DagonsChosen

Steward's Way 3 - 110 Mina.

MC Name: Inquisitater RP Name: Auberon de Clare Skype: / Profession: Spy, Interrogator (Masterful woodworker) TeamSpeak: Yeah Time-Zone: GMT +1 Desired chapter: Ruric Chapter

[!] Auberon sheds no tears for his good friend, but his countenance is veiled by grief. His formerly youthful face now shows scornful crowsfeet, and a dull stare takes the place of his familiar snake-like glare. Sarcasm leaks through his voice, and he has ceased to hide his cynicism with diplomacy and feigned patience. He finally allows himself a single glance at Ragnar's brutish, now peaceful countenance, as he holds the wake, and forces himself to supress the memories that attempt to pry themselves into his mind. [!] "Le Ours Sauvage... Atleast you took that Vladovic, woman supporting, sodomy practicing, young boy enjoying, vodka guzzling camel rider with you, eh..."

"Let them come..." Says some man in white tabard

[!] A note is pinned to the clause [!] "Licenses issued. Contact an orderman or the Inquisitor himself to retrieve it." ((Inquisitater)) [!] Cirri'Lla Riannon's application is, instead, pinned to the clause aswell, and it bears a clearly readable, red stamp [!] "MALEFICARUM"

Nice trickshots Harrison. Good battle, from both sides.

Words of recent event spreads throughout Oren and it's protectorates... Words that strike fear to the hearts of heathens and heretics, who had thought the age of Inquisition to have ended long ago. Such men and women rested assured that their ways would be ignored, and thus, dishonoured and disrespected the Church of the True Faith, spraying mud on it's name. But they were wrong... The tales speak of a group of men, with the Lorraine cross upon their chest, that seems to wield supreme authority, led by a man whose cold, glassy eyes reflect the cleansing flames, in a way that leads even his closest companions to shudder. The times where the Knights Lorraine struck fear to the heart of every pagan were forgotten by most... But not by all, and, if those tales are true, those times are bound to return... Rather unexpectedly. Pyres have been erected throughout Oren, and they have been put to use. The smoke and the smell of burned, /cleansed/ flesh, still rolls over Oren in thick clouds, along with the zealous, chanting voices, of men of the Order of Saint Amyas: "THE FIRE THAT CLEANSES!" "GOD WILLS IT!", and haunts all those who thought they were safe from persecution, safe from Inquisition.

Licenses issued. Contact the Knight Inquisitor ((Inquisitater)).

The first few Licenses have been issued. Direct yourself to Peremont, or send a courier to the Knight Inquisitor ((Inquisitater)), to claim them.

~# 7th of The Deep Cold, 1518 #~ The Magic License Clause “Magi may not practice Arcane arts of any fashion within Oren and it’s protectorates, without being officially licensed. No exceptions or loopholes are to exist.” ~# }---+---{ #~ 1-1. By decree of His Majesty, rightful ruler of Oren, King Olivier the Savoy, first of his name, all practitioners of magic of any sort, those being Arcane, Clerical, Druidic or otherwise in nature, within the boundaries of Oren and it’s protectorates, Haelun’or, Ker’nor and Cerulin, are to be capable of presenting an official license for such, when requested to by an Orenian official. 1-2. As in conjunction with the Codex Arcana, 1-3, any mage to use their magic to cause harm to Oren or its citizens, or those of its protectorates, practice foul magic, or otherwise fail to adhere to the Law of Registration, are labeled maleficarum. Necromancers, Shade Magi, Soul Puppeteers and other practitioners of any magic that is dark in nature may not be licensed. 2. Drawing energy from the void and failing to present a license will result in a fine of 300 minae (Such fine may only be charged by the Inquisitor himself, or a designated envoy bearing an oficial document with the Inquisitor's seal, granting him such right). A second offense will lead to the offender being labeled maleficarum, which results in inquisitive persecution and execution. Magi must fill out the document below, and send it to the Knight Inquisitor’s office((Post it below)). The request will be reviewed, and if it is approved, a license will be issued, at the cost of 100 minae. Signed: His Majesty, King Olivier de Savoie ((InternalFacis)) Knight Inquisitor Auberon de Clare ((Inquisitater)) His Grace, Lord Chancellor Guy de Bar ((Altiak)) __________________________________________________________________

Auberon's eyes show a dangerous glimpse, and none in the men in the hall could tell if it was a glimpse of passion, or a glimpse of pure fanatism. His father's old Inquisitor robes lay across his lap, along with the heavy, grenade encrusted golden brooch, shaped like a Lorraine cross. He then rises to his feet, and paces off towards his chambers, with the sole intent to dress himself in these well-known, ancient garments.

[!] POWERFUL Auberon de Clare doesn't look like he gives two damns. [!] "...So what?"

[!] The deceased Flamen and Inquisitor Simon de Clare gazes down from the skies, and smiles the sun's smile, as he spots Oscar. [!] "Hope is not lost... Afterall."

