Chaqery

A column of Rose soldiers solemnly march by, Captain Toov at it's head. "Zhey're not a Legion. Ve're not zhe damned dvarves. It is a proper army headed by vhat appears to be proper generals. I know it's it a similar term but to career soldiers it makes a difference. If you're going to champion zheir cause -vhich you ought to. Oren has needed an army for some time.- zhen at least get zheir name right." The Captain frowns, the soldiers of the Rose halting stifly behind him.

((It's a masked, accent free robed figure. Bit of a jump to assume it's Toov... Especially if it's not. And it was made very clear that the volume of this interjection was barely if even audible to anybody but the Emperor.))

Ever present in the shadow of the Emperor's steps, a small cluster of his Inquisition lurk about the shadows. Some remain still, like statues standing watch over Godfrey, others pace back and forth anxiously, eyes darting amongst the faces of those lords gathered here, hands upon the hilts of their cruel blades. A sign of danger to the Emperor would cause the shadows to explode into a flurry of hoods, masks, blades, and the symbolic purple and black "I" of the Inquisition. From this dark place a large figure steps forward, a black and white mask removing any sense of humanity from his maneurisms. His cold, steel gaze baths the crowd as he slows to a halt next to the Emperor. Leaning forward, he whispers into the ear of the great Emperor at a volume barely audible to those nearby. "Your Divinity, I would council you to consider carefully the decision at hand. House Elendil's loyalty to the Empire has certainly been in question before... Many in the Empire would have thought them surely banished after Artorus' rebellion. I can merely mention at the moment that perhaps Artorus' goal has been adopted by another. Or at least, that is common belief. Backing any of that House with your vote mayhap might be seen as ignorance to the generally adopted truth. The Adunian Crown is an important symbol. They are arguably seen as your own race, your Divinity. Their weakness as of late makes the other nations and races percieve it as your own weakness. Artorus was infamous for his knack to somehow lose battles. Strength, loyalty... A firm head on their shoulders. Such aspects would he hopeful in the new Adunian ruler. I cannot speak as to the qualities of those gathered here... But merely offer counsil. Appearance is half of diplomacy. Appearing strong makes accomplishing diplomatic goals much easier, your Divinity." Soft utterance finished, the purple and black adorned figure fades back into the shadows of the background, blackened plate clanking softly as he distances himself, wishing to no longer intrude.

A copy of the document is delivered to the Lord Inquisitor, who scans over it blankly behind his mask. Folded into crisp lines he stows it away for further use. You never know when something might be useful.

A copy of the flyer makes its way to the hands of Lord Inquisitor Aegis, who quickly unfolds it and scans it over behind its mask. "<:: Well, it's certainly a step in the right direction, that's for sure." One of the Acolytes encircled about it tilts its head to the side, "But is it enough, my lord? Can Oren truly bind it's army together under one banner outside of it's two military orders? Hardly seems possible, what with all the noble infighting." "<:: Faith, Acolyte, faith. This army could prove to be exactly what our kind requires. Let us nurture it. Time will show whether it is fruitful or not." With a slow nod the Acolyte silences.

