An' frewout its existence, there 'as been the noble man and woman, comin' an' goin' an' bringin' along wiff them past or exiled 'ouses, all planting their mark in 'istory. The Chivays - 'ouse Chivay, as also set their mark in 'istory... but many ask jus' 'ow we came to be, an' where we came from. Well, to dismiss the rumor which 'ave become rather popular; no, we don't sprout from the ground like turnips, an' our 'eads aren't pulled out from the ground to reveal a bearded man." He pauses yet again, allowing the wave of laughs echo throughout the room, smiling himself in a playful manner. "No no... the Chivays come from the womb of mothers, jus' the same as any ovah..." He trails off, and a shout comes from the crowd, a voice familiar to Thomas and his speech seeming almost scripted, planned, "But Lord Thomas! There's no such thing as Chivay women! They're a myth!" "Oh, but there are... in fact, this evenin's party's guest of 'onor is none ovah then my niece...." Another synchronized shout comes from the crowd, this time from the other side of the room, "Well, wot are you waitin' for! Go an' get 'er, m'lord!" Thomas grins, nodding agreement as he turns, heading back to the hallway, the crowd exchanging a few mutters of chuckle and surprise, clearly enjoyed at the set up spectacle. Another knock comes on the door to Lorin's bedroom, the same triple rapping of the bearded marshal's knuckles on the hard wood. "It's time."

Thomas grunted, showing a faint grin as he sips the last of the Leuvaarden Noir from his goblet, swallowing quickly and exasperating a chuckle, "I assume not wantin' uninvited guests to a parteh is showin' the powah gettin' to my 'ead. Soon enuff I'll be 'angin' criminals an' burnin' 'eretics." his grin widens now, eyeing about the small clique before him. With a patting of his coat and a quick nod, he gives the circle a half-bow, smiling to each as he speaks. "Lady Chrestienne, Lady Rose, Ser Bran, Lord 'adrien. Please excuse me. I believe it is time for our main event." He spins about on a heel, the long coat swaying in a whirl around him. He makes his way off from the four, dancing in and out of the other cliques, exchanging smiles and rises of cups. Despite these small distractions and occasional detours to speak to a guest, he finds his way at the side door of the main hall. Disposing of his goblet to a passing servant, he brings his hands onto both nobs of the double doors. Giving an easy push, the hinges squeak a moment as he steps through, striding down the hall at a steady pace. He comes before another door, rising the back of his hand to the center of the wood, rapping his knuckles thrice, calling through the door. "Lorin? Are ye ready?"

Thomas grins widely, nodding as Hadrien makes his way off to the other various circles. He turns back to his own now, smiling to Rose as he gives a more formal bow. "However, we did meet once before, in the White Rose camp. Nevertheless, it is a great pleasure to make your acquaintance." "Then let us make it official. Lord Marquis Thomas Chivay, Grand Marshal of Oren. A pleasure, Lady Rose." He inclines his head up to her, smiling warmly as he straightens his posture, the hanging pendant and coat meeting a quick ruffle and fix from the marshal. Turning his head now to her sister, he nods gratitude to Chrestienne, giving a small rise of his goblet to her. "This is absolutely outstanding Thomas. Your decor and the atmosphere in general is breathtaking." "Many fanks, Lady Chrestienne. We put much work into the Keep fer the propah renovations. Spared no expenses, an' I enjoy its final look. The Auvergnian wine is certainly a guest favorite. I toast the Valois' success in wines." He chuckles, lowering his glass to take a sip from the goblet, savoring the taste after a few claps of his lips. Turning his head a bit, he notices Artorus, blinking a moment as he raises a brow indiscreetly, plastering a smile on his face as he approaches, searching the heads and shoulders of the other guests with striking cobalt blue eyes. He finally spots Hadrien, who is fast approaching as well, weaving through the cliques towards him, a dead set glare on his face. Meeting the Baron's gaze with his own, he gives a calm gesture of his hand - a flick of his wrist and a point away. I must confess I didn't know the Chivay's had the eye for decorating as well as their skill in leading the Rose. I am glad to be shown the truth." Thomas clears his throat, turning his attention back to Artorus, giving a wide smile, but not the usual one his face was used too. This smile was more devious, more cynical. "Lord Artorus... wot an... unexpected surprise..." he twirls the goblet with a roll of his wrist, continuing with a slight incline of his head, "I don't fink I remembah sendin' an invitation to a Lord Artorus or 'is Lady Isabella..." It was by this time Hadrien had approached behind the clique, standing firm with that same glare.

