Xarkly

The hero we didn't know we needed

For the sake of his lord brother, Villorik prayed that the wayward bloodline of Balian never spoke their dishonour in his presence. For their sake.

I actually think LotC is really a sum of its parts - from the Four Brothers to modern-day interactions between races. Taken individually, any given component could probably fit into any other fantasy setting pretty well.

Villorik of the White Comet had sworn to avenge the fallen Amaya. He would vanquish the Infernals that had done the murder -- it mattered little who aided them. Compared to that vengeance, nothing mattered at all.

Villorik would mourn for his brother in arms, but he would not weep - for there was no better way to die for a warrior of the Light.

Fire, thinks Patriarch Villorik.

This just seems like some silly vigilante stuff. Obviously any "romance RP" that goes beyond a general narrative context for your character (i.e., 'this person is my spouse which dictates how I interact with them' (good) vs. RPing in a locked castle bedroom in #w for 3 hours (bad)) is weird and can/should be punished as a matter of safety. Relationships (both platonic and otherwise) are often what makes a character nuance/relatable/interesting - I find the argument of "well you shouldn't play a dark CA unless you're going to be cardboard cut-out villain" because without this nuance (which can, but does not exclusively, come from their relationships) is just silly; you're still playing a character. If your character's only traits are "rawr i'm an evil demon" then your character probably sucks.

aw geez rick

"Took his dagger, hm?" Villorik of Westerwald sighed to himself as he beheld the frail form of a chicken, weakly lying on the ground, as the necrotic wound spread across it's feathered body. He glanced down at the dagger in question, slick with the chicken's blood from testing. Next time, the fool would lose more than his dagger.

dad

When he had first taken the mantle of Warpriest many years ago, he had forsworn his noble blood in service of the Light. Of all his vows, though, that may have been the weakest. The Blood of Ruther was not so easily denied.

Atop the Basilica's ramparts, Villorik's white cloak stirred in the wind, and his glaive shimmered in the moonlight.

"Hmph." In the dim light of the hall of the White Comet's Chapter-House, Villorik closed his eyes, and rested his head against the back of his chair. Tatiyana had brought him this particular report not so long ago, before he had gruffly shooed her off to sleep. Now, he sat alone, with only what remained of the candles for company. "Let's see, then," he mused to himself, "if Kaethul can spill more Light than it has nurtured the Shadow." For, to Villorik, that had always be the truest measure of redemption.

ISSUED BY THE ON THIS MALIN'S WELCOME OF 173 S.A. Queen Amaya of Haense is dead. Her body ailed with age, but the Light favoured her with glory nonetheless. For, in the woods on the foothills of Morteskvan, she did battle with the infernal scions of those who hearken the return of False Siegmund - the Inferi warlord who once laid siege to Karosgrad generations past. These horned and hoofed minions were once treasured companions of the Queen - for, when the world showed these outcasts only scorn, Amaya of Venzia showed kindness beyond her station’s due. Sermi Ulveryn Laelia Aaren Colborn These are the names of the Shadowspawn who slew Amaya, Queen of Haense, White Flame of Valdev. They - and an unnamed fourth - summoned the uncanny gall to slay the White Flame as she toured the summer flowers in bloom, beyond the walls of Valdev. Death is little barrier to these servants of the Shadow, but - to the White Comet - this matters little. For, in our Order, the mantra of “a thousand pyres” is a simple solution to those who cling to their ill-gotten longevity: They shall be slain until they covet death. These infernals, their fates twisted in the bowels of Hallowcliffe, serve a master - a greater blight who gives tribute to the Shadow, and leads a hellish coven. They are called Sarryn, and adopt the moniker of the White Cat. True to the nature of Shadowspawn, they are cut from a cloth most cravenous, for they change their face akin to switching cloak. For if the curseborn claim this mewling cat to be their master, then so shall she be expunged by the Light. Pay heed. This is not a warning to Descendant kind. This is a warning only to those who conspire to aid these Shadowspawn in any capacity. Those who do shall, as the Light ordains, share their fate -- in the name of the Light, and in the name of Amaya the White Flame.