*The following post is obviously OOC as well, and was typed on my phone. I apologize for mistakes in advance. Well, as the others have said, Sam, I appreciate your legitamate interest as to why the Rose is the way it is. It is a long story, so I suppose I'd better begin. The White Rose has been in planning far before the actual creation of the Order. When Baldir Toov, Velwyn Ashford, and the Chivay brothers met long ago they decided that something must be done to combat the growing and encroaching darkness upon Oren. The armies had all but fallen apart, and the nobility had resorted to bickering and infighting. As commoners and soldiers by nature, the four of them began to plan out the White Rose. The Salvus war came about, and Thomas, Peter, Baldir, and Velwyn all scattered. Peter was the only to make a relative name for himself, becoming the Commander of House Silverblades forces. When he was finally knighted, it gave the White Rose enough political standing to found officially. It's pretty important to note that the official goal of the White Rose isn't to erradicate elves at all. It's purpose is to fight heresy, "evil" magic users, and the mass numbers of monsters that infest the countryside. Those numbers have rose exponentially since the transition to 2.5, as everyone is clear. Rose patrols will soon begin to combat these in order to protect the more heavily populated areas of Oren settlement. The "racism" niche is a result of many things. First off, the Chivay brothers don't much care for elves. As young children a group of elves (primarily dark) executed their parents and much of their family. They raised themselves, which accounts for their more practical nature and less refined nature. They were boys forced to grow up too early because the elves killed everybody they held dear. As the two most notable leaders of the White Rose their opinions understandably rub off. These feelings permiate to the rest of the Rose for several reasons. One dates back to the early days of the Rose in Rivia. Artorus Elendil hired a dark elf named "Abaddon" as his advisor. He was tribal, very shady, and several times suffered seizure fits as a result of what was apparently some sort of demonic possession or curse. He poisoned the mind of Artorus, an early friend of the Rose, against us. All the suffering he inflicted upon us is now seen as the work of Dark Elves at large. Most of them we come across only aid the stereotype. As for the individual mambers of the Rose their opinions vary pretty radically. You have the Chivays on one end, and then people like my character, equally as in command of the Rose as the Chivays, who is married to Tanith the dark elf. He is passionately in love with Tanith. In conclusion, as I'm sure I've missed some reasons, the White Rise is racist because IC events have made them that way. Many of the members have suffered at the hand if elves or do not care for the typically elven attitude of elitism. Their main goal is to protect Oren and rid it of darkness and heresy. The racism is just a footnote that people tend to blow far out of proportion. We don't send hunting parties after elves. Most of the time elves approach our patrols, try to assault us as payback for our "racism", and are killed. I would like to make it clear though that all of our hatred is completely IC. People assume we hate elven players equally as much, which isn't true. We are some of the nicest people OOCly that you'll meet on LOTC... So long as you are nice to us and don't try to give us some sort of attitude based on what you've heard about us.

((So.... this character. Your daughter born to your character by some unknown wench... ...was totally unapproved by you and was just created and thrust into the Rose? Huh. The more you know I guess.))

((But were you never asked if urtrolling could create this character and make her your character's daughter? I'm just trying to fill in the gaps of this situation that's always baffled me.))

(( For OOC clarification, did Danroth ever OOCly approve of you making a daughter for his character? It seemed to sudden that this character of yours just... appeared. Especially since all we know about Mathus never suggested he would have an illegitamate child. So was he on board with Ocerea's existance, or did you just make a character his daughter? I was never really aware of the situation.))

Traitor.

(( Excellent work. It's good to see the Clerical Order back on track. The only thing I would add is a bit of a reminder to those considering joining: Being a Cleric is not an entitlement to be above any laws. Whether you're operating in Oren, Malinor, the Dwarven lands... anything. The moment you enter their kingdom or empire you become subject to their laws. I know Braxis is obviously aware of this, but it seems to be a concept that people need to be aware of upfront. That said, good read, and here's to seeing the Clerical Order flourish once more!))

((Second post updated. I hope you all enjoy. Feel free to comment or add constructive feedback.))

