Kebab

Leufroy Falkenrath hummed with graven concern as his eyes glanced through the letter. ”These people have a knack for attracting hateful fanatics.. Perhaps this time I shall be granted the opportunity to oversee a trial without the unfortunate suicide of a defendant.” He wondered aloud to himself, beginning to pen a message of his own to the members of both parties. ”With the consent of the circuit will I oversee this trial, both the prosecution and defense shall have five days to prepare and submit their evidence upon receipt of this letter.” The paper would be folded and sealed in wax stamped with the image of an eagle surrounded by laurels of leaves.

gib gun

Leufroy Falkenrath glances through the terms with vague disappointment evident in his eyes, though would proceed to sign the agreement nonetheless. ”It seems I am compelled by unnatural forces never to preside in court.” He remarked in a joking manner. ”Nevertheless, I am glad a settlement could be reached peaceably. Should the defendant refuse to comply with that which was agreed, however, the court reserves the right to enforce the terms.”

Anchored against his favorite oaken armchair, Leufroy Falkenrath scans through the paper with the sort of apathy afforded only to mundane routines, though his indifference would soon change with each passing word. Soon enough, he was on the brink of his seat with a puzzled expression as he penned a reply. ”With the support of the circuit, I shall be overseeing this case. Both parties shall be allowed five Saint’s days from receipt of this letter, in order to gather their evidence and prepare for trial.”

Leufroy Falkenrath pens a short letter to both parties, claiming the case after the circuit’s approval. “Both parties will have five Saint’s days to prepare and submit their evidence.” The letter would be sealed in wax stamped with the image of an eagle surrounded by laurels of leaves.