This was the founding mantra of the White Comet - a prayer and solemn vow alike that the Holy Light shall forever endure and triumph against the Shadow. For the pall of the Shadow lies heavy across the land of Aevos. The curse of vampyrism ran rife and unchecked through the high and lowborn alike; infernal warlocks laid claim to the heads of lords and queens; and the Shadow’s own adjutants made mortal kings dance to their whims. In this period of chaos, the Canonist Faithful languished in fear; they knew not whether their very neighbours walked with them in the Light, or had surrendered their souls to the Shadow. From the assassination of High Pontiff Sixtus VI to the murder of Queen Amaya of Haense, the Light’s truth felt sundered to its bleakest deaths, near eclipsed by the Shadow. Yet, in those depths, the Light rekindled. Aeons past, when the Shadow uttered its final words to lay the curse of transience upon Exalted Horen and his ken, it also tempered the resilience of all mankind. For it was through this same resilience that man has both forged and shattered empires; that man vanquished the great dragons Setherien, Mordring, Avendal, and Cloudbreaker; and that man has held the faith of their forebears for nearly two-thousand years. Now, in this age of the Shadow Rising, the White Comet bears arms as the vanguard of mankind’s resilience once more. For the Light has held for two-thousand years. So shall it hold for two-thousand more. Father Szetka, Court Warpriest of King Barbov the Black Royal City of Lahy, Ruska c. 226 A.E.S. The White Comet is a Holy Order of the Canonist Church. Originally formed as an inquisitive tribunal charged with investigating the alleged consortium of the Royal Court of Haense with the Shadow, it’s founding objectives were to not only purge all servants and spawn of the Shadow that plagued the northern archdiocese of Jorenus, but also to rekindle the Canonist faith in the north generally, namely by drawing on its unique practices of the Jorenic Rite. Even after the conclusion of its maiden inquisition in the form of the Esrova Report, it was the will of High Pontiff Caius I that the White Comet be officially constituted as a Holy Order, sworn to oppose the Shadow and its temptations wheresoever it may appear. This path, however, is one fraught with mortal peril, for the scions of the Shadow wield untold powers in their many forms, and the warriors of the White Comet are but mortal humans. But, through all, the Light must preserve and prevail. The core creed of the White Comet is therefore: FIRST, to hunt the Shadow, its spawn, and servants wherever they made hide. The schemes of the Shadow are many, and seldom understood, and so while Shadowspawn themselves are the White Comet’s quarry, their hunt requires careful investigation and research, both to illuminate the dens in which they hide, and to vanquish them in spite of their fell powers. SECOND, to shrive sin from the hearts of mankind, for humans are prone to temptation and sin where they do not feel the Light’s gaze upon them. From the desecration of marital vows to base dishonour, souls ripe with sin make the most fertile soil for the Shadow’s corruption. So it is that the White Comet must guide their fellow man, and hearken those who have fallen back to the Light with repentance. AND THIRD, to join their blades to the banner of Canondom when they march in the name of the Light. While oft the Canonist Princes wage petty secular wars, the White Comet may do battle alongside them where it serves to strike a blow against the schemes of the Shadow and its servants. Akrides and the Comet Lost Aldersburg, Anthos c. 1502 I.C. The legend from which the White Comet draws its name is central to its identity. Amidst the sagas of the Saint Tobias, there is a tale told of the city of Aldersburg, a ruined city that lay as a blight upon the land of Anthos. The city, though abandoned by its people, played host to a new lord - Hekrigge, a twisted husk of a mortal who led a band of debased marauders. Claimed by some to be an Adunian, and by others to be an insatiable vampyre, what the tales do agree on is that Hekrigge served no master, but their savagery and bloodlust were surely endowed by the Shadow itself. From the stout walls of Aldersburg, Hekrigge beset the region like a plague. Not only were barns plundered and fields yet ablaze, but the peasantry were subjected to all manners of torture at Hekrigge’s hands -- even those who yielded their food and valuables willingly. In this interlude, the road to Aldersburg was dubbed the ‘Painted Path’, for Hekrigge was most creative in their display of murder. Hekrigge’s sole opposition came in the form of Friar Akrides, once a pupil of the late Saint Tobias, who led a rag-tag militia of local farmers against Hekrigge’s tyranny. Yet, despite their