-Reserved-

(( I promise you the music fits. Just listen to it as you read. Preface: This is the event that ended Toov's life as a mercenary, and lead him on his pilgrimage. As you've read above, the end of his pilgrimage was over a decade later, and Toov was able to cast both fire magic, and heal the wounds of others. Maybe this will explain why he decided to learn magic, or why he ever went on his pilgrimage. What turned the mercenary into a pious soldier? I hope this little story explains it more.)) "Step by step, heart to heart Left right left, we all fall down Like toy soldiers Bit by bit, torn apart We never win, but the battle wages on For toy soldiers..." The battle had raged on for hours. To this day Toov was never fully sure of it's location, or even the name of the castle they had laid siege to. But even without the detail, the day would be forever burned into his memory. It was a part of who he was, much like his blade, Dreyrugr... or the day his people were wiped out. "Sergeant Toov, I want you to lead your men through the breach." This was their commander, the Captain of their mercenary group. It had only been a few weeks since Toov had been promoted to the rank of Sergeant. A "reward for potential" bestowed upon the nineteen year old Gaesgro tribal. In the span of a sentence he'd gone from being one of the gang to the leader of it. His squad was his family. They were integral to the development of our young protagonist, and each's influence touched him in some way. They all paled in comparison to Rynir. "Jawohl. Of course, Captain. It will be ours." After saluting crisply and being dismissed, Toov wheeled around in an about-face, sauntering off towards his squad's small cluster of tents in the siege camp. The flicker of their fire glinted off the slimy mud of the camp,as the gathered soldiers sharpened their blades, or carried out the seemingly meaningless pre-battle rituals common amongst career soldiers. Eating a certain meal... rubbing a special trinket... humming the same tune as they got ready. It was customary. These activities died down at the site of Toov, and the men all stood from their lounging places, mustering into a shabby line. The sergeant had returned from the command pavilion. That meant they were headed to battle soon. "The toy soldiers march again, Sergeant?" came the inquiry, finally, from Rynir. The dark elf was about Toov's height and much thinner. As for the complexities of Elven aging, he was considered as young as Toov. As unlikely as it may have seemed, the two were best friends. The Two Towers of the mercenary group, and also two of it's youngest members. That wasn't their only connection though. They were both orphans in their own way. Exiles even. Toov had lost his parents, his home, and his people in the eruption of the volcano. Rynir, alternatively, had been disowned by his parents and banished from the Dark Elven lands. Back to back the two would fight, surrounded oftentimes by number far greater than their own. They were shield brothers-no, they were nearly blood brothers. No matter the odds, not matter how bad things got, Toov knew that Rynir would always have his back. A Dark Elf and a Human. Backwards, right? -And so they entered the breach. Arrows whizzed past the squad as they rushed through the crumbling wall, and through the smoke and dusk a wall of defenders met their advance. Typical. After an hour of intense fighting the squad, along with their steady stream of reinforcements from the main army, had established a foothold in the courtyard of the bastion. Battered, bruised and exhausted they rallied around the breach in the wall, their previous gateway into hell. Everything was going as planned. All they had to do was hold position and maintain the breach's security. Easy enough. ...Or so they thought. It started when Rynir stood from his spot under a nearby tree, elven ears twitching. Through the smoke, shadowy figures began to appear. The cold hiss of steel from a scabbard, that of Rynir's longsword, caught the attention of his squadmates. The small band of men gathered together as the shadows drew nearer. The tension was so palpable that it would've snapped the neck of lesser men. They were surrounded. Somehow, the defenders had made their way outside the wall to complete their ambush. A death trap. The high-pitched "thwing!" of an arrow being released broke the dreadful silence, followed by a heavy thud and gasp. Everything seemed to reduce to slow motion as Rynir stared in horror at his chest, where the fletchings of an arrow protruded. The tall Dark Elf fell to his knees with a heavy clank of armour. Another arrow flew through the mist and smoke, burrying itself next to the first. The force sent the elf sprawling onto his back, reaching up into the air. Grasping for air, and for his life. "NO!" was the desperate cry of Toov, watching his closest friend incapacitated so. His face was paled and frozen in the visage of terror, panic, and grief. Instinctively, the squad broke ranks, charging into the enemy positions. Toov turned his grief into anger,swinging Dreyrugr about in a fury that would cower a demon. The shadows, Rangers, fell to the blades of the squad. Toov was covered in blood by the end as he rushed back to the fallen Rynir, collapsing onto his knees beside his Dark Elf companion. Tears began to stream down the giant's face as the other lifted Rynir upon their shoulders and quickly left the scene. Toov followed behind the squad, feverishly rubbing his hands together and tearing at his long hair. Back at the field hospital, the squad gathered solemnly outside the tent's entrance. Toov stormed out from the inside, throwing his sergeant's helmet in rage since the orderlies had escorted him out. Why couldn't they understand that Rynir was his best friend? He wasn't about to let the Dark Elf die if there was -anything- he could do about it. How had he let this happen? The squad was his responsibility as sergeant. How had he let this happen, to his best friend of all people? He fumed for what seemed like days, before the field surgeon exited the tent, quickly closing the flap closed behind him. Toov rose his gaze from the blood-soaked mud to meet the surgeon's eyes, a faint spark of hope gleaming deep inside. It was quickly snuffed as the surgeon managed no more than a solemn shake of the head. Dead. Rynir was dead. Toov had let him die. The silence was deafening before Toov finally manage to shake off his paralysis. He left without a word, making his way back to his tent. Everything he owned (not much to speak off) was quickly thrown together and tied into a bundle, slung over his shoulder. His life as a mercenary was over. There was nothing left in it for him. A void. As he made his way from the camp in brooding silence, more thoughts began to ring in his mind. What if the priests were right? Toov wasn't a believer in the human faith... and as far as he knew neither was Rynir. Was his friend condemned to burn in the Nether for eternity for not having believed? Was their anything Toov could do to prevent such? The questions burned like coals in his heart. A decision was made that very moment: Toov would set out on pilgrimage. He would save Rynir's soul whatever the personal cost. He would not lose his friend and then watch his soul burn for eternity. It would have broken him to even consider that reality. He had to prevent it. Hehad to. And so our large protagonist set off into the countryside. Reforged by a cataclysm.

