Stevie

Addendum Two: Disgraced

MC Name: Xxusmcsoldier8xX RP Name: Toemmin Race: Human Age: 47 Weapon of Choice: Anything - I'm a master at everything. Why do you want to join: To infiltrate the Golden Thorns and take them out from the inside.

Dol Blathanna.

Addendum One: An Unexpected Surprise

Thomas snickers as he comes across the note, batting away the smelly pigeon with a gauntlet. He decides to compose his own reply, using the same style as the ignorant man had used: "da fuks rong wiff yu ye rite liek yer 6" -Poikey He attaches his note to a sparrow, grabbing it and throwing it off, smiling.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0G0Vy8C_sNg A single, low pitched horn echoes throughout the city, breaking the calm silence an early dawn brings. It rings out for several moments before another joins in, this one of a higher pitch. Soon another, and then another, and just as the sun begins to skim over the horizon from the east, the city is alive; but not with the usual bustle one might expect. This commotion, this activity, is the product of preparation. Shouts are heard, men are rallied, and weapons distributed. It was these final horns that brought the last remaining soldiers to the front - to the war camp, which was equally as active. The war camp of Oren, although somewhat quiet in its presence and activity, the camp is given a revival with the call of these horns. Fires are re-lit, quartermasters and drill sergeants resume their respective equipment management and barking of orders. Military officers, nobles and soldiers alike scramble about to prepare - dealing with any last minute equipment checks, or even reciting one last prayer to carry them through battle. The Grand Marshal rides through the camp, issuing commands to the passing military leaders as he heads for the command pavilion. With a swift dismount, he throws open the flap, nodding to the few already inside, taking his position before the geographical map of the island. “Gentlemen. It’s about time this camp ‘as seen some livelihood. Let’s make sure it’s set tah purpose.” The few around the table nod, and they begin their planning, a direction of the Marshal’s hand helping to detail their strategy of attack and methods of execution; going into great detail and intricacies to ensure understanding. The commanders planned, while the soldiers prepared, all compiling with the many other factors a war camp of this magnitude required to maintain itself. The camp breathed once more, only this time with a fire intended to burn, and an army of soldiers willing to carry the torch of war to the farthest reaches of the island. The word was given, and the army began its march, their destination mostly unknown. ((A battle has been scheduled for 1/20/2013 at 7 PM EST between an army of Oren and a military force that will not be mentioned. The agreement for the time has already been established, and all OOC arrangements made. PM me for any confusions.))

Thomas rides past the scene on his mailed horse, he was informed prior of the situation, and with a simple wave of his hand he speaks to Terryn as he passes, "Burn 'im." The Grand Marshal spoke, and rode on. Not bothering himself with it any longer.

The blacksmiths clang hammer to anvil, impacting sword. The quartermasters issue equipment in supply tents, keeping steady records. The drill sergeants bark orders at passing soldiers, straining their already hoarse voices. These were the sounds of preparation, the sounds of a living, breathing camp; the sounds of war. These sounds easily penetrated the central command pavilion, its loose flaps held down by a few stakes did little to muffle outside affairs. An escort rides through the center of the camp, dismounting at the pavilion. A single man enters the tent, identified clearly as The Black Dragon, the Prince Horen. "A good day to kill, a good day to die..." The dragon in armor murmurs low, approaching the large table at the center of the tent. The Grand Marshal, Thomas Chivay, bows his head quickly to the Prince, returning his focus to the table, where multiple parchments are strewn about on top of a larger geographical map. His brother stood to one side of the table, wearing the infamous White Rose tabard, sending and receiving a constant stream of messengers, all passing on orders down throughout the massive camp and battle line. Finally, the Grand Marshal spoke, nothing short of a heavy accent coming from his mouth; his rough, finely groomed beard moving with each word. "Too true yer 'ighness. If the Emperor cannot reach an agreement wiff these Squirrels, then it is up to us - to blood an' iron... An' to be 'onest, I'd prefer the lattah." He finishes with a chuckle, coining the term that was gaining quick popularity among the camp's rumors and jokes. The Squirrels, they were, small and inferior. Lesser and uncivilized. Cowardly and skittish. It was Peter's turn to speak now, turning his head to face The Black Dragon. "Yer 'ighness, we also received word from yer father, the Emperor, an' 'is request 'as been formally met..." He said, and a simple wave of his hand brought forward a child, carrying a small chest. It was set on the table and opened, the bow bowing respect and turning away. Inside were three items, three new items; new articles of clothing. They were armbands, red as the color of Peter's tabard, and adorning and majestically stitched White Rose at the center. The Prince nodded once, and brought up an armband, fastening it smoothly up his arm, himself standing stoic and silent, as was expected. The Chivays, less refined of course, took little ceremony to slide on their own armbands, the Grand Marshal constantly adjusting it to fit perfectly. "Welcome to the Rose, yer 'ighness." A simple nod came from The Black Dragon, and their talks of battle plan commenced. They talk in-depth, making sure to get every detail right, and every plan set to memory. And then, they depart, each going their separate ways to give light to their commanders and pass on orders. The Grand Marshal mounted his horse, heading to the front line, where already the sounds of chants and music played. All along the way he called orders at passing men, most looking up in awe, others in fear, and few in disdain. The army was ready. They only awaited word.

