Xarkly

-+=+- 16th of the Grand Harvest, 1596. For over a week, the doors of the St. Karlsburg Administration office remained locked and sealed, and not a soul was to be spotted passing through its solitary threshold. For over a week, the High Steward and his diligent subordinates convened around a mound of parchment, each one of which bore different handwriting, the content consisted of only one of two possible names. For over a week, the Stewards determined who would become, or remain as, the Maer of St. Karlsburg. By the time the doors of the office swung open to admit the High Steward back onto the snow-white streets, the city had nearly become used to the suspenseful feeling that seemed to grip each political conversation, and gossip, most of it about attempted assassinations, seemed to have run dry. Yet the High Steward ignored the excited whispers and stares from the townsfolk as he pulled his bearskin cloak tightly around his shoulders to ward off the unrelenting cold. A cold had already gathered in the square, and the High Steward had to avail of the aid of two Royal Brigadiers, and several muttered apologies, before he could reach the platform. There were no podium present now, and no polling boxes - the High Steward stood on his lonesome, overlooking the trodden snow of the square, and the townsfolk that hurriedly piled into it as news of the elections results traveled as swift a Haense's wind. Yet as the square seemed to fill, it seemed to become more quiet, as the townspeople hushened one another before their eyes snapped back to the High Steward, awaiting the elusive result. It was not until that the High Steward could hear the distant whipping of banners in the wind, and his own heartbeat, that he finally sucked in a breath of icy-air. "By the grace of King Marius, please give your blessings to Lukas Vanir - Maer of St. Karlsburg." -+=+-

7th of the Grand Harvest, 1596. Haense seldom knew summer; the High Steward was well aware of that fact as he took to the streets of St. Karlsburg in his heavy bearskin cloak, only to be greeted by the chilling bite of the wind. By the time he reached the square, snowflakes had nestled themselves in his windstrewn hair. With a solemn, flushed face, he approached the central platform in the heart of the city, where a crowd of cloaked townsfolk had gathered, all of them wearing eager faces and anticipating eyes. The High Steward mounted the platform, where two boxes had been positioned on two slender podiums, their surface powdered white by the snow. There was a small slit in the top of each box - just large enough to fit a sheet of parchment. The High Steward stood betwixt the two podiums, and turned his muddy-brown eyes on the crowd. For a moment, a tense silence claimed the square, broken only by the whistle of the wind, before the Steward gestured to the boxes. "Begin." ((Voting will close at 3AM GMT/10PM EST))

Is the S or C silent in Scent?

If Buzz Lightyear didn't believe he was a toy, why did he freeze everytime a human entered the room?

"I hear Johannesburg is nice this time of year."

"My, my." Floris mumbled as he lazily turned the parchment over in his slender fingers, as if expecting to find something written on the other side. The dark office, lit only by pale shafts of silvery moonlight, seemed to swallow up the lonesome words. "Declaring this when all but one battle has been one, and the odds are unimaginably stacked in favour of the coalition." Suddenly, a deep scowl marred Floris' face, and he crumpled the parchment in his pale fist. "How very brave." In one fluid moment, he leapt up from his desk, and hurled the crumpled parchment at the wall. It bounced harmlessly off a faded tapestry that once bore the Orenian crest, only now it was unrecognizable. Almost instantly, weariness reclaimed his face, and he collapsed back into his chair. Suddenly, he scoffed a lifeless, bitter laugh. "I'm a bloody steward, yet I've more honour than these swine. Funny how that turned out. Oh, mother, you'd be proud."

The morning of the 4th of the Deep Cold was an unforgiving one. As the High Steward made his way into the heart of St. Karlsburg, a chilling wind swept through the streets of Haense's capital, sending the Steward's woolen cloak fluttering and dancing in unison with banners that flapped fiercely from the rooftops in the northern wind. After what felt like an age of trekking through the snow, the Steward finally mounted the wooden platform in central Karlsburg, the steps of which creaked beneath his weight, and he brandished a long sheet of parchment. He sucked in a deep breath, and called out: "While Maer Vanir's time in office continues to bring progress and prosperity to St. Karlsburg, the time has come to prepare for the second election for the Maer of the city of St. Karlsburg. All those who seek the office, step forward now! All candidates must be a resident of the city, and announce their candidacy before the year's end." His solemn speech was carried through the square by the wind, which strangely seemed to enhance its volume. Slowly, the Steward furled the parchment once again, and descended from the platform. As he retreated to the warmth of indoors, the city square suddenly bloomed to life with the talk of the approaching elections. ((Nominate your characters below. Nominations will end on Saturday.))