Fear Not This Night The Tale of Baldir Toov ((To listen along with as you read.)) Note: Gaesgro is the name of Baldir's tribe, a group of Northerners known for their exceptionally large builds who fled from Aegis in the wake of the Undead Occupation. Baldir Toov was born to Tolfdir and Auda Toov, in the frozen wastes around Hanseti. As was customary, the whole of the tribe was gathered around his Father's smithy and hut combination in anxious anticipation of his birth. The large, strong figured women of the Gaesgro were all huddled around his mother inside the hut, doing their various customary duties to aid Auda in child labor. Outside, the din of metal on metal was monumental. Baldir's father was hard at work in his smithy, preparing the master crafted Gaesgro style Bastard Sword that in their tribe's culture, was a ceremony befitting of the family's first born son. The sword had to be started when the mother entered child labor, and finished by the time the son was pulled from the womb. All bout Tolfdir, the other men of the tribe had set to work in aiding him. In the distance, you could hear a few of them chopping wood. Still more were carrying the wood to and fro, supplying the smithy's furnace with an endless supply of fuel. From the furnace, a few bricks from the bottom had been removed, and extra below pumps fitted into the gaps. A whole crew of men were hard at work pumping the bellows, keeping the furnace (and more importantly, the precious metal inside) at the precise temperature. Tolfdir himself was hard at work hammering the metal into the proper shape and thickness, and his rhythmic hammering provided a beat for the incantations of the three village elders that stood nearby, blessing the sword in the name of God, and imbuing it with the attributes that were most important to Gaesgro society: Bravery, Strength, and Leadership. As the time wore by, the anxiety was palpable. The large men of the tribe blew their braided blonde hair from their soot covered faced, and always was the continuous "clank" sound of Tolfdir hard at work with the metal, beating it into the proper shape, tempering it, and in the last few hours, engraving the large ebony pommel. As Tolfdir finished his work, and sank the blade into the barrel of icy water from the natural spring on top of the great mountain Affe mixed with the blood of a mountain bear, a loud hissing filled the air. Precisely at that moment, the sound of crying was audible from the interior of the hut. It was done. Tolfdir set down the finished weapon, and wiped his brow. He made his way inside, to see his newborn son, and the village women cleared a path through the room for him. In the arms of his sleeping wife lay the child, healthy looking and peacefully asleep as well. For the first time in his life, Tolfdir sat down and cried. Growing up, Baldir spent much time in his Father's smithy, pumping the bellows, retrieving the wood and coal, and smelting metal ores into bars. In his free time, his father instructed Baldir in the tricks of the smithing trade, as well as the standard Gaesgro instruction in combat. Baldir developed a passion for both blacksmithing, and the heat of battle, using the two pastimes to fuel the each other. As a smith, Baldir could craft his own armor and weapons, made to fit him perfectly, with the added addition of the intense heat exposure and strength required to forge the equipment increasing his battle efficiency. As his training continued on, Baldir became well versed in the use of claymore and battle axe (as was customary of all Gaesgro men), accustomed to moving fluidly in heavy armor, and adept at utilizing a sword or axe and shield to defend himself. It was these precious years spent training with his father that would very much define who Baldir was, and save him several times on the field of battle. At 16, Baldir came of age to undertake the right of passage trials to become recognized as a man in his village. To begin, Baldir had to conquer an Orc in combat by himself. While to many in Asulon the feat may seem improbable, one must take into consideration the build of the Gaesgro people. Famed as "half giants", the Gaesgro are considerably larger and stronger than the average human, and as of such much less agile. To take on an Orc was a challenge, sure, but for a Gaesgro, hardly impossible. For his second, and final trial, Baldir was to scale the unforgiving cliffs of the great Mount Affe, and bring back a blossom from the jet black "Todesfall" flower that only grew near the volcanic top of the mountain. This task might seem easy enough for any Asulonian as well, being much lighter and agile, but for a large seven foot Gaesgro male, scaling a sort of cliff is a much more impairing challenge. As he walked the small, horse cart rutted path back to the village, Baldir began to realize just where he was going. This was no longer the journey back from his trials, but his final steps as a boy, and soon to be