piety, Hekrigge’s band meted them defeat and grizzly executions at every encounter. Before long, Akrides was the sole one left, for his compatriots were dead or fled. Without a single mortal ally remaining, Akrides knelt, and prayed to his departed master for salvation. Akrides’ prayers were answered, and the salvation that came was of the most absolute calibre. For, on the dawn of the very next morning, the pall of the morning sky parted, and Friar Akrides’ writes that the very gates of the Seven Skies opened to part a comet, so pure and white that it lit the land for miles around as if it were a summer sun. Through the sky did the comet streak, and it struck the ruins of Aldersburg to obliterate Hekrigge, their bandits, and even the very foundations of the city walls. When Akrides stumbled to the site of where Aldersburg once stood, he found only an enormous, smouldering crater. The comet that had bit the earth was no longer it's brilliant and pure white; for it had struck this seedbed of the Shadow, and so its surface became the colour of obsidian. A Temple Guard of the Exalted Sanctum Trade City of Dules, Ruska c. 270 A.E.S. The Creed is the White Comet’s goals, and the Codex is its path to them. All faithful must abide by a code, the most basic of which are the tenets of the Light enshrined in the four Holy Scrolls. The greater a duty a mortal soul assumes, the stricter the charter they abide by must be in order to guide their power virtuously. Thus, the White Comet is no exception; in order to maintain integrity amongst their flock, to leave no doubt as to the virtue they espouse and the reckoning promised unto the Shadow, its warriors swear to abide by the Lucent Codex: ONE TO REVERE the teachings of the Light. TWO TO REVILE the temptations of the Shadow. THREE TO HONOUR those who walk in the Light in discourse and battle. FOUR TO VANQUISH the spawn and servants of the Shadow at any cost. FIVE TO SHRIVE sin from the hearts of Canondom. SIX TO MARTYR oneself in the name of the Light. The wrath of Saint Malcolm The Viper of Fjordheim, year unknown. Although a Holy Order, the White Comet is somewhat unique. Unlike most of its kindred banners, the White Comet styles itself not as a chivalric order nor an army unit, but rather an exclusive band of pious brethren - though small in number, they are strong of heart, and sharp of mind. Whereas armies typically clamour to recruit any willing to bear arms in their name, it is not so for the White Comet: given that they hunt Shadowspawn, and all clues as to their hiding places and powers, a level of skill and secrecy is mandated, in tandem with the fact thats its members must be true adherents of the Canonist faith. The White Comet’s simplistic structure is therefore as follows: COMMANDANT First among the White Comet is its founder, Villorik Cardinal Westerwald, who wields forthright command of all Canonist orders as Commandant of the Pontifical Guard of Caius I. ADJUTANT The stalwart lieutenant of the Commandant, serving as both their right and left arm, and prepared to fulfil their role should their master fall in battle with the Shadow. VINDICATOR A rank for brothers and sisters of the White Comet who undergo the sacrament of ordination. Rather than being dubbed a common priest, Vindicators are specifically warpriests, who achieve the will of the Light by strength of arms. VENATOR Pious warriors of the White Comet who serve as hunters of the Shadow; they pledge their hearts, minds, and bodies to the pursuit and eradication of Shadowspawn under their snowy-white standard. SCION Aspirants accepted as squires under the White Comet, and undergo the tempering of body and soul in pursuit of the mantle of Venator. Exalted Sigismund battles Ishtar Alexandria Bihar, c. 302 E.S. ‘To be favoured by the Light’. That is the sole metric by which a new Venator is welcomed into the White Comet. There is no rigid tradition of trials; no grand quest that must be undertaken. No -- for the Commandant, endowed with foresight, determines for themselves whether a warrior has the strength of heart and arm necessary to serve in the Order. Beyond merely that, though, they must carry with them the Light’s favour - a sign that they are destined to not only serve as a hunter of the Shadow, but serve well. There is no such trial for this - when the time is right, it is simply known. Once worthy, new Venators are ordained in a manner reminiscent of the Burgundian Host, one of the first holy orders that ever took up arms in the ancient Highland of Edel -- they must face the Commandant in a battle in which the Venator cannot fight back. Instead, the fighting will not end until they have recited the six tenets of the Lucent Codex while being assailed with blows. For, if the Light rejects them, then their guard shall fail, and the Commandant shall slay them.

