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  1. Lemuel de Langford runs a final shine before buckling in his somber all-leather shoes. GOD willing and he shall take after his uncle in Imperial parliament.
  2. guys i am DONE with minecraft

  3. Sorry bruv, don’t support anti-Catholics. See u behind bars!!!!

    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Trenchist


      @Lionbiletismooch to dewpy from me😊

    3. Internet Villain
    4. thesmellypocket


      12 hours ago, Dummy_Boy02 said:

      amen catholic brother i tried warning folks about these crazed anglo devils and i got warning points but they literally want to bring us down i pray for u comrade

      Being a Catholic anglo means both sides hate you, it is being blessed twiceover...

  4. diamond status vip but u do not FUND THE DREAM Star citizen y not.

    1. Dummy_Boy02


      hey bro i think you need to go back to your own galaxy...

    2. oscarc00l


      ah, sorry kid didnt mean to breach your minecraft serious rp fantasy experience [feudal kings 2]



  5. BLOOD SOAKED SNOW THE HEUSSEN REGIMENT 7th of Harren’s Folley, 1776 “3rd of The Grand Harvest, 1774, Officer Cairbre Saeval, Ivae’Fenn. Topmost priority. To Heuschloss, Heusstandarte Regiment; An unthreatening band of vagabond orcs have set camp not far from the Northeastern gateway of Talu’lareh. Thereupon, the following morn, reconnoitering troops reported the fraternity of greenskin doubled in number. By the hour, the band amassed raiding forces and by the day of saturn a whole clan had accumulated. This dusk, the greenskins have set out to skirmish with our outpost in an effort to buy time for the construction of fortifications and a forward siege camp at the foot of our outpost. Interception efforts were carried out but to no avail. Additional orcish siegecrafts are in the midst of construction, and the affair proves to be but a matter of time before the gate is breached. An immediate reinforcement troop of the Heusstandarte Kompanie is requested to relieve the siege and dispel the orcish threat.” The tranquil current of the sky-blue stream, flowing through a steeply-carved ravine was interrupted by throbbing ripples in the water. Heavy thudding grew closer, the ripples expanding. Four hooves rushed through the ford, with haste, water thrown spurting all around. Following in the stallion’s track were a trio of riders, clad from head to toe in full, sombre-tinted plate. Adorning their suitably black steeds were identical yellow-black pattern caparisons. They slowed down upon a narrow path, jaggedly winding between cliffside and river. Finally, the foremost rider lifted his hand, ordering a halt by a cliffside. An agape cave hid some steps up the rock. The four dismounted, vigilant, and equipped their tackle. “Sergeant de Reden, Corporal de Langford.” the first called, lifting his visor with a metalic rasp. He was a middle-aged yet extremely well-groomed man with a curious accent, reminiscent of the guttural Kaedreni dialect. SGM Dniester Chauvin was already planning his retirement, but futily. He came expecting to be outmatched in an ensuing duel against an Orcish brute, to die with sword and by the sword. He’d be sorely disappointed were his death foretold to him then. “Up stream, there is a camp. Unidentified. Scout it with extreme caution, engage if necessary and report back. Myself and Corporal Laxenburg will secure the cave in preparation for the main troop.” With a crisp nod, the De-duo complied and hastily set out upstream. A red tent. Fishing equipment. A rustle. People talking? The duo exchanged glances, before making their way, slowly and discreetly, towards the tent. Just barely concealed by the red linen, the two - swords drawn - had already picked up on a pair of thieves ransacking the tent for all it has. No, not thieves - goblins. “HUMIEZ!” one suddenly screeched like a piglet, dropping a clay pot, smashing it on the plank floor. The second readily equipped his club, and a fight ensued in the blink of an eye. Langford’s blade met a second pot sent flying towards Reden in a panic. A clumsy swing of the clubbed Goblin caught Langford offguard and sent him against the wooden support beam. Reden cut sideways, and slashed the closest goblin’s hip. Another hurtled piece of furniture, and another clash of arms. Within less than a minute, the two goblins laid bleeding and lifeless on the ground. Before even drawing breath and confirming their kills, a sickly, silver-haired elf extended a shaky hand from a pile of rags tucked in the tent’s corner. “Help..!” he managed to mumble, a dark crimson stain marked by his abdomen. De Langford kneeled beside him, bandage already in hand, but it was visibly too late. “The red one.. In his wounds, he is most vulnerable..” he coughed in stingy pain, face tightening. “The red one? What do you mean, elf? Explain yourself!” Demanded de Reden, goggling the helplessly dying elf. He began