his first as a man. When he brought the bundle of black flowers to his father, Baldir might have sworn to have seen a tear gather in the old man's eyes, only to be blinked away as he took down the master crafted Bastard Sword from the wall, and offered it finally to his son. In Gaesgro culture, the sword is an extension of the man, a symbol of his character and definition of his position. As was befitting, it fell to Baldir to name his blade, and so he named it Dreyrugr, after the blood stained appearance of the metal in the sunlight. Much to Baldir's surprise, life as a man was much the same as that of a boy. He still worked in his father's smithy, except these days he did most of the work, as Tolfdir in his age had finally lost his deftness in working the metals. Little did Baldir know his life would soon change forever. Strange folk began to arrive in the town. They kept to the shadows, and hid their faces under the darkness cast by their large hooded robes. Without the ability to see their faces, the villagers of the tribe were largely unable to gauge the goals of the strange visitors. In time, the mysterious visitors found their way to higher reaches of the great mountain "Affe". Here they found the caves of unimaginable sincerity and beauty, the places where the paragons of the Gaesgro people were buried. The strangers coveted the treasures buried in these caves, and soon began to smuggle the items out of the local area and off into distant lands, it's rich crevices fueling the chaos and wars of their own realm. Meanwhile, down in the village, the people slept restlessly, their dreams filled with shadowy figures digging away at their home and souls. Everyday, the villagers would wake, and stare up at the mountain as it cast it's shadow over the settlement. Why was it bringing darkness into their lives? As the strange visitors smuggled more and more items away, holes began to appear in the side of the mountain, bringing with them a bold and bitter wind that chilled the very souls of the Gaesgro. For the first time, the villagers felt fearful, for they knew that soon the great Mount Affe would stir from it's great sleep. Then there came a sound. Distant first, it grew into castrophony so immense that it could be heard far away in space. There were no screams. There was no time. The mountain called Affe had spoken. There was only fire. And then, Nothing. That is all Baldir can remember of the last day of his village. At the first signs of trouble from the mountain, his father had mounted him onto their only horse, a very fine and large horse capable of carrying an armored Gaesgro, and sent him off. All Baldir remember was his father telling him to get as far away as possible. And that's exactly what he did. Baldir soon discovered that finding work in Asulon as a Gaesgro trained in the arts of blacksmithing and combat was as easy as riding into town, or near a castle. He was the sort of armored tank that powered the front lines of the battles the raged across Asulon as lesser factions funded private wars against each other and out of the Ruler's eyes. While not necessarily blessed with intelligence, Baldir was by no means a simple man, and his experience as a blacksmith taught him the lessons of patience and devotion to quality. The countless sieges and battles that he partook of left him with a notion of command, and the intricacies of the tactics used in battle and most importantly successful sieges. For a young man in his late teens and early twenties, a country full of war was paradise. Working as a sell sword, Baldir was able to roam the countryside, participating in wars almost as he saw fit, all for a small portion of the pillaged loot earned and a free meal. Putting his training to use, he was able to earn the respect of his superiors and experience needed to succeed in his career. At the age of twenty, Baldir put to work with a few of the mercenary companions he met along his journeys, and established their own company. It became his responsibility to train the company's new recruits in weapon proficiency and tactics, a career choice that landed him where he is today. As the mercenary company's reputation expanded, so too did Baldir's own reputation as a master soldier and trainer develop. On the side, he began taking payment to train the militias and town guards of the lesser factions, a job that eventually pulled him out of the mercenary business. He now finds himself at the gates of Hanseti with nothing but his large sword on his back, and some worn traveling clothes. In an Age, Place, and Society lacking serious upward mobility, Baldir discovered that all it took was the Gaesgro attributes of Bravery, Strength, and Leadership (and a good bit of know-how), to make a name for himself. And he set about doing just that in Hanseti After a bit of mulling about in the city, Toov found work as the bodyguard of Velwyn Ashford, who was at the time Landmeister of Hanseti. Life as a