Villorik of the White Comet steepled his fingers. On the table before him, the links of information were sketched. Hallowcliffe. The curseborn. The White Cat. Castiel. Yera. Kaethul. This noose is getting tight, he thought wearily. If we don't hurry, they might hang before we arrive.

Lord Brother, I have met this harried soul, and she has undergone the Rite of Vindication in my presence. She has spoken to me of this venture in the past, and I had urged her to seek your blessing to build upon your land. This woman has a troubled past, wrought in the depths of the heresies of Hallowcliffe, but my understanding is that she played the role of victim to some ritual, and her memory is now addled. I will remain vigilant nonetheless - but if it is salvation and worship that spur her now, I likewise offer my support so that this chapel might be erected. The sole stipulation I would advise is that this place of worship suitable for the pilgrims of Jorenus, and conforms to the teachings of the Four Exalted. Light preserve and prevail, Villorik Cardinal Westerwald.

shit be wild if t-dawg postin

I'm not disagreeing that consequence is an element of good storytelling - what I'm disagreeing with is PK clauses as a crutch. It's putting the cart before the horse. People PK in events because it forms such a substantial part of their character's journey that they're willing to end that journey through the event (or, as it happens, it coincides with them planning to PK the character anyway). Events build this relationship through quality narrative engagement, which takes investment and dedication. It is not achieved by slapping a "PK clause" on the event. I'd be fairly confident that you can point to more large scale eventlines and wars with a far higher PK count than a PK clause event ever has, because it's just not how you build that degree of narrative significance to a character.

The suggestion that a good narrative is dependent on preparation or thought though is silly - this obviously isn't the case, and PK'ing is absolutely far from the counterweight. Stupidity doesn't need to be punished in the most extreme way to enforce a semblance of balance or consequence in your eventline. I have always thought PKs are a major crutch in that regard -- some of the most impactful eventlines on this server have not been PK-claused, and still collected more PKs than their PK-clause counterparts because they built a meaningful connection with the participants.

Cardinal Villorik leafed over the letter. Then, his eyes shifted to another envelope on his desk.