It's not that hard to add "Count" and move the names up.

Marquis are on par with Counts, only their military power is higher due to the fact they hold a border fort. So if you won't add Marquis yet, Count would be just as fine.

The Chivays are now Marquis. SO ADD DAT IN, YO.

The carriage rolls along the rocky road, bumping frequently, rocking the carriage to and fro. From inside, Thomas grumbles incoherently, no doubt swearing about the unstable and uncommon ride. In fact, this was the first time Thomas had ridden in a carriage, even more so this was his first "Tea party". There have been feasts, balls, gatherings he has attended, but nothing with such a small amount of guests. The bearded Marshal couldn't as easily mingle with the crowd as he had always done. No, this time he had to speak directly and intently, a task otherwise difficult for him... or so he thought. The short carriage ride to the party plaza was finally over, and the rider quickly leaped from his spot at the reins to the door, opening it and presenting the Count - the Marquis, rather, stepping down from the two small steps. Adorning robes of the finest quality he could obtain, he nods to the carriage boy and enters the plaza, his groomed hair and tidy attire a strange sight to most as he approaches. This soldier-baron turned Marquis was much different from when he first held land in the old continent. He had caught the eye of the important people, and benefited because of it. The old disgruntled and arrogant Thomas was still there, though, but this Marshal had learned how to hide it with a facade of faces and smiles. He was a professional now, in many self-proclaimed respects, and it seemed people were beginning to notice that there is much more to this Chivay than just a big beard and a foreign accent. Being one of the first to arrive, he greets the host of the party, Lord Denims, with a shake of his hand and a smile, throwing compliments and light jokes as an introduction. He would involve himself in more important conversation once the rest of the guests had arrived. But for now, he chose to bide his time, converse with one of the guardsmen outside instead, and sip the foreign taste that was tea, from an even stranger small teacup, hardly as filling as he would have liked. So here he stood, waiting for the rest to arrive. He was slowly easing himself into a more refined life, despite his protests. He was a real noble now, a long way from the half-drunken commoner he used to be. But if there was one thing Thomas is known for, it would be his respect for his family, and his remembrance of his roots. The half-drunken commoner was still there, he will always be there, for that is Thomas Chivay - The man many have known, and all too many have hated.

Thomas, upon looking over the notices and taking a stroll of the apparent Kingdom, he brings his own parchment to pin, writing a simply message: This Kingdom is full of traitors and c-ocks. I wouldn't even plough a w-hore there. -Henry Micklern With a mix of a grunt and a chuckle, he nods, heading off with a calm whistle, knowing completely the pointless intent of this message.

[[ That opening sentence sounds awfully familiar. WAY too familiar, I'd say. http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/77745-new-sounds-on-new-shores/ Might wanna take a gander at that.]]