Usually, the Johannesburg air would be filled with the ceaseless din of chatter and a chorus of craftsmen applying their trade, be it carpenters sawing through wood or merchants crying their wares in the cobbled streets. Yet on that particular morning of the First Seed, chatter was replaced by the echoing clashes of dulled steel on dulled steel as levies trained, and the only sound of craftsmen working that one could pick out was the unrelenting chime of blacksmith's hammers. Floris de Ruyter, holed up in his modest office, could not quite accustom himself to what he had come to know as the sounds of war. On that particular morning, as he sat hunched over Norrington's letter, the sounds of clanging swords and blacksmith hammers only caused a scowl to mar his slender face, though with his sharp nose and chin, some might have said that a scowl suited him well. He lazily scanned the contents of the loyalist letter with his heavy-lidded before he gave up tossed it towards the edge of his desk, where it joined an ever-increasing pile of propoganda, both of Orenian and Courland origin, that had made its way to his desk. He had read them all, and he had failed to understand them all. "Corruption and justice. What bullshit," he grumbled as he pushed off from his high-backed chair, and strode leisurely towards theback wall of the room, where a lone limestone fireplace stood lonely and ashen cold. Yet his eyes hesitantly drifted to the polished mirror that hung above the fireplace, and to the reflection that Floris had, ever since the war began in earnest, struggled to face. Slender and slight, the role of a Steward suited Floris well as a warrior of the quill, yet that had it's limitations. He was not strong, he was not fast, and he was certainly no killer. As he continued to stare at his own reflection, the sound of swords clashing outside seemed to grow louder and louder. He had never been a warrior, and he knew that he never could be. His talent lay with the quill and words, yet he knew that the war has surpassed the point of quill and words. Finally, he managed to avert his eyes from his dispiriting reflection, and instead turned them to where an old, dusty bluesteel blade hung suspended on the rack. The golden light of the summer morning filtered through the office's wide windows and illuminated particles of dust in long golden shafts before it fell on the blade's metal, causing the alloy to gleam brightly. As the sounds of blades reigned on outside, Floris puffed up his cheeks and sighed. With reluctant footsteps, he tread over towards the blade. He simply stood there, staring at the thing like he had never seen a blade before in his life, before he finally reached forward with a bony hand and pulled the sword free of its rack. The metal rasped as it was pulled free from the wood, and almost immediately, Floris dropped it, and the sword clattered to the floor. He had not expected it to be so heavy. Even though there had been no one present to witness it, his cheeks were tinted a shade of crimson as he bent down to clasp the hilt in both hands. He stood there, holding the sword for a few moments and letting the golden light of the summer morning dance against its unscathed surface. He wondered how someone like him could ever actually use a sword in the heat of battle, where a warrior of words was more like a hindrance than a help, but he supposed there was only one way to find out. While still clasping the blade, he cast a sidelong glance to Norrington's loyalist letter, before his muddy-brown eyes flickered to the elaborate tapestry that detailed the Orenian crest that hung beside his office door. The tapestry had once depicted the Orenian crest in vibrantly coloured threads, but it had long since faded to the extent where some parts of the crest were nearly completely illegible. "If I die for you, I'm going to be very upset," Floris grumbled at the crest, before he slung the sword over one shoulder, and, for the first time in his life, left the office with the intention of using it.

"Mister ... Mister de Ruyter? Did you hear me, sir?" Floris, slouched in the high-backed wooden chair of his office, had been staring pensively out of his office's wide window, through which the pale light of the evening filtered through. He had simply been watching the fat droplets of rain roll lazily down the glass, distorting the view, while the roll of thunder roared distantly in the sky. "Hrm? What was that?" Floris' deep, muddy-brown eyes flickered to the doorway, where the youthful courier stood clutching a furled roll of parchment and bearing an awfully uncertain expression. "M-Minister Manston, he ... h-he's dead, sir." Floris blinked his heavy-lidded eyes at the courier, before he simply reverted his gaze to the window, and the rain that rolled down it. If he was surprised by the news, his slender face betrayed no sign of it - he maintained the neutral expression of indifference that he so often donned in public. For a moment, an eerie silence claimed the office, broken only by the dull drumming of the rain as it slapped the window. "Mister de Ruyter?" the courier stammered hesitantly. "Yes, thank you," Floris said mildly. "You can leave now." The courier seemed more than happy to oblige, though Floris was so engrossed in his own thoughts that he hardly heard the door close, nor the hurried footsteps of the courier as he scuttled down the hallway. In fact, Floris was hardly aware of the courier's departure until he saw his figure pass beneath the window, twisted by the droplets of rain. Finally, Floris stood, prompting his chair to creak as it was relieved of his weight. With his bony hands clasped behind his back, Floris found himself wandering towards the window. Despite the splattering rain, Floris could just about make out the city that lay just beyond it. Floris was not quite sure how long he stood there, or when the pale evening light turned to the silvery gaze of the moon and a starless sky claimed the city. Lost in his myriad of thoughts, Floris finally sighed and instead decided to watch as the distant glow of fire and torches bloomed all across the city, replacing the stars the sky sorely lacked. As he did so, he wondered whether if the townsfolk knew who Edmond Manston was, or the work he had done for them - the thankless work and the selfless hours that it would have taken to elevate a man of common birth to such a position, a position through which he had moulded the city into something greater. He wondered if the assassin knew he had killed more than just a simple man, but man who was an artist in his own right.