choking on his words in his attempt to elucidate, twitching and cringing over his wound. “Damn it, I druther finish him, t’is needless suffering.” The knight concluded, offering de Langford a glance before, reluctantly, he shoved a knife in the elf, a stifled moan leaving him. “Red one, he said? What’s that mean?” then enquired de Langford, almost as if oblivious to the dead elf. He’s seen plenty and learned to share little sympathy. De Reden shrugged, and after gleaning about the tent, the two made their way back to the cave, along the jagged path. “Laxenburg und Hans.” Commanded an imposing man with a tight ruff over the larger troop which had arrived by the time the pair returned. Captain Johannes Betzler. “Climb up, carefully, und inspect zhe surroundings at zhe other side. Everyone else, double-check joor bandage satchels. Ah! de Langford, de Reden.” he took note of their appearnce, drawling on the Sparrow’s name in an almost comical Waldenian accent. “Vhat did joo find?” he frowned, as always. They explained. “Scheisse..” muttered Hans, son of the company horse-trainer. Eager, God-fearing yet impoverished and young. He’d dreamed of becoming a Sergeant and forever herald discipline, in fashion of his fabled foreuncles in the Order of Saint Lucien. Futily, however, as his tale would prove shortlived and cruel fated. He emerged from the narrow hatch at the other end of the cave, blinding sun light piercing his eyes, “Did ve make it all zhe way to zhe top of zhe ravine?” “It seems so, now quiet.” ordered Cpl. Laxenburg hoarsely, but silently, squinting. “Two sentries, to the right, near the watchtower, looking away. Do you spy? And a palisade, tent behind. Firecamp. Orcs.” he surmised, shuffling in the snow by the hatchet. “Very well, let’s report back.” With a silent nod to Laxenburg, Betzler lifted his sword sky-high, “Utter your prayers, kameraden. Los gehts, schnell!” he called. The whole troop organized, stood at formation, and one-by-one ascended the cave. They all climbed out, and professionally reformed, closely. At the order; Arthur Hamzus, Toni Talhoffer, Joseph Stahlherz and Louis de Laxenburg equipped their bows, took aim, and let loose. The two sentries were hit, shifted, and fell down the prodigious precipice. The troop proceeded to the encampment, prepared and uniformly descended on the forward camp. The Heussites charged, yelling. The Orcs, puzzled, rise from the firecamp, roar and pick their arms. An abrupt, cruel clash of steel and wood. Howls. Hounds - war hounds - leaped from their pen and plunged into the rear of the formation. Some men toppled, but the orcs are cut down. A Goblin turned on his heel, racing away - Toni’s halberd hooks his leg. He fell on his face, screeching, terrified. A whimpering cry, de Langford cuts down a war hound. A monstrous grunt - Stahlherz and Hamzus bring down an orc. Corporal Laxenburg struggles on the ground, blood gushing from his neck - devilish, yellow canine teeth digging at his collar. Betzler cuts the dog down. Hans, swinging down at the pinned Goblin - suddenly stands, afeared, before a behemoth of an Orc emerging from a tent. Toni stabs the Orc in the neck. The Sparrow cuts his knee. He collapses, full weight, on Hans, toppling the warhounds’ pen with both. Hans yells, Betzler pushes the monster off of him. Hamzus tends to the bleeding Laxenburg. The night silence is interrupted only by the heavy panting of the men and the harsh gale. Hans crawls from under the orc, bruised by still apt. Laxenburg is treated in one of the tents, under all the blood it turned out he had only suffered scratches to the lower neck. The group takes some time and reorganizes. A warhorn is heard. The company assembled behind a hill, and peers over. Before them is unveiled a bustling warcamp. Shouts, chants, clinking of steel and heavy thudding. The scent of blood, metal and smoke fills their nostrils. The Greenskins down below make ready for war. We can waste no time. The gatehouse could be breached any moment, an assault has just been called, reckoned Captain Betzler. They are oblivious to us. We descend and intercept the attack. The Captain was not dilatory. He bruskly barked orders to his officers, shot gestures and marked directions. The Company split. Two formations would go on to manuever down the cliff, and with a charge, they clashed with the orcs. Step by step, the Heussens pushed the unsuspecting Orcish flank further and further in the camp. Crossbow bolts bounced off their shields and armor. A hastily organized line of Spear-orcs suddenly assembled to block the Heussites’ advance. They exchanged blows and jabs. Toni was jumped from behind by a roguish goblin, pounding his helmet with fists. He suffers a concussion, falling. The goblin’s companion, a berzerker Orc, sustains Luxenburg’s spear to the thigh and is sent leaping forward, in a fit of rage. Hans cleaves him in the skull, but it’s too late. He is crushed under the orc’s