[[some Instruments mentioned in the post: Great Gaekrin Pipes (Phiob Mhor) The signature instrument of the Gaekrin sub-continent, the Great Gaekrin Pipes are the center of Gaekon’s musical culture. Crafted with a hide bag(which determined their value - the bigger the animal hide, the more value) and several pipes(varying in size) as its base, the Gaekrin Pipes produce a unique sound, and its inflated bag allows continuous sound while the player is able to breathe. A chanter rod allows the tuning and pitch of the pipes to change, and it is actually tradition to tune the pipes a fraction sharp, creating a more screeching yelp for its higher notes. The Great Gaekrin Pipes are used in almost all aspects of life in Gaekon, including daily village duties and routines, to battle orders being played over the sound of combat. Uilleann Pipes (Phiob Ullnael) ((Not mentioned in post)) A more regionalized instrument, the Uilleann Pipes derive from the Great Gaekrin Pipes, and offer some distinct differences in playability. Instead of utilizing a mouthpiece, the Uilleann Pipes are considered “bellow” or “elbow” pipes, meaning that the inflation of its bag comes from compressing the bag with the player’s elbow rather than through a reed and mouthpiece. The Uillean Pipes are more common in the southern valleys of Gaekon, and troubadour bands often use this variant of woodwind over the larger and somewhat more cumbersome Great Gaekrin Pipes. Carnyx Horn (Hron Carnaex) The Carnyx Horn is the battle horn of Gaekon, and dates back to the tribal beginnings of the sub-continent. Most noted for its low grumbling bass sound, the Carnyx Horn gave an eerie sense to any battle, and set opponents on uneasy footing as the chants of anxious tribals mixed with the grumble of the Carnyx. The Carnyx has seen continued use in modern Gaekon, but only primarily in the military in the form of signal squadrons to better coordinate forces. Gaesgro Drums The typical Gaesgro war drum is a massive instrument for a massive people. Typically fixed, it and sometimes be carried by a group of men into battle. Producing low, booming and chest-rattling sounds at a variety of rhythms and speeds is the main purpose of this type of drum. It is most often used to empower a marching army (as it sets a rhythm for their marching chants and war cries), but can alternatively be used for disheartening defenders of a besieged castle. Typical of Gaesgro fashion it is meant to be intimidating and martial. For a culture where war is a way of life, the War Drum fits perfectly.

The beach is calm; dusk is looming over as the sky is a light grey, complimented by the calm passing of gentle clouds. The constant but soothing sounds of the waves washing along the sands is soon interrupted by a faint tune - a pitch unrecognized. It plays with a shriek, and emanates far off from the shore. And in that moment, sails can be seen, and the bow of a ship protrudes into view, the volume of the tune growing progressively louder. Rocking steadily with the waves of the sea, the ship’s sails flap calmly as the helmsman turns her parallel to the shore, and the bustling activity on her deck is increased, men scrambling up and down as they begin to descend three rowboats on her starboard side. The tune from the boat is silenced for a few moments while a contingent pile themselves onto the rowboats. And with a few calls of order and the stumbling of the final man into the boat, the oars are set out onto the rocking waves, setting a course for the peaceful beach ahead. The moonlight illuminates the three vessels as they row in a wedge towards the sand. The tune is resumed now, only this time coming from the lead of the rowboats, and joined with two other sounds, one of a heavy war drum and one of a low horn, all playing in cadence. At the lead of the boats, a man stands with an instrument foreign to many in both sound and design. He blows into its mouthpiece, through its hide bag and out from several pipes, all the while working his fingers on the chanter rod beneath it. He wears a tabard colored red, and on both his uniform and the hide bag a white rose is seen, breathing in both respects. The boat to the left shows a large man, twice the size of the rest, beating heavily on the drum, a bass boom sounding with each hit; while the right boat plays a horn, low and dreary. All of these sounds merge into one tune, one song, which continues until they reach the beach; a few men jumping into the shallow water to pull the boats to shore. Dismounting onto the sand now, the player of the pipes breathes in loudly, contorting his face at the smell of the air, scratching his large, brown beard between grunts. The horn player soon approaches, droplets of water dripping from his light blond beard as he nods to the piper, greeting him with an arm around his shoulder. With a stray comment and a chuckle from the two, they turn to face the last of the instrumentalists, watching as the giant plops down onto the sand. Almost immediately he begins to call orders to the rest of the beaching soldiers, his guttural Hansetian accent all too familiar to the men. He gargles orders to all of them, except one man, the last of the one to step on the beach, but certainly not the least important. His iconic greathelm and stoic demeanor defines him as a man with intelligence and leadership, and his respect among the men is all too apparent. He approaches the piper and the horner and raises a finger, reciting a snide comment after a long silence, no indication of emotion from the black slits where his eyes would be. It would be by this time that the men were assembled along the beach at the supervision of the giant, a perfect line being a testament to their ultimate discipline, even more so proven when a simple order disperses them to secure a perimeter; performed with an efficiency unequaled. The men hold here while several more rowboats come ashore, carrying non-combatants and supplies to establish a proper beachhead. Crates are piled on the sand, cooking and signal fires are lit, and the sound of productivity begins to fill the air around them. Tents are pitched further inland, and White Rose banners are placed around the perimeter, along with proper guard posts. The first night is always the most dangerous, and the camp sleeps restlessly, all of them just as awake as the perimeter sentries. The night is calm and still, the land around them unscarred and beautiful. The Rose would call this area home for now, and make the best of it, however they could. It was here that a new footnote of the Rose would come, and transition into a full-fledged chapter, all compiling into the colorful and interesting book that is the Order of the White Rose.