Name Roggero de Mett Age Twenty-three Race Human, Heartlander Past Military Experience Nada Place of Residence Metterden Other Experience Worth Noting Nothing of significance - MC Name Xarkly Skype ID Sparklexarkle Teamspeak No

Floris buttered a slice of toast and drew a picture of an apple.

BASIC INFORMATION « OUT OF CHARACTER NAME » Xarkly « IN CHARACTER NAME » Floris « SURNAME » House de Ruyter « GENDER » Male « NOBLE » Yes PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION « DATE OF BIRTH » 1st of the Amber Cold, 1564 « HEIGHT & WEIGHT » 6'1 & 250 lbs « EYE, SKIN & HAIR COLOR » Brown eyes, brown-blond hair, pale skin. « CULTURE » N/A « MARKINGS » None. PERSONAL INFORMATION « HOME ADDRESS » 9 Sweetman Avenue, Johannesburg « PROVINCE » Crownloands « OCCUPATION » Steward-General REQUIREMENTS MET: B) IMPERIAL OFFICER OR HEAD OF ADMINISTRATIVE DEPARTMENT [X] CITIZEN'S OATH « CITIZENS ONLY » I, Floris de Ruyter, hereby swear my loyalty to the Emperor of the Holy Orenian 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. I, Conor, 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.

"This is rather excellent. I wonder who wrote it."

"Clearly, everyone else is spelling it wrong." (( Thanks for pointing that out, won't get it wrong next time. ))

Plastered upon both the interior and exterior walls of the Johannesburg Stewarding Office were a series of vellum posters, devoid of any seals, but instead bearing narrow, slanted handwriting, which detailed the following in a rich, blue ink: + Stewards Wanted in Johannesburg + The Johannesburg Steward team is a core component of the intricate Imperial Administration, the rigid backbone of the Holy Orenian Empire, and responsible for the smooth functioning of the city of Johannesburg in terms of taxes, housing, business, and much more. In order to maintain the smooth functioning of a city as vast and magnificent as Johannesburg, a skilled and talented team of City Stewards is required, whom posses amble ability in the likes of literacy, numeracy, organization and other administrative traits. While the existing stewards exceed this requirement, the City Stewards now grant citizens, of birth both high and low, the chance to join the Steward team and contribute to the increasingly-enhanced functioning of the city. The duties entrusted upon a City Steward include the following: =- Selling Properties -= =- Collecting Properties -= =- Evicting Properties -= =- Issuing Citizen Passports -= =- Repairing Properties -= =- Catering to any other relevant needs of Orenian citizens in the city -= If you believe yourself capable of fulfilling these duties to the esteemed standard that befits a Johannesburg City Steward, then complete the following application and deliver it to the Johannesburg Stewarding Office, located on the floor above the Johannesburg Tax Office. Application Format: Name: Age: Race: Relevant Talents: Why should we pick you to be a City Steward? : Additional Information: City Stewards are paid in the form of tax exemptions on properties, and are permitted to keep 10% of any payments made for a property they have sold. Refer any questions to Steward-General, Floris de Ruyter.

"Smashing."

Name: Floris de Ruyter Age: 25 Race: Human Subject you wish to major in: Law

"They speak of honour. They speak of corruption. They speak of innocent murders. They speak lies. The death of the innocent and defenseless lie at their feet. Soldiers, farmers, peasants are picked off in taverns on roads, for the sole excuse of the fact that they are Oren-born. In some cases, many are not even Oren-born, and they simply reside in Oren or were passing through. Raiders and pillagers rob and murder innocents under the masquerade that this is some long deserved justice against Oren. That is what they truly are. Raiders, bandits and scum from the darkest pits shielded by the light of a noble House spewing noble intentions. Noble intentions that puts the mask on the murder, the robbing, and who knows what else happens in the dark? So know I say this unto you, 'rebels'. Take your feud with the other Houses somewhere the innocents shall not suffer and bear the weight of your grudge. Take it somewhere where you do not extinguish lives to defend your own stubborn pride. You have made a powerful enemy that you do not know of yet. The Common Folk." -A Peasant.