[!] A young boy, accompanied by a large crowd of protesters stands in the square of Felsen. They hold up signs, sporting phrases such as "NO MORE STAUNTONS!", "WE PLEAD, STOP THE SPREAD!" or "HOW DO YOU BIRTH THREE CHILDREN WITHIN ONE YEAR?" [!] [!] The young boy, dressed in expensive clothes and good leather boots, carries a clipboard, and a large list. He adresses every citizen, every man and woman who passes him [!] "Please, sir, madam, can you make a contribution to our campaign? It is for the good of Oren and its people! Just give us your signature." [!] He offers them the list, and a quill [!] "And consider making a donation to our fund! The money will be used to educate Stauntons and prevent them from mating like rabbits. Just leave your donation at your local banker, and tell him it is for the "No More Staunton" fund. He'll deposit it properly!" ((Send to vingmx)) [!] The boy then goes on chanting with the crowd [!] "STOP THE STAUNTON SPREAD! WE PLEAD, STOP THE SPREAD!"

Einar listens to the words, and his chests swells up in pride. He clenches his fist, with hopeful determination stamped onto his countenance, but also fright.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cPMj_IUgXKo "Tell the others... I will watch over them... In this brave new world." [!] The Priest said solemnly but clearly, and with a shadow of hope in his voice [!] "Such were the mysterious last words of Father Simon, esteemed chaplain of the Order of St. Amyas. He entrusted them to Dorian, a loyal soldier, and one of those that Simon knew since he joined the Order, back when he was but an eager, arrogant initiate. But that was not all that the weathered chaplain entrusted Dorian with. Simon was ill. Events in his memory started to fade, slowly, over the last years. His heart was weak, and his dreadful case of epilepsy, which he had thought long cured, came back. He knew his time was comming, but felt, somehow, that his task in this mundane existance was not accomplished yet. De Clare was burning in fever, as the Order packed and marched off. His beloved brothers-in-arms had to lay him on a cart and drag him along, which slowed them down. As his companions boarded the vessel that would guide them to this promised land, the old man's failing memory struck like a punch in the stomach: He had forgotten a relic that was his to guard and take care of. He had forgotten the skull of Bishop Kristoff. Simon somehow, through some unexplaineable way, gained forces to take on the footmarsh through Athera, alone. With grim determination, and as if with divine inspiration, he walked. Step-by-step, using two sticks he had found on the roadside as support, he marched off by the side of the main travel route, as to not collide with the others, that were still on their way to their corresponding ships. The fever caused him to hallucinate, and he saw hellish pits amidst the utter darkness, and one path that seemed right, lit with divine light... One path which he followed. And he suceeded. He retrieved the skull from it's vault... But his strenght failed him on the way back. He collapsed near the road, and by some divine mean, a minor group of traders noticed him laying in the dirt, and lodged him onto one of their carts. They recognised him, and so, delivered him into the caring hands of his Brothers." [!] The priest made a long pause, and folded his hands piously [!] "And hence, Dorian was entrusted with the skull of the beloved, beautified bishop, and issued with Simon's last mission for him: To protect the relic, and to deliver it to Guy de Bar, in which hands it would be safe." [!] With that, he turned to Simon, which was laying peacefully in his casket, with an expression of utter holiness uppon his countenance. The priest dipped his fingers in scented oil, and signed the Lorraine cross over Simon, sprinkling oil onto his chest. [!] "In nomine patris, et honorem, et caritas. Réquiem ætérnam dona eis, Dómine, et lux perpétua lúceat eis. Requiéscant in pace. Amen."

Augustus I. "Longshanks", opressor of Scotland. I've known the guy since before he began his legacy on LoTC. He was an Admin and Developer a long gone RP server, which I dare not to name, and he did an awesome Job with events, and everything else. I'd trust the bloke with my life, and I'd vouch for him anytime. ---> +1 <---

Simon finishes working over the detailed work of the esteemed Bishop, and scratches his shaved chin, wondering to himself "What about the whips... Why are they shaped like that? There must be some purpose..."

"Réquiem ætérnam dona ei Dómine; et lux perpétua lúceat ei. Requiéscat in pace... Amen." Simon speaks the prayer, both his hands clutched togheter piously. His eyes are wet with tears, as he watches two of his Amyasian footmen lower the heavy stone slab onto the tomb he had ordered for dear Father Kristoff, and sealing it forever.

Simon chants along, while he orders every single one of his Amyasian comrades to piss on each and every Bolbec poster they find. "Bulbous Bolbec! Bulbous Bolbec!"

Simon cuts himself on the edge.

Simon's frown is sincere, the pain he feels for the fallen comrade true. His knees are bruised, and his back aching, and the sound of the rain hitting against the tinted glass is sinister, combined with the thundering of the storm, yet the Chaplain does not rise from the pews. Whispered words fill the Amyasian cathedral, prayers for Allister, and all those who fell by Angren. Simon does not rise until the first sunlight meets his countenance. He exits the cathedral, and the emptiness of Leuvaarden strikes him hard, and he is asured: The Knights Lorraine will not be the same without that one man.

Simon nods proudly, as the mention of his and the other Engineers' work fills him with pride.

Name: Simon de Clare Age: 28 Birthplace: Aldersberg Criminal Record: Toxic memes [Mc Name]: vingmx [skype]: vincent.schrader1

In my opinion, magic should be removed. Magic doesn't help you on a PvP factions server like LoTC. (Yes this is a meme) No, seriously, I hope this puts an end to the spreading infection of magic-abusing, Powergaming edgies.