weight, for the second time, this time mortally. Betzler opens his eyes wide. He sees a short crossbow bolt hanging from his breastplate, “Shitty ******* smiths…” he mumbles in awe, collapsing behind a tent. de Reden and de Langford are overwhelmed by two armoured Orcish sergeants at the other flank. Arthur Hamzus is nowhere to be seen. A warhorhn sounds, a different one. It is the Snow Elven one, signaling triumph. They repelled the assault on the gatehouse. SGM Chauvin rushes to Captain Betzler, treats him, and expresses urgent advice. Retreat. Captain Betzler calls a general retreat. The company pulls their wounded from the front and begins losing ground. Before long they’d climb the stones back the way they came and depart through the cave, bruised and beaten, unsuccessful. “Officer’s Log, Sun's Smile, 1774, Hauptmann Johannes Betzler; The assault on the orcish warcamp proved disastrous. Almost all soldiers present are injured, and three casualties are counted. Commandant Martin Heusmann is gravely displeased and demands the head of the Orcish warchief.” The following moon, the men assembled anew. “We shall split to two.” spoke Oberhauptmann Liamme aep Vlandenburg to the formation. A experienced cavalry officer in spite of his young age. His fate would prove most damned. “Cpl. Laxenburg, Cpl. de Langford and myself shall set out mounted and disrupt the edges of the camp. The main formation, supported by the Fennic auxiliary, shall be led by Captain Betzler.” The soldiers saluted, and set to march. This time, reinforcing from the side of the gatehouse, the first company, numbering nine including the Elven auxiliary, descended the stone stairway into a hill-side encampment, hugging the Fennic side of the gatehouse. A sight too familiar was before them; an ongoing battle. The Orcs have pushed through the gate and were now putting the encampment to torch, clashing with the little Snow Elven border guard that remained. “To arms! Double Rank! Marche!” ordered Betzler, sword in hand, visor rustling down. The Company descended on the ongoing fray and cut through the first greenskins in sight. Sgt Toni stanned with a halberd, Dilbert Strobl sent a swing. Lucien de Reden twisted his knee in the close melee and Betzler toppled over him. Hamzus kept the orcs ahead at bay as the pair recovered, and Stahlherz gashed at them from the flank. If there was one way to describe Corporal Joseph Stahlherz, it would be his namesake, Steel hearted. Valiant and fierce in combat, he could not foresee the mortal blow struck from behind him. A misplaced throwing axe tossed over by a recruit as unstable as a one-legged stool. He died instantly, skull fractured from behind. The unruly recruit would meet the same fate two saint’s hours after, gutted by Lt. Benjarno Sadre following the battle. There was no time gawk at Stahlherz, the whole formation had been climbing over eachother in a chaotic defense of the narrow gateway. De Reden parried, but was too late. His right hand was smashed by a hammer’s stroke, crushing the bone. Betzler received a nasty scar as he fell by an orc’s sword, but the bottleneck was pushed through. The company emerged at the other end of the gatehouse. Before then was an enclosed palisade wall. To the right, a healing tent. Do orcs even heal? I reckon they fight to the death, considered Arthur Hamzus as the small bailey was cleared. He didn’t enter, but Lucien, Betzler and Toni did. They put all to the sword. A large rope flung. Heavy wooden beams creak, and the counterweight trebuchet’s arm swung with speed. A large stone hit the center of the bailey, rubble and rocks spreading all around. None were at its mark, but Toni was struck in his helmet, fell, and with him Arthur. “Artillerie!” yelled someone from the top of their lungs, and before long, another boulder came flying - this time colliding with the palisade gate and breaking it to bits. Wasting no time at risk of another stone, Betzler rallied with him the weary men and climbed the wreckage of wood and stone. The camp now stood before them, greenskins at the ready. “Push to zhe hill, to zhe right! Seize zhe artillerie!” he commanded, and a push towards the hill was made. The two armored berserkers blocking their path were cut down with surprising ease by Betzler and de Reden. Following them were the rest, exchanging blows with spearorcs. Just as they made it to the hill, slowly outnumbered by orcs from the camp, came to view Liamme aep Vlandenburg, Lieberman de Langford and Louis de Laxenburg from atop a hill. They descended and cut down the unyielding goblins who manned the artillery piece. The regrouped troop held in defense and began unloading bolts into the Orcish formation down below. A pair of horses, Laxenburg and Langford’s, fell to enemy bolts. SGM Dniester Chauvin made it through to the troop and dug his shield deep in the dirt, facing enemy arrows. Alongside him stood Dilbert Strobl and Arthur Hamzus. Behind them, the