bodyguard was far more boring than Toov had expected... especially in the wake of someone as politically savvy as Velwyn Ashford. The man was never in danger because he was so damned liked. As things with the Great Salvus War escalated, Toov and Velwyn began to part ways, leaving the city for fear of it’s assault. Shortly after, he set out on his own. For months, he wandered his way about the lands, before coming across a mage named Angelus Custos. The mage was small (relatively of course. Most everyone seemed small to Toov), and to call him curious would miss the mark entirely. What intrigued Toov about him though, was his intense dedication to the righteous purgation of daemons and their minions from our plane of existence. Such blind fervency was new to Toov, and after witnessing the burnt crisps that remained of the bandits that tried to jump he and the mage on the road, he decided it might be the key to his salvation. The entire focus of his pilgrimage was to completely reevaluate the path he had chosen with his life. Blood, Iron, and Gold, those were the three tenants of Baldir Toov the mercenary… what would define the newly formed man? Devotion to studies didn’t seem to be it. He wasn’t daft, but neither was he a genius… not to mention his muscular build and height which broke every stereotype of a student. An advisor? Perchance, but most of his knowledge was of war, soldiers, strategies and training. Asulon was largely at peace. Fighting was all Toov knew, and he was good at it. Angelus offered him a chance to focus that same ferocity in a new direction, powered by his will to bring justice to the agents of evil throughout Asulon. But what of Angelus and this magic he offered to the large pilgrim? Toov quickly found Angelus to be a rather secretive man... but fifteen years has a way of diverging secrets. In the northern extremities of the Realm of Hanseti there lies the Iban Plateau, a vast frozen tundra that huddles up to the ancient Terra Mountain Range, which separates the Kingdom from that of Renatus. The harsh conditions and rugged terrain of the region makes it nearly inhospitable, yet, surprisingly, the region is historically documented to be the home of countless secluded and secret societies. As the inhabitants of Asulon will tell you, secrecy and seclusion are often associated with Demonic Cults, and in general, they are correct. However, not all that is kept secret is heretical. Nestled in the peaks of the Terra Mountain Range, lies the holy fortress-monastery of Ignis, home of the Monastic Order of Fury. With roots in the darkest days of Aegis, the Order of Fury carried out relatively unknown purges during the undead Invasions, keeping at their focus the elimination of the undead forces, and anybody associated with them. As Aegis crumbled, the monks fled to Asulon, erecting their fortress monastery and sealing the gates behind them with magic. They were waiting for the day that the undead forces would make it to Asulon... something they thought was inevitable. As a monk of the Order of Fury, and therefore sensitive to magic, Angelus began his training at an early age. The responsibilities of training young Angelus in the ways of the order fell to Brother Gabriel Lumiera. Throughout his training, Brother Lumiera served as a constant reminder of the dangers of Demonic influence, seeking to hone Angelus' mind and skills into a weapon of Holy Retribution. As pointed as the focus of his education was, Angelus discovered that the subjects entailed in it were quite diverse. Accompanied by the many hours spent in quiet contemplation and meditation over the teachings of God, Angelus spent a vast amount of time in the grand Library of the Fortress Monastery, studying the ancient texts detailing the history of Aegis and the fledgling Asulon through individual tales of the heroes that once existed in the land. It was from these ancient tales of Mages and Warriors of unimaginable power that Angelus was taught to seek deeper meaning. How did the events in this tale shape our world today? What actions did the hero perform that might serve as a guide for his actions on a daily basis? This influx of knowledge and organized manner of contemplation helped to enrich the young monk's intelligence, transforming his mind into a well organized, confident basis for his magic. Knowledge truly is power, and it reflected in Angelus' steady mastery of the arcane arts. It was this same sort of extra instruction that he bestowed upon Baldir Toov. A sharp mind is a requirement for anybody wishing to use magic, and furthermore, an open, well cultivated mind. The last bit of Angelus' tale remained a mystery for Toov, though. All the monk-mage would tell him is that the forces of evil had laid waste to the Fortress Monastery, and Angelus' had been cast out into the world as the only living member. The very mention of the events seemed to spark trauma in Angelus... so Toov decided never to press the issue. The