Temp

Hearing of the combat to come, he smirks, looking to the others.

A massed huddle of armored Roses halt at the crossroads. Temp gestures to the column, "Halt! The unoathed are draggin' arse again!" He shakes his head, turning back to the crossroad, crumbled page laid across the road and caught upon post of the sign. Muttering to himself, he approaches the sign post. An armored gauntlet pulls the paper from post, bald headed figure eyeing the paper over. "Oi, 'ave we've got a sand midget abou'?" He turns to face the column, figures in the distance approaching the column. Hearing nothing in particular he looks back to the note, reading over what's written more carefully.

Directing a column of jogging Roses throughout Abresi, Temp comes across the Scroll, pinned to a notce board. He raises his left arm, fist balled, "Halt." The line comes into a halt, staring forward into the streets before them. Temp unpins the scroll and fans through it, look of amusement forming across his face. He turns to the line gesturing them over, "Oi! We've another funny anonymous letter!" The Column's ranks disperse, the note being handed off, each met with nearly identical expression of laughter. Temp leans over, nudging a Rose, the figure turns with a simple, "Wot?" He smirks, gesturing to the scroll being passed about, "Ye' know who wrote tha'?" The Rose shrugs. "It's not dung, so tha' strikes ou' the Orcs. There's no funny accent, so it's not the Dwarves. An' I really doubt the 'alfmen are sober enough to maintain message. Tha' jus' leaves the 'alfbloods an' the whiners." Temp turns back to the others, hands cupped together and behind his back, "Reform an' gather paddle! We've arses to paint red with agony! Seems the children ne'er learn." He moves to head the line before jogging off.

Temp simply observes, hands behind his back. As various people huddle around the figure and begin signing, he shrugs turning to another Rose, "It makes no difference. This place was placed under observation an' control to fix it. It's not gotten any be'er. Petition or no, this place won't last long."

Lowering his crossbow, volley fired unto the line, he looks to the others, eyebrow raised. "Righ', someone missed. If I find ou' who, yer' gettin' lashes an' runnin' with a damned pack o' rocks till yer' legs fall from yer' stubby torso."

Each rising push and pull simply brought his leather clad being closer to the top. Ascending with as much speed and strength he could muster. A crumbling ruin, encompassed with vegetation and overgrowth had hardly been the desirable place for the hunt, but the creature had managed evasion until this point. The others had managed to ascend to the Ruin's peak before Temp could even manage a decent foothold. The top nearing view, he lunges out taking grip of the ledge and pulling himself up. Bits of stone crumbling beneath his weight. He turns himself, taking a brief seat and looking to the situation at hand. A Dog-like creature laid atop the youngest member of the group. The motions were hastened and blur-like, pinpointing precisely what had occured was a task within itself. The situation clicking within his mind, Temp shoves himself into a rise, staggering along the uneven surface and half-assedly moving toward the toppled over member. As he drew closer, something unexpected occurred. A pair of feet, driven by a vine, made swing, collides with the creature. It topples over, flung toward Temp. He towers over the beast. As it comes into a rise, he reels back his leg and drives heel to it's face. The beast topples over, face contorted into a pained grimace, tooth and blood flung from it's maw. Before it can manage to rise, he steps forward, driving heel to it's neck and pinning it to the ground. The beast flails about madly in an attempt to free itself, eventually driving claw to the pinning leg repeatedly. Before any true progress is made, a bolt digs into the creature's side. The motions come into a maddened frenzy, but to no avail. Before it can manage any true damage, consciousness fades from the beast. The Marked had claimed their target, despite it's efforts.

Clearing his throat and standing before those in Salvus, he stands with various others from the Rose. "Now, a damned Teuton came 'ere whinin' abou' wha' needs to be done, sides to choose, an' so forth. None o' tha' matters. Wha' I would bring to light, is the Hawk Master, Hackmeister, what the 'ell e'er the man goes by. Now, this man, Jonathan Black, gave the Emperor, Godfrey 'imself, creator bless 'is restin' soul, 'is word tha' 'e would turn 'is back upon the Teutonic Order an' swore them off entirely. Now, but a few years after the man's death, 'e would slide right back into place, turnin' 'is back upon the Emperor. I wouldn't wipe me arse with the man's word. Nor tha' o' the Orders. If they would not keep word to the Emperor 'imself, the 'ell would keep them from abandonin' you lot? Nothin'. Plough the Teutons an' plough any pathetic sense o' 'honor,' that lot would 'old." He turns, directing the others out and following behind them. Not caring to hear any responses from those around.