men were returning fire from their crossbows. All besides one. Oberhauptmann Liamme aep Vlandenburg stood atop his horse, his countenance inert. He was unmoving. The men waited for orders, stood their group and sustained damage, but Liamme aep Vlandenburg remained dumbstruck, staring down at the camp. In this lingering, disastrous inaction, SGM Dniester Chauvin turned his head - he looked at the Oberhauptmann, his face begging for action. He froze, came to realization the commander. Why is he still staring at me? It didn’t take long for him to discover. Dniester Chauvin, in his well-groomed physiognomy, fell over under his shield. From his temple, protruded a bolt. He perished by Vlandenburg’s incompetence, and were he to continue, more will fall. “Retreat!” he barked, goggling. “Retreat! Immediately! Up the hill!” The men falled back, shields in hand. A stone thrown across hit Luxenburg in the head. He fell, unconscious, between the line and the orcs. De Langford, too, was struck by a slingshot and dropped. They were carried, but none had the time to think over hauling Chauvin. His armor and face, in their glamour, were crushed beneath pursuing orcs. They made it to the forward camp, where they, a moon ago, first encountered the orcs. They stopped to heal, to treat themselves, but orcs were still on their trail. A devilish, towering orc emerged from a hill overlooking the encampment. He was surrounded by a pack of veteran orcs. Their scars, however, were trifle in comparison of his own. Open, gaping, greenish-rotting wounds dotted him, in his protruding ribcage to his arm and leg. The men retreated in a frenzy, unable to face the warchief in their state. Vlandenburg was last, having exchanged gazes with the devilish orc. “Officer’s Log, Sun's Smile, 1775, Hauptmann Johannes Betzler; Another loss. Four casualties in total, counted after Oberhauptmann Vlandenburg’s hanging and the execution of Recuit Crim. The Commandant’s message was clear; failure shall be met with failure. If I do not succeed in our next attack, I am likely to meet Vlandenburg’s fate, on the noose. Gott mit uns. “Sorcery is not arbitrary, Sir Betzler. Logic and reason reign supreme in the arcane.” Edulicated the sorcerer, a decorated papakha, or kolpik in his dialect, sat steadily on his head.” “Ich have mein doubts.” Surmised the Captain, a distasteful grimace set on the scarred sorcerer. He shared the frown. “You’ve naught to fear, we are all Canonists. I am acquaintance to Lt. Benjarno and distant relative to Thomas Fitzgerald, they vouch for me.” he replied. Unimpressed, Betzler replied, “We’ll have our fair share of discussions, Herr Bucephalus. For the moment, I must depart. My nose was injured in yesterweek’s fight, it must be checked. Farewell.” he promptly departed. What a pity, to stoop to the help of sorcerers. “Make ready! We set out, the orcs have encroached to our doorstep! Today, we put an end to that scourge, to their leader. Employ your Betzler concoctions, they are flammable. Arthur Hamzus, you are assigned to Bucephalus’ side. Stir clear of his way when he casts. The rest, double rank!” Ordered the commander. The formation was ready, and the men made their way out and advanced, boot atop last night’s blanket of snow. They advanced, shields knit together. They overcame the first crossbow-goblins, and before long, a whole conflagration had ranged in the forward camp of the orcs. Lieutenant Faust Goethe’s concoction went ablanze in arms, but the other’s were tossed over the palisade successfully. Bucephalus’ blast of fire helped scatter the orc formation inside, and the camp was overwhelmed with relative ease. Exchanging bolts and arrows with the forces below from the newly captured battlements, the company was forced to defend against a rather fierce counter-attack mounted by the orcs. Successful, yet wounded, Hamzus, Reden, Laxenburg and Clio Amaretti defended valiantly. Arthur Hendrick’s crossbow bolts found their four marks with great success. Betzler’s own cocktail, the Betzler Special, highly flammable, was flung over the palisade. In retaliation, the same cocktail was thrown back from the camp and combusted in Betzler’s face. Hamzus would have burst in a laughter were it not his Captain concerned. The group healed, organized and descended the hillside camp in calculated steps to met all thrown at them. Before long, they have secured the majority of the center camp. Tattered and bloodied corpses littered the surface, while some crossbow-orcs still let loose their bolts on the soldiers. Bucephalus was preparing a spell as a vanguard of Heussen sergeants advanced to meet them. The company has failed to notice, however, a heap of war slaves looming above. Some ten discolored, disgruntled and frightened humans and elves, with knives and pitchforks, descended on the occupied formation’s right flank in a frenzy. De Langford was first to fall, following was Arthur Hendrick and eventually Bucephalus. He