Monks of Fury were a secret, underground society, and masters of their own unique school of magic: a blend of the abilities typical of a Fire elementalist and a Holy priest. Their power was said to be drawn from their devoted worship to God, for whom they carry out their retribution. From the teachings passed down to them, they drew upon the powers of righteous fire, and holy protection, used generally to purge the heretical, and protect the Order’s relatively small number of Paladins, whose own magical abilities were used primarily for smaller, practical uses in battle and field medicine. That was precisely y the sort of mastery Angelus was aiming for with Toov. He wasn’t a mage, by any sorts, but neither was he completely useless with the magical arts. His use would provide plenty of practical advantages, and the odd fireball or two might be able to turn the tide of a platoon of undead ambushing one of their patrols, or the occasional healing spell might help an otherwise critical soldier make it through his wounds. He wasn’t Gandalf, not by a long shot… but someday he might just provide that extra edge needed to push through. The study of magic is just that: the study. Not the stuff that fills legends and childhood stories, no, that is the application of magic. Toov learned this as simply as sitting down one night at the small campsite he and Angelus had pitched along their journey. “Light the fire, Baldir.” "But ve’ve got no tender, ja? It’s useless.” “Come now, my large companion. I know for a fact that you’re not nearly as daft as your build suggests, nor as slow as your accent lets on. We’ve gone over the theoretical aspects of it for weeks. The only way you’re going to get any better is to actually try it. Come now.” Out of the frying pan, into the fire couldn’t have been a more apt description. Toov closed his eyes, trying to envision the flame he wished to summon. With steady, silent concentration he attempted to bend the element to his will. Imagine the fire, command the fire… it was difficult but not impossible. Extending his hand to the bundle of firewood, he willed it to alight with all of his might… Nothing. Not even smoke. You can’t win every time, right? Suddenly, the fire set alight, and Angelus took his usual seat across from the large man. “Well, now you can at least say you’ve tried it. We’ll do it again tomorrow.” And so they did. Under Angelus’ instruction, the next fifteen years of Baldir’s pilgrimage steadily blended into one. Every day became a mental exercise, often leaving Toov weak and with headaches… but he was getting there. Angelus gave him breaks enough to teach him a confident use of field combat medicine, augmented here and there by healing spells meant to ease pain and give the patient that extra edge in the fight for survival. Practicality was the essence of Toov’s being, and as his time with Angelus drew unwittingly towards it’s end, their daily lessons became less grueling and more about keeping his knowledge fresh. The nights were filled with lessons of their own. The numbers of monsters on the roads and routes grew exponentially, often giving neither of our two travelers time to fully recuperate for the day’s travel ahead. Nothing prepared Toov for that fateful night, and nor would he ever forget it. It was one of those memories that burned itself into your mind, like watching a loved one perish, or your whole life’s work crumble before your very eyes. It started as any night would, a campfire lit, shortly followed by the low groans of the undead. Baldir had not been particularly worried, for Angelus and he were quite the pair. They covered each others weaknesses, and both shared the same fervent hatred for the infestations of darkness and evil throughout the land. Then it happened. Everything began to fade to black. The smoke of the fire seemed to block out Baldir’s very thoughts, and before he knew it, he collapsed. When he awoke, the camp was empty. It was daybreak, and their fire lay a smoldering pile. The mage was gone… and all Baldir managed to find was his necklace, a metal one with a fireball amulet on it, and a satchel of tomes. He put the necklace around his neck, and shouldered the satchel. Maybe the books would serve to further his knowledge in years to come. It seemed surreal… Toov’s mentor of over a decade, gone in a flash. For weeks it haunted him as he continued his pilgrimage, before landing in a tavern in Arethor, where he came across Peter and Thomas Chivay, both so drunk that words became hummed, slurred sentences, and Velwyn Ashford, the man Toov had been charged to protect so many years ago. They spoke… mumbled, and shouted about having been knighted, and receiving baronies. To top it all off, they wanted to form their own Order, the Order of the White Rose, devoted to the purgation of the monsters, and wished Baldir to serve as their Captain. Angelus Custos’ sacrifice would not be in vain. Baldir would make sure of that.