Hearing of the inaccurate gossip, Temp simply shrugs. "Brainwashin'. It's quite the *****, isn't it? They would attack then prod at us for playing defensive. Seems a bit eh.. stupid, yeah? Well, while they play knight in their fancy uniforms and sit abou' givin' one another man 'ugs, we've enemies o' the empire to 'andle. Besides, who gives two shites abou' wha' the Teutons say? Insignificant, the lot o' them. Heroes, yer' only a 'ero when yer' dead."

Looking over the destroyed keep, Temp sighs. For a moment he simply stares to it's remain, almost awestruck by the event he'd missed. A deep sense of dread overcoming him before he'd turned to face the field. Carcass amassed in nearly countless number. The Teutonic Order had managed to break a simple fort, and yet, if not the entire Order, damn near all of it's Order laid out before the Dreadfort. How had these people claimed victory? This had looked more like the efforts of a desperate martyr, the cries of the dying, falling upon deaf ears. Shaking his head, he moved toward those that had survived the siege. The massed survivors were resting. Those that didn't care to take knee, went about the fields, kicking the wounded to their backs and driving steel to exposed flesh. Approaching the others of the Rose he spoke up, "The 'ell did I miss?" One of them, crooked grin across his face speaks up, "Not much. They've managed to crack a damned wall an' drop a damned foot'old. Nothin' too special. I mean, look at tha'. More damned food for Ravens then we've food for ourselves." The figure turns aside and spits, "Good bit o' sport, with little downfall an' loss."

The sound of heavy Steel boots echo throughout the upper floors of the keep. A thin dotted line of red runs up the stairs, through several arches, and down a dimly lit hall. The line halting, now becoming a small pool at a seemingly random spot amidst the keep. Abruptly, several heavy thuds are heard as armored gauntlet repeatedly meets wooden door. There's an akward silence before the thudding begins again. Sighing, Temp chucks a blood-soaked leather sack aside the door before turning and following the trail out. He had left a severed head at Bran's doorstep, not knowing where to find him.

Name: Temp Thersist Race: Human - Northerner Aligned House: Chivay Location of Dwelling: (Town, County, or Duchy name.) White Rose Keep. Ard Kerrack. By signing you agree to follow the laws of Kaedrin. You also agree to allow those recognized to uphold the laws of Kaedrin, within the boundaries set by the laws. Temp Thersist

With the forming of new Kingdom, message is sent to those residing within the lands known as Kaedrin. Those that would live within Kaedrin will be approached with this documentation. However, members of Kaedrin's military are exempt from signing the materials presented. The information has already been noted and stored. Should they choose to sign the documentation, that is entirely fine. Also, let it be known that citizens of Kaedrin are to be citizens of Oren. You must sign the forms for Oren, found http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/82430-imperial-citizenship/ ((Laws can be found here: http://www.lordofthecraft.net/forum/index.php?/topic/88929-the-laws-of-kaedrin/)) The Forms is as follow: Name: Race: Aligned House: Location of Dwelling: (Town, County, or Duchy name.) By signing you agree to follow the laws of Kaedrin. You also agree to allow those recognized to uphold the laws of Kaedrin, within the boundaries set by the laws. ((This may be altered at a point in the future.))

Go for it, but I ask one thing. Should defeat stare us directly in the face, do not bring about some ungodly savior. Some.. mystical holy being, instead, let us die. Allow the nations to be erased and the people to be forced to near extinction.

Fanning over the documentation briefly, Temp smirks, "Do us proud."

Reading over the note, Temp groans, dragging his hand down his face. He turns to face the column of Rosemen, still staring blankly forth into the endless tides of land set before them, "Another one! Get this, it's not e'en a member o' Oren! They don't know what the 'ell the Emperor is like. They've depicted 'im as a damned fat-man. Is our Emperor the ol' fatman, Toveah? No the 'ell 'e is not. The twit does not know what the 'ell we've done to the Elves an' yet they would make attempts to rally the people? I've seen stronger message in the bottom o' an ale glass. Wha' a damned joke.. " Temp turns back to the sign, tearing it down and tossing it aside. He then moves toward the column, redirecting it and moving off.

No, for the obvious. But on a side note, how would anyone hear cannon fire? There is no weaponized blackpowder, this would suggest it's return. I don't think any of us want that. Why is the Emperor bearded in the dream? Who the heck actually has the power to do this to people?

Temp simply shrugs at the upstart, genuinely disinterested, "No damn spine an' no damned loyalty. Can't e'en see it's plan through withou' runnin' off. Who the 'ell would follow tha' joke? BAH."