was forced to smack his staff across at some encroaching slave’s head. He panicked and fell back, jumping inside a tent where he found Laxenburg bleeding profusely, “Defend me, boors! Defend me!” he yelled. More soldiers joined him in the tent, not thanks to his wail, however. They, too, were outnumbered and damaged, and came to seek shelter. Almost the whole troop has surrounded the tent and its entrance, desperately holding off the cannonfodder charge, which proved especially brutal. But they held. The rear of the slave mob realised their goblinish oppressors, the slave-drivers, were no longer behind them. Thus, they decided to flee, but in the wrong direction. They were picked off by orcish crossbows, meeting their freedom only in death. The troop healed, reorganized, and turned to ascend the next hill and to put an end to the greenskin scourge. They climbed the foothill, striking the opposition with difficulty. Some time later, they had finally made it to top ground; to the warchief’s tent. A towering Orc emerges from the tent, devilish eyes trailing those standing before him. In a furious rage, he roars, shaking the dirt beneath and peeling further off some of his dangling, green rotten flesh. While some troops were clashing with some orcs to the opposite corner of the hill, it was down to Captain Betlzer, Sergeant de Reden, Corporal de Langford, Soldaten Arthur Hendrick, Clio Amaretti and Arthur Hamzus to face the devilish chief. Above them, Bucephalus of Flodts discharged a spell, a whirling sphere of fire. Some five feed infront of the beast, with a simple swing of his sword, the sorcery was cast aside, deflected, and raced towards the unsuspecting tent wherein Jan, Toni and Laxenburg were battling. In awe of the spectacle, Bucephalus lost his breath and collapsed in exhaustion, staff shattering at his side, dragged by Hamzus to a secure corner under the hill-side wall. De Langford was struck in the knee, impaired. Betzler and de Reden jabbed, endlessly, at the orc’s gaping wounds, recalling the dead elf’s prophecy. The soldiers all slashed. So did the monstrous orc. Chief Zislag’s large weapon, however, a war cleaver, proved inapt against the Heussites. He cut off the head of his first Lieutenant, who was standing right besides him, battling it out with Hendrick and Clio. Then, when he prepared a second whirling swing, he decapitated his bodyguard to the left, only scraping the plates of the armor-clad mercenaries. After a prolonged duel, he was cut down. Betzler’s slice to the side brought the behemoth to one knee. Hendrick stabbed his ribcage, sending a bone flying out, the Orc fell on second knee. Then, finally, having been rendered defendless, Sergeant de Reden sent a two-handed, horizontal flourish. The orc’s neck had been slit, and he collapsed head-on on the ill-fortuned de Langford, who was struggling to crawl away with a wounded knee. The men dragged Langford from under the beast and into safety. They breathed, at last, victorious, to the sounds of whimpering goblins taking flight as they spectate the extermination of their warchief. “Victory.” celebrated Bucephalus, Hamzus’ vodka in his hand, emerging from his corner. Ave Heusmann + GOTT MIT UNS! RECRUITMENT Should any able bodied man seek enlistment in the company, they ought to further a notice to the company’s address. In advance, however, it is recommended to ensure one’s eligibility or face rejection. Personnel learned in medicine are in exceptional demand. https://www.lordofthecraft.net/forums/topic/192686-heusstandarte-1772/
  6. BANDITS’ BLOOD 5th of Godfrey’s Triumph, 1774 “They defy the laws of man, the laws of God. They live by no code, by regard to naught. In their lexicon, there is no jurisprudence. They are a specie that will never be civilized, a specie never meant to live in civilization. We shan’t stoop to their barbarism, ney, we exploit it.” Lieutenant Dniester Chauvin on the Hangmen ilk. A Heussen assault detachment (left) and attorney Thomas Bernt Fitzgerald Esq (right). The renegade highwaymen’s band dubbed the Hangmen have as of late published a double-notice wherein, among balderbash and calumny, they have took on to begging for injury against the Heusstandarte company. As in a cur or a child’s callow excitement, or perhaps out of desperation, they assemble cutthroats, bandits, deserters and other scoundrels from every forsaken corner of the realm, in an effort to bolster their numbers, their force, to have a chance in stepping up to the Heussens’ valiant soldiery. Their efforts prove futile, however, for when a highwayman’s wit equates the wit of a stray dog, when the only unifying principle is criminality and the only motive is the thirst for blood, the answer is indivertibly; blood. Bandits’ blood. Unnamed tribal elf, Hangmen auxiliary, sentenced to death by hanging following a successful hunt. Ave Heusmann + GOTT MIT UNS!
    1. Show previous comments  1 more
    2. Mickaelhz