[[ On a personal note, is House Stafyr in any way pledged to the Ulfhaedyns? Feel free to just PM me. I can even explain why I'm asking. Just shoot me a response.]]

[[ Yea... I'm going to have to call you on that one. We don't just give out tabards or emblems of the White Rose. A "random peasant" is not going to be in possession of one. P.S. You had to beat a random peasant (who wouldn't have POSSIBLY been wearing a Rose tabard)... and we're the bad guys? So many logic feels, in so many places, from so many people. P.S.S. I can't make it clear enough. We don't just give out tabards.]]

Captain Toov of the White Rose silently trudges through the streets, gently holding the hand of his wife, the dark elf Tanith. Tanith clutches his hand in return, turning to smile up at her tall husband. Looking around with an easy smile, she spots the pile of crisp papers stacked by the noticeboard."Captain, look over there," she says, glancing back up at her husband. "Seems like someone is putting out flyers." Toov nods, frowning faintly as the couple makes their way closer to the noticeboard,"Zhat never means anyzhing good, mein Liebling..." Tanith gently pulls her hand free of her husbands and stoops to pick up one of the flyers. She turns, handing the sheet to her husband. "Seems to be a letter, sir." The Captain takes the flier, nodding as he begins to scan over it's contents. His brow furrows as the gest of it's intentions become aware to him. "It appears a disgruntled... citizen... is trying to unite all of Oren's Elven citizens in a conflict against zhe Rose, my love." Tanith frowns, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of the text. Her pinkish-red eyes flicker over the letter. A crease forms between her eyebrows. "But...why would they ever do that? Certainly, the Chivays aren't very friendly toward Dark Elves, but...well, I've only seen them get violent once or twice." Toov chuckles, lowering the paper and offering it back to her. With a smirk, he attempts to explain, "It's all repercussions from our march upon Malinor. You und I both know zhat zhe Chivays distaste for Elves is much deeper zhan an opinion of zheir skin color or ears. Zhe Elves inflicted such mental vounds upon zhe two of zhe Chivays zhat zhey in turn adopted a hatred for zhem... zhe people of Asulon seem to zhink zhat zhe military display in Malinor vas zhe Vhite Rose alone. Zhey neglect zhe very present fact zhat Emperor Godfrey ordered zhese actions, und zhat zhe Tuetons, along vith our ozher brozhers-in-arms vere all present as vell." "Well, that's very silly! Why pass judgement on someone for something they were ordered to do?",Tanith pouts at the text upon the flyer. "Because zhat is how people are, mein Liebling. I hear rumors of our actions all zhe time. People accuse us of actively hunting elves... of burning an elven girl. Zhey're simply not true. Ve hardly leave Krak du Rhosven... let alone zhe island. If ve do it is to visit places zhat local nobility summon us to aid in zhe defense of." Tanith folds the flyer, creasing it between her delicate fingers. She sets it back down gently on the top of the stack. "I do not like that at all," she replies, frowning deeply at the stack of flyers. "That man, whoever he is, is just spreading more lies, then. And I cannot abide by a liar." She turns to look up at her husband. "If all these stories were true, I would not have come and worked for the Rose. And if I was treated poorly, I certainly would never have married a Rose." Toov smiles, resting his hand upon her thin waist as he kisses her softly on the forehead, "Zhey vill never really understand zhe Rose, mein Liebling. Nobody ever vill." Tanith smiles as well, linking her hand with her husband's. "It's just terrible that people would rather listen to rumor rather than actually speaking to us. I would set them straight, if they'd just speak to me!" "Ve can only pray zhat zhey begin to see zhe truth of it, mein Liebling."

(( For OOC clarification... to all of you. The White Rose was a rather small portion of the ENTIRE OREN ARMY that showed up at your doorstep at the behest of the Emperor himself. To ignore the presence of Oren's entire military and single out the Rose is hilarious.))

((But gentlemen, I would remind you that even when actions go a course you had not chosen them to, it can be a blessing. Sometimes accepting it ICly can lead to a better outcome for yourself in the future... especially when you are certain the other party is in the wrong. Just a reminder from the Inquisition.)) With a sigh, Toov tears one of the posters down from the front of the bulding. With a faint recollection he remembers seeing Patrick inside said establishment, shouting about a carrot of sorts... the memory confirmed by the presence of the second note. The folds the poster neatly, and stows it inside his cuirass, patting it once in assurance. Typical.