With a slight roll of his shoulders the bearded Marshal shrugs, chuckling as he takes another steady sip from his goblet, a shifting of his Adam's apple helping to trickle the rich drink down his throat, "Well, wotevah it is ye do to this drink, don't stop doin' it. An' I'm well aware of the shortage; more of the reason why I've removed it from the party's selection an' instead keep a private reserve fer myself." Showing a toothy grin at his remark, his sighs at Hadrien's next flurry of inquiries, bringing a palm up before him to calm the anxious Baron, "Easy, easy..." calls Thomas, panning his hand back down to his side. He pause, glancing down to his pendant for a moment before finally purses his lips, speaking, "I'm not sure... I'm afraid neither the Grand Justice or the lady 'ave replied... but then again, the workings of the Grand Justice are surely somefink to take precedence over an official reply to a parteh. I'm sure 'e'll arrive, along wiff the lady." Showing a faint smile he nods to him, giving a reassuring pat to his shoulder, waving his goblet over to the rest of the hall, the chatting circles of guests all keeping themselves busy, "But enjoy the party fer now. I'll inform you when they arrive - but I'm sure I won't need too. The ever watchful eyes of the Baron de Sarkozy will surely spot them out before I do. But drink, eat, an' 'ave fun. Go on, I'm sure ye want to mingle wiff the ovah guests." He waves the Baron onwards with a gentle sway of his goblet, an even gentler pat on his shoulder blade giving him some positive ushering. The party was as lively as ever, an occasional cry of laughter coming from an amused noble sounds from the end of the hall, echoing about and blending with the troubadours' music. Thomas turns his head back towards the two Valois woman, taking a step forward to position himself beside Bran to face the two, the faint smile he showed before replaced by his old warm one as he takes another sip from his goblet, the dark liquid waning in abundance, leaving a stain of maroon around the cups' inner silver.

Thomas, upon another encirclement of the cliques of guests, comes across Bran and Hadrien. With a large grin and a gulp of wine from his goblet he approaches the two, placing a wrist on Bran's shoulder and a hand on Hadrien's, jutting his head between the two as he chuckles, "I see our illustrious guest 'as finally arrived. An' in anuvah outfit of eloquent taste!" He grins widely to him, patting the Baron on the shoulder, ruffling it a bit as he steps back to a more comfortable position from the two, taking a more gentle, appropriate sip from his goblet, rising it towards Hadrien as he smacks his lips a bit at the wine's aftertaste. "I'll say, 'adrien. There's somefink about this Leuvaarden Noir that I can't get ovah. I normally 'ate wines, but this 'as a unique taste... a Gaekrin taste, I guess." He licks his lips a moment, getting whatever residue drops of the foreign wine quenched by his protruding tongue. With a gentle sway of his wrist he moves the goblet clockwise, the rich, dark red liquid swirling about in a light whirlpool within the confines of the ornate cup. With a slight angling of his head he looks to other two in the small clique, bowing his head and smiling as he greets the Valois women. "The Lady Duchess Chrestienne Valois, as wonderfulleh elegant as evah. I trust 'enry is well? I don't see 'im around." He says with a warm smile. "An' the Lady Countess Rose Valois, a lady I'm afraid I 'aven't made the propah acquaintance wiff yet." He says, giving a more formal bow of his head to her. He awaits the response of the three he initiated conversation with, smiling vibrantly and showing signs of actual enjoyment. The lofty easiness of the party something he was intending for.

The band of troubadours pluck at strings on lutes, blow into flutes and pipes, and tap their feet to the calm music they create. It echoes throughout the main hall, and a roaming bard meanders about the guests in the courtyard, stringing his fine Elven lute and giving winks and smirks to every woman he passes. Thomas Chivay sits at his throne, smiling and nodding to each arriving guest, noting the lady Elene address him, he replies with equal enthusiasm. "I must say, the Keep looks fantastic Lord Chivays. I am delighted Uthor and I could make it." "Fank you, Lady Elene. I share in yer delight, an' 'ope the good Grand Knight doesn't make too much of a fuss about 'is lack of armor..." He smirks to her, giving a light chuckle as he rises from his throne, giving her a low bow as he excuses himself from her company, setting himself to shuffle about the many guests, giving smiles and nods as greetings, and exchanging handshakes with the few more familiar guests. His outfit is one he truly adores; a long open coat, with extravagant furs lining it. Underneath, a black doublet with yellow-gold buttons is tightened with the help of a belt, a large sparrow for its buckle. Around his neck lie two necklaces, one simple, and one decorated with a wonderful pendant, that same sparrow showing, only this time it holds a rose in its beak, and its wings are spread majestically. His hair is folded back as usual, and his warming smile complements the neatly trimmed beard. He continues his shuffling and light conversation with the few guests, jumping from circle to circle and ensuring everyone is enjoying themselves. Grabbing a fine goblet of wine from a passing servant, he steps over to Lanon, taking a gentle sip as he smiles to the woman he converses with, involving himself in their small talk and keeping that air of easiness high, truly enjoying himself. This was a Chivay party, his party. How could he not enjoy it? He remains in light conversation with Lanon and the lady, giving occasional glances towards the door, awaiting the arrival of one of his most important guests and interests. In the meantime, he occupies himself and opens himself for others wishing to make his company.