      i’d leave too if i got clapped by a guy on a trackpad.


      Edited by Mickaelhz
    3. Werew0lf


      let’s roleplay on garry’s mod vc!

    4. johnnywar


      u stupid son? @werew0LF GAMING u stupid? or just plain dumb

  7. THE HANGMEN HANG 7th of Gofrey’s Triumph, 1774 “Some people live to eat, some eat to live. I’m neither. I simply enjoy food.” Captain Johannes Bletzer to Faust Goathe, following Friday dinner. Common, Marian, the guttural Kaedreni, Auvergnian, a hint of Thuanidian, even a slip of Nordic. My, atleast I don’t hear Elvish, Dniester mused. The Lieutenant whistled shrilly, hand rising obliquely in an effort to gain the teeming soldiers’ attention. “Ey, look here and shut up.” he finished, sidestepping - overtaken by Hauptmann Betzler. “Hael, gentlemen, kameraden.” he began, eyes skimming over the sort. He noted Nessel, Stahlherz and Talhoffer were tired, they spent the night in watch duty. “Zhese Hangmen, Hangwomen, Hangelves, Ich admittedly do nicht know what zhey are; zhese so-called mercenaries, who hide zheir faces behind green rags.” he paused, eyes set askance momentarily, catching de Reden and de Langford covertly exchanging some play-dice behind their backs. “For zhe best, Ich presume, zheir faces best remain hidden. At any rate,” he gesticulated, “zhese bandits have started picking fights vith us, challenging our patrols.” he picked up the agreeable nods of Goethe and Louis, who he witnessed cut down some of the brigands themselves, and hid a proud smile. “We even lost some footmen, ja, in a test of mettle.” he wet his lips, readjusting his posture. At the back of the flock, Fitzgerald and Strobl were whispering, sotto voce, he guessed about moustache wax. We, Heusites, value our physiognomy, Fitzgerald took a liking to say. “Zhey sent parties, zhey were slain. Zhey are caught roadside, zhey die. Ich do not blame them for always fleeing, always retreating - resorting to flight after fight ist a cur’s instinct, und curs zhey are.” he pushed forward his jaw, hang shifts to his longsword’s pommel, resposed. “Zhey are a tribe exalting corruption, an inferior anomaly, absent of any sense other zhan primitive instinct. Zhey will be deprived of all will to fight when zhe blood zhey yearn for will spill from zheir own. We shall nicht yield. Now now to statements: Aep Vlandenburg hereby receives a commission, assigned Oberhauptmann. In preparation for new recruits, Benjarno has ordered a new supply of arms, thus joo may wave Eisenhuts goodbye, zhey are nicht longer uniform. Lastly, it ist Venus day, so expect zhe payroll und repast as soon as we disperse.” he cleared his throat, eyes trailing to his colleague Hauptmann and their Lieutenants, “In anyone’s wish to add?” “Yes.” nodded Lieutenant Dniester, his typical sly smile soon alighting on his face, eyes turning to the soldiers. “These ne’er-do-wells, these Hangmen. They defy the laws of man, the laws of God. They live by no code, by regard to naught. In their lexicon, there is no jurisprudence. They are a species that will never be civilized, a species never meant to live in civilization, and we shan’t stoop to their barbarism, ney, we take advantage of it. Cast off decadence, renounce sin. Evil shan’t draw breath on Heussen soil. From today, their extermination is expedited.” he concluded, heels touching as he extended a salute to the addressed, who too shot out their hands. “Ave Heusmann, Gott mit uns!” We hung and executed twofold than the Hanged did, contrary to their barks of calumny. Animosity is a two-way-street, recollects Commandant Martin Heusmann. The ditch of bodies was piling ever-taller, so the soldiers resorted to tossing bodies from the precipices. A practice introduced by the Sergeant de Reden, the butcher of Kreden. Fitzgerald detests it, but the Sparrow is evidently a realist. When men run out of words, they draw swords, Saint Brother BOB of the OSL taught. An accomplished wordsmith, he defended the Church by the quill in wake of a Haensetic schism, while his Ordermen abated it by sword. The Hanged, however, had no words to begin with, the Lieutenant was right. Their aggression is groundless, it holds no motive. And thanks to precisely that, their primitive feebleness, of body and mind, their downfall is imminent. Nature ordains it. “Master Bernt, attorney of law. I must confess, atimes I ponder, per fas et nefas?” The lawyer finished chewing the buckwheat with honeyed milk. He alighted his spoon on the table, and patted his chin with his handkerchief before beginning, “O Captain, I shall reconcile your scruples. Probity is no error, disabuse yourself of that notion. It is virtue. You may find it risible I say this as a legalist, but before I took to law, I studied the ethics of the Canon. An academic theologian, if you will. And so, I present to you my conclusion. Those we fight, who you, ere our meal, dubbed a species unbefitting civilization, are precisely that. I druther a lamb’s life over any of theirs. By slaying them in the field, in the roads, by hanging them by the noose and even tossing them off the cliff, you enact the Lord’s justice, I tell you, more than simply waging war.”