A THOUSAND PYRES The flames cast fitful shadows on Villorik’s face. I’ll do it to save Elizaveta, mother! Even now - decades later - he remembered those childhood words. I’ll get God to bring her back. Villorik released a slow breath. He reached forward, palm outstretched, and watched as the rising flames flashed against the scratched surface of his black-iron vambrace. He wanted to feel the heat for himself; he wanted to feel the cottage burn. Beneath a darkening spring sky, the wind whipped flurries of snow across the ridge where the warpriest stood atop Saurizyr, his Aaunish thoroughbred. Beneath his faceguard, he stared forward as the flames climbed to the thatched roof of a lone cottage a mere dozen feet away. I’ll do it for Aleksandra and Stefaniya, too! His own childhood voice echoed in his mind as he closed his eyes. And - and Petra! And Viktor! And you and father, of course! He shakily inhaled the fresh mountain air, tainted by woodsmoke. I’ll be the greatest servant God has ever had, and … and he’ll have to listen to me, then! He’ll save anyone I want! Thirty-seven years, he told himself as he listened to the flames crackle, and the beams groan. Thirty-seven years since I made that stupid promise. Slowly, he opened his eyes. As the snowfall swept over the ridge, he watched the fire he had lit consume the cottage hungrily. He watched the spars glow red; he heard the roofbeams beginning to crack; and he listened for the screams of the devil inside, but they never came. Thirty-seven years, and yet I cling to it still. As one of the roofbeams finally splintered from the heat, it collapsed inwards with a surge of heat and cinders. As Saurizyr whickered nervously, Villorik raised a forearm to guard from stray embers, and glanced over his shoulder at the two other horses that stood on the ridge with him. On one sat his adjutant Rhys, his platemail agleam in the firelight, and the grey-black tassels of House Ruthern flapping from the shaft of his lance. A woman was unceremoniously lumped across the back of Rhys’ horse, her wrists and ankles shackled together, but where other women wore ornaments in their hair, the white locks of Sermi were crowned with the stubs of demonic horns. She only watched the burning cottage with wide-eyed disbelief. Villorik spared her a lingering look. She, too, was a Devil, and one that had been his enemy for no small amount of time. …but no longer, I think. Not after today. The third horse ferried only children - one a bastard-born prince with a sneer cold enough to freeze water, and the other a girl who cradled a rock the size of her head in her lap. At the sight of the prince, Villorik instinctively felt the dull pain of a sword-scar on his left cheek - a token of his duel with Andrey’s father for the very sin of siring the boy. Villorik spared them as much assurance in a glance as he could, though he doubted it counted for much; a chill jolted through him, and he burst into a fit of coughs. Light-shunned potion, he cursed to himself as he sagged against Saurizyr’s neck for support. It was not the smoke that made his lungs heave nor his skin crawl, but the effects of Abyssal Blight - a gift from Laelia. He glared into the flames as smoke enwreathed the burning cottage. It was here that he and Rhys had tracked that devil to, and here they confronted her; though she now hid in the basement from the fire, she had not done so before setting off that infernal concoction. Though the smoke stung his eyes, Villorik could picture her red eyes and horns, like full lips on a bloodless face, vividly. He remembered that face from his brother’s castle of Morteskvan, when she had been imprisoned and begged for salvation so that she might leave in peace with her sister, Deia. He remembered that face when he felt his heart twinge at her words, and the relief when he allowed himself to be convinced … and he remembered that face when he had returned to Morteskvan, hours later, to find the healer Ilaria cradling the bloodied corpse of Deia after Leila had stabbed her and fled. Laelia had stabbed another, too - the one soul that Villorik would not see harmed. A cold fury blazed in Villorik’s eyes as he scowled at the fire. It burned on and on, roofbeams and thatch collapsing, but still he heard no screams from Laelia in the basement. It matters not, he reminded himself, if she flees judgement once more - if she survives another pyre. He and Rhys had tracked her here, in the depths of the wilderness, and he knew they would find her again. Wherever she hides, he vowed as his glaring eyes teared from the smoke, I will find her with fire. His gloves creaked as he tightened his grip on Saurizyr’s reins for some vain support as the Blighted coughs wracked his throat again. For thirty-seven years, that stupid promise he had made to his mother had held him on his path - to serve the Light, and fight the Shadow. Old as he was now, he knew the words from his childhood were vanity. No matter how well he served the Church, the Light would not answer any prayers to bring his long-dead family back from the grave. And yet … It drove him all the same. That was why he would light the next pyre, and the one after that, and however many more it took. Not just for Laelia, but every servant of the Shadow, for every harbinger of suffering. Villorik was too far down his path to stop now, but he had no desire to abandon it nonetheless. He had seen a great deal of suffering and evil alike in those thirty-seven years; he had seen those like Sermi and Laelia, broken by their service to the Shadow; he had seen depraved vampyres like Florian, bargain with children to save their lives; and he had seen the twisted spires of the Hexicanum cast its shadows across Nor-Velyth. For a time, he had obsessed in the hunt - in finding Shadowspawn, and laying them to rest. It had been a lonely mantle, but he had expected that - he had accepted that. And yet … somewhere along the way, that had changed. Now, his grim memories were infused with different faces. He could picture the wide-eyed eagerness of Tatiyana and Siegmund as they sought tutelage from him, of all people; he could still hear Marian call him a ‘friend’; and he there was even a soul he felt true love for - not for her body nor blood, but for her heart. And she was almost slain by a Shadowspawn. Villorik’s eyes narrowed to near slits at the razed cottage. By Laelia. And so that was why it mattered not to him whether she died in this fire, or not. Whether it was her or another, there would always be another Shadowspawn to burn. “Rhys,” he managed through his Blighted throat and the roar of the flames, “let us be done with this place. I have no intention to die here.” Rhys acknowledged him with a creak of metal as he nodded, and flicked the reins of his mount. “Hup!” Sermi let out a startled grunt as the horse moved beneath her, and the children, too, began to guide their mount down the slope with youthful concern painting their expressions. As he guided Saurizyr around, he spared one last look for the burning house. It was completely consumed by the inferno, now; the encroaching night was kept entirely at bay. He only looked for a moment - it mattered little, now. He shoulders his halberd, and spurred Saurizyr into a canter behind Rhys and Andrey. It did not matter how many pyres it took for Villorik to walk his path. A dozen. A hundred. A thousand.