“Aye, ‘ang them there. No, you fool, THERE, not there. Put some... flowahs, on those gallows. Pretty it up. Lock the dungeon doors. Torches everywhere. Move the last of the belongings out from the barracks. Get the tables set up... the /finest/ selection of food! An’ ale! All brews, meads, wines an’ beers, by the barrel...” The voice trailed off, drowned out by the construction and renovations being made; workers of all sorts shuffled about, converting this stone bastion on the mountain into something entirely different - a palace. A party palace. Renovations would be made for a week before it was deemed ready, and by then the keep, so renowned for its no-entry policy, was about to open its doors for the nobles of Oren. Invitations are sent out privately by courier, each adorning a simple black and yellow tabard, a black sparrow in its center describing their messages to be from House Chivay, and are sent all throughout both islands of Kalos and Elysium. With the coming of the day of the party, the hosts make last minute inspections of the party palace, barking an order at a passing servant, and nodding to the various men in red tabards along the several towers of the keep, an ever vigilant and watchful eye, even at times of celebration. The keep is decorated beautifully, a true spectacle and testament to the wealth the Empire has been able to accumulate, even when setback with the arrival of these islands. The guests soon arrive. The winding stone stairs up to the keep is lined with streamers of black and yellow, and the tunnel cutting up into the mountain glows with the dim light of redstone torches, giving a calming sense as the cold air of the mountain soon starts to touch the guests’ skin. The iron gates, so long closed and denying any large entry, are open and welcoming. A child with fair blond hair and decorated in a fine black jacket, complemented by a light blue Rose armband, holds a small cane beside him, smiling up to each arriving guest and announcing their title and name to the courtyard. At every arrival, one soldier at the main tower glances down, ensuring the safety of the guests and proving their validity. Down the stairs reveals a beautiful courtyard, clearly renovated and cut out along the mountain, flattening it and placing gardens of primarily roses flanking each side of the battlements. Streamers shoot across overhead, and a wide array of food and drink line one side of the wall; from a local Chivay’s Brew to the fine Auvergnian wine, to legs of mutton and lamb, topped off by whole turkeys, chickens and even duck; and an even greater selection lays in the feasting hall. Off to the left lies a more private area, where the old gallows and dungeons had been converted to a secluded man-made grotto, complete with a dug in pool, cold and calming. Back around and through the courtyard, you’d find yourself looking up a set of stairs that lead to the main keep, where the throne room and dining hall are located. It is there that the two Chivay hosts sit happily in their thrones, greeting the guests and giving calm gestures of their hands, waving and ordering servants and guards around with an air of unquestioned authority. At seemingly every corner, a Rose soldier stands at attention, his White Rose tabard cleaned and in pristine condition, each carrying a halberd and arming sword. Stoic and silent, they lower their conical helmets fixed with wreaths of flora and take careful glances about, conversing with a fellow guard, and having their own party, all while keeping their ever watchful eye on the gathering; making sure nothing goes awry. No daring knight would ever penetrate this castle... there aren’t any feminine princes to save, anyway. The stage was properly decorated, and the curtain was unveiled. The party had started, and the play had just begun. It was sure to be a night of entertainment and enjoyment, one that was sorely needed in these times of constant travel, conflict and confusion.

Thomas Chivay chuckles, shaking his head as he looks upon the various posters and apparent lively activity of the Dragon Guard. With a grunt and a spin of his heel he heads off, back to the White Rose encampment where he finds his desk; full of papers and reports as usual. He shuffles through a few of the reports and smiles, giving another chuckle. "No personnel report... no report at all from this Dragon Guard..." He slumps into the oak chair, skidding it forward as he hunches himself over the desk, reaching for his inkwell, pulling it closer and grabbing himself a fresh, sand-colored parchment. Uncapping the inkwell and finding himself a quill, the bearded marshal sets himself to purpose, scratching ink onto the parchment as he writes, the calm crackle of a nearby candle the only other sound escaping the upper floor of his quarters.

A hooded figure lies hunched severely over in a corner of the room, his black robes concealing his entire body and shrouding his face. He speaks with an eerie tone, making a mysterious comment to the two: "I once shouted at a dragon..."

[[sounds like an interesting house!

Thomas Chivay will be attending, and bringing along the wonderful Chivay's Brew, more so for himself.

The Grand Marshal leans back in his desk, shuffling a few reports and papers around. The news of this new added rank reaches the bearded Marshal by a simple report scribbled on a half-crumpled parchment. With a grunting grimace, he shakes his head, tossing the parchment aside as it flutters along the heavy wooden desk. "They 'ave time to create a fancy rank, yet my personnel report is still overdue..." He grunts once more, reaching forward for the inkwell, dabbing his quill a few times before sliding up a new parchment, composing a letter by light of candle. The calm, monotonuous scratching and the chirp of a cricket is all that is heard in these later hours of the evening.