  8. “Ah, yes.” Succinctly noted Tomas Bernt Fitzgerald Esq, aide-de-camp and business attorney, in his newly tailored livery. Beside him stood Martin, his protruding belly fortunately bulwarked by a dark tinted steel plate. “Betzler!” Barked the Commandant, shooting his hand obliquely. Captain Johannes Betzler, who came at his side a moment after, had been dealing with callow conscripts and dilettantes who were still rehearsing over which side of the spear pricks, and hearing the Commandant yell was the last thing he had wanted. “Tell zhe men to start rolling zhe camps. We move out tomorrow noon. Zhe contract ist signed und now in effect.” With a crisp salute, the Captain-- “Oh. Und de Reden will brief joo on zhe new plans. We are nicht simply moving zhe camp, nein. Zhis time, we erect a fort, und have a soft bed at long last.” From the Captain escaped a sigh of relief. It’s about time. “Oh, and.. Captain Bletzer-.. Uhm, Betzler.” Tomas interjected, cleared his throat, and continued, “Do seek a cook. A real one, this time. We’ll have a permanent table.”
  9. He buckled his boots. He buttoned his tunic, strapped on his tassets and stretched his breastplate. He pinned on his checkered insignia, slid St. Robert’s ring in his fat finger, he clicked his belt, combed his bald head and waxed his beard. He bristled his posture, extended his shoulders, hid his hanging jowls and finally adjusted his ruff. He stepped out of his tent with a stoical grimace, soon joined by Thomas Bernt Fitzgerald, aide-de-camp and business attorney, equally groomed and tidied. The pair began the inspection. Seven new barrack tents, the repository expanded threefold, the stables just as much. It has been a fortnight of constant work, but the conscripts must be accommodated. Out of necessity, and for “Greater business ventures”, as Fitzgerald had taken a liking to repeat. A contract was in the air, Martin could feel it. A NOTICE TO RECENT APPLICANTS To the henceforth listed, appraised and accepted by the Commandant, must report to the Heussen camp for indoctrination and training with immediate effect; Lucien de Reden Edward Confonnier Johannes Betzler Arthur Hammas Rudolph Reiner Joseph Stahlherz Karsten Wallner Erwin Schädler Klauss Meiyer Signed, Commandant Martin Heusmann
  10. Heavy rain, thunder, neighing, the stifled thudding of hooves skipping along a blanket of fallen leaves. The duo of riders galloped fast through the ongoing storm. The rain, made worse by a harsh gale, would have any other passerby seek shelter at the nearest inn, wait out the downpour with a bellyful of mashed potatoes and thick gravy with a warm hearth for the feet. And for that reason precisely the pair decided to ride this night. They came upon a large clearing, the wet grass glistening under the full moon’s light, which gleamed even through the thick gloomy clouds, distant overhead. The moonlight made it suitable enough to see one’s track, but also dim enough to allow one to hide in the wood’s thicket, relatively undetected. However, there was no time to gawk. The foremost rider stood up on his stirrups, eyes keenly peering towards the center of the meadow, where several large willows and bushes protruded. He then skimmed through the border of the clearing at the opposite side, shifted back to his saddle and the pair continued uphill, towards the group of trees. The wet mud made their way messy, but they made it through to the copse. They came to a synchronized halt and the second rider whistled, like a cricket, loud enough to not be stifled by the storm’s teem. Each laid a hand on their scabbard, and for a few seconds all they could hear was the rain and their own cold, nervous breaths. A similar whistle then answered. They gave each other a reassuring nod and trotted inside. The copse’s overgrowth was not enough to block all the rain - the drops still sliced through the leaves at the top, but it offered a secluded atmosphere. Before them was a wagon, covered by a grey blanket, raindrops sliding off of it. Under it stood two men, hoods covering their faces - yet given the circumstance, were just as nervous. “You tardied another minute, we’d have frozen!” rasped the irritated wagoner, then nudged and overtaken by his accomplice. “We’s got it here, all is well.” he turned around and lifted a bit of the tarpaulin. “This arsenal’s been through many hands, goodman. They say a pair of officers nicked it in the chaos of some attempted coup at Kaedrin.” he eludicated, eyes trailing to the two horsemen with a sly smile. “Oh, Ja, Ich know zhese intricacies of yesteryear all-too-well.” replied one of them with a visibly greying beard. The combination of his thick accent and a miniscule yellow-and-black checkered shield hanging from his right shoulder made his ancestry obvious. “Lieberman.” he shot his confrere a courteous nod and the two dismounted and bore closer to the wagon. Lieberman produced a heavy coin pouch from his belt, fiddling with it in his hand. The merchant’s grin plastered onto him like a statue, eyes almost balefuly following it. The first rider, Martin, ungloved his right and ran a hand through the cold metal of a sword. In his finger was a large, shimmering golden ring. Saint Robert’s. They examined the arms with clicking tongues, scrutinizing the weaponry closely, and Lieberman remarked calmly, “You are not lying, friend. These are Kaedreni-made indeed.” He extended the pouch to the merchant, yet following a reluctant moment, he withdrew. “We will pay when we part ways, actually. Let us keep this promise amicably, in goodwill.” he commented. The merchant glowered, growled and then rasped. “Fine. We’s lead the cart, though.” he added with a frown, clicking his tongue and then he and the wagoner climbed the transport. Martin and Lieberman mounted their steeds. The cavalcade left to the clearing, then to the causeway, and back the way they came. The riders’ hands still clenched their scabbards. DIE HEUSSTANDARTE KOMPANIE THE HEUSSEN REGIMENT 7th of Owyn’s Light, 1772 MISSION The Heusstandarte is a band of Waldeno-Kaedreni freelancers and sellswords who found themselves bereft of a home in wake of the thirty-year-long war of Nordling Aggression. Clad in full sombre tinted steel, the core of the Heussen company are a heavy shock cavalry, having mastered equestrian combat in a renditioned fashion of their contemporary and distant ancestors. Upholders of the Vander code, the company maintains a strict disciplinary ethic and vow to earn their keep by cross and lance alike. CONTRACTS The Heusstandarte company excels in a variety of duties, be they combative or conciliatory, to any presentable contractor. A decorated past experience of commando work amongst the company’s senior members and a thorough proficiency in law (accredited in large thanks to the company’s private business attorney, Tomas B. Fitzgerald Esq.) comes to ensure an incontrovertibly professional commitment in any contract. Among the company’s fields of expertise are namely garrisoning and police work, the conducting of causeway checkpoints, patrols and scouting, construction of fortifications befitting Kaedreni siege-masters, custody of persons (penal or otherwise) as well as wartime security, offense and foray depredation. Prices vary depending on circumstance, and may be privately negotiated with the company’s legist. RANK STRUCTURE Commandant (Commander) The de jure head of the Company, the commander maintains incontrovertible ultimatum in affairs both civil and martial, as well as ratifies contracts, promotions and military decisions. Currently Martin Heusmann [@Trenchist]. Oberhauptmann (Chief Captain) The commander’s second-hand, he sees to the execution of orders and assignment of duties to his lieutenants, as well as the readiness of arms, armor and victuals. Hauptmann* (Captain) These chief officers correspond directly to the Oberhauptmann and administer their respective specialised units. By their advice enlisted may rise the ranks but also receive punishment. As well as in charge of recruitment, a captain’s guiding principle is discipline and his conduct must fully reflect it. Current Haupt Johann Betzler [@Pokantu1] and Friedrich Müller [@Semihilyus]. Sergeant* Battle-tested and seasoned soldiers, these wield the whip of discipline as well as the standard. By their nous they see to the indoctrination of recruits and are entrusted with maintaining the company’s esprit de corps. In addition, Sergeants may be assigned specialized duties by their captains, such as drillmaster, horsemaster, head scout, liaison officer and so on. Corporal Exemplary soldiers with whom lies the responsibility of enacting their seniors’ commands, they thus wield mild officer power between soldats and recruits and may, voluntarily, be assigned to a sergeant - in order to learn his specialization in preparation for their own. Soldat The most numerous of rank in the company, these riders have been drilled thoroughly yet do not yet possess battle prowess. Although their pay is meager, it is in this rank that soldiers are expected to exhibit discipline and talent for future promotion. Recruit Yet to be sifted by body and spirit, these new additions to the company must pass through training and indoctrination of the equine field before they may earn their keep. RECRUITMENT Should any able bodied man seek enlistment in the company, they ought to further a notice to the company’s address. In advance, however, it is recommended to ensure one’s eligibility or face rejection. In our age’s zeitgeist, the company is deemed strict in its required preconditions, which follow; One must be of full Human lineage. One must profess the Canonist Faith. One must be of the male gender. One must be disabused from degenerate vices and their connotations. Full name: Age: Experience: Ethnicity: [OOC] Username: [OOC] Discord:
  11. A man contemplates making business, before taking note of the mark of the Josephites... He recoils in disgust, and tosses the pamphlet on a nearby bench.
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