To whom it may concern, We, of the Falkenrath family, do wish that this letter finds you well in what far corners of civilization you may presently be in. We write to you with the express intention of recounting our family history in the hope that those of you who may claim descent from our lengthy existence consider a return to our fold, for we have great need of our lost kindred now. Below you will find this chronicle such as it is, may it prove of some importance and may God be with you. A Very Brief, So Brief, It Could Be Considered A Moment, Nay, A Single Second Within The Grand Tapestry That Is History, History A sworn horse archer of the Falkenraths depicted in the midst of battle during the Dukes’ War. Ours is not a tale steeped in glory as with the esteemed houses of yore ever boasting of their ancient rights and victories. Nor is ours a story of a valiant knight’s triumph against overwhelming odds or an astute aristocrat’s vast estates of wealth. Nay, ours is one of great tragedy and trial, of a magnitude hearkening back nigh three centuries ago whence our forefathers stood a proud people and their ancestral home the jewel of Istria. Yet, as all good things in this world must come to an end, so too did our name in an unceremonious fashion but mere decades later. Now, the children of Laria continued to wander endlessly, seeking that which was lost to them and the revival of our traditions, for it is only through great adversity and hardship that a name truly earns its meaning. We, Falkenraths, claim our descent from the great Western Guardians of antiquity, serving as humble blade-smiths and masons to the Kingdom during its early years of turmoil whence the threat of war loomed ever overhead. In those days children were born and raised knowing only conflict and struggle. Yet, unlike their warrior brethren, our ancestors harbored little love for warfare or bloodshed, finding solace rather in perfecting their crafts in the forges and in the masonry workshops. To such depths was artistry rooted in our blood that those who bear our name continue to take pride in its traditions to this day, passing down their ancient crafts from one generation to the next, ever hopeful of surpassing the heights achieved by their forebearers. In fact, it was to this same end that the first heirloom of our lineage had been forged by an ambitious ferrum-smith by the name of Falken of Kerrack in a time before our name bore even the semblance of meaning. Ever a man to loathe inferiority within himself, Falken toiled bitterly in the shadow of a faultless brother throughout his adolescence, suffering the indignity of neglect from all whom he regarded dearest for flaws he could nay name. For years into his adulthood did he curse himself senselessly, his self-contempt nearly spiraling him into an unfortunate end with emotional salvation only to be found in the deceptive embrace of a drunken stupor. Indeed, fate had a twisted sense of irony, for it was only through the neglect he needlessly endured throughout his life that he was finally driven to the depths warranting the disdain to begin with. “Es kann nicht last. Es must nicht last.” Those few words echoed endlessly through his thoughts whilst bedridden from a night he could hardly chance to remember, bruises covering his visage and all. It was an ultimatum he had so desperately attempted to avoid all his life, either to prove himself to all who harbored doubts or die a forgotten man by his own hands. You and I may both agree that the choice was a simple one, yet to have lived as he lived and to have seen what he saw, one wonders if there was any worth at all? If there was indeed deliverance to be found in dogged commitment to oneself? If there was even deliverance for one as ‘contemptible’ as he? Yet, it was only through the direness of this juncture in his life that Falken saw clearer than ever the value of God’s gift to him and resolved to endure where lesser men have faltered. For once in his life did he experience a ravenous drive swell within him not out of jealousy for others but for his own sake. Alas! It would be a revelation to last a lifetime and the decades of laborious hardship that followed finally culminating in the form of a singular long sword, its likeness still venerated by our blood generations after his passing. Forty thousand layers of ferrum cascaded elegantly along its lengthy blade as waves upon the ocean surface, piercing to the eye, whilst its guard soared on either end as a bird taking flight. Upon its pommel was stamped the mark of a golden eagle surrounded by laurels of leaves to brand its maker, the eventual adopted sigil of our family. This blade posthumously branded Falken’s Wrath was the final testament to its maker’s hardwon brilliance and the namesake of his bloodline. A bloodline which, in spite of their historic antipathy to warfare, found itself cast in to the very heart of the Dukes’ War nigh a century later for no fault of their own save the reckless abandon of a young lordling with greater ambition than sense. Indeed, who could blame a boy so youthful for risking his own life in the pursuit of glories he hardly understood, for is it not also we who cheer the minstrels that sing of their deeds emboldening others to follow in their footsteps? Is it not also we who dither in laying blame onto one who needlessly risks not his life but those of his own kinsmens as well; as the patriarch of our then unnamed family, Octavian, had done in leaping at the opportunity to partake in the ensuing conflicts between the Houses de Sola, Vladov, and Sarkozic. With a knee bent before the Baron Titus who heard his oaths of allegiance, he sealed the fates of his own kindred whom he branded cowards for pleading against his desires, and that of Falken’s Wrath which was to face a baptism of blood in the battles to come. The golden fields of the Larian capital of Alsace as depicted by a contemporary painter of the age. O, prideful Octavian, foolish Octavian! How ambition had blinded him so! Blinded him from the suffering of his own kindred who grieved for their dead with each passing victory, from Dour Watch to Blackwald to Barrowyk itself, whilst he reveled in what meagre renown their misery could afford him. Farther and farther they drifted as the days revealed him to be but a man too immersed in his own desires to feel the slightest remorse for those whose lives were forfeited in his name; And so they drifted until there were none left but the closest of his family who could hardly muster any compassion left for the man. Thus it came to pass that as Falken was shunned for reasons beyond his control, Octavian suffered the same cruel fate but by his own doing. Yet, it was not until war’s end, when the possibility of redemption was little more than a distant dream, that he truly began to realize the severity of his mistakes. Even with a county of wealth and land granted to him for his services he was unable to fill the void that lingered. There were no cheers for him in the streets of Alsace as he once pictured, no days of celebration in honor of their victories in Barrowyk, naught but barren halls devoid of the liveliness he once knew to be commonplace. Amidst the solitude of his chambers came at last a moment of quiet when he was allowed to ruminate on all that had transpired, for there were no longer battles to be fought nor provisions to be managed, only the uneasy silence of a dead night to accompany his thoughts. “Vat vas es all for?” he wondered aloud to himself in a whispered voice so doubtful he knew not if it was truly his own, for all his life he lived with such certainty in direction that the absence of which seemed.. unlike him. Even with all that which he could once dream of firmly within his grasp, it was not pride he felt, but an overwhelming sense of emptiness coursing through his veins. An emptiness only aggravated by the sheer knowledge that any semblance of remedy departed long ago with those whom he had selfishly cast aside in the name of acclaim, and for years on end did he confine himself behind thick walls for the same he felt for his misdeeds. Be it a blessing or a curse in his eyes, the moment of his repentance arrived on the eve of his thirty-fifth winter, as he had long anticipated, for his youthful egotism earned him few friends in court and even more enemies amongst the Istrian lords who coveted the fertile lands of Laria. As the pompous lords’ soldiers dragged Octavian from his chambers towards a crowded town square, a royal Felsenic envoy read out charges of treason against the crown to those gathered. He knew naught of any crimes yet attempted no futile protests, for perhaps it seemed a merciful chance to atone in his eyes. With his head shoved against the makeshift chopping block, all he could endeavor in his last moments was a graceful acceptance of his fate with the vague hope that an unfortunate passing may be of some reconciliation to those he wronged. No tears fell from his eyes, no desperate words of pleading, only a faint but poignant smile on his lips as the headsman brought down his axe. And so came the end of Octavian the Young, he who danced with untempered ambition, he who lived his last days in seclusion, and he who shall never grow old. A final time were the greens and whites of our standards allowed to be flown in honor of our mistakened partriarch’s death, never to wave in those Larian gales ever again, for with his passing came also the end of our governance over those golden fields which we once knew to be home. The remnants of our kindred, fearing their own may be implicated as false conspirators by those lords who sought to benefit from our downfall, scattered themselves across the isles of Vailor. And so our name fell to ruin. Our lands and titles stripped, our moniker tainted with unfounded treason, our family separated, and so began our age-long search for a new ‘home’. The stout retaining walls of a revitalized Cyrilsburg where townsfolk overlook its flanking river, Eamont. A myriad arose as contenders throughout our numerous decades in exile, such as they were from the labyrinthine alleyways of Alexandria to the golden fields of Summerhall, where fragments of our once homogeneous family splintered into several minor households bearing foreign names. And released from their familial loyalties, handfuls were steadfast in making known their resentment of these origins, and severed all ties which persisted in holding them with the vague hope of establishing a new life expunged of former shames. Of these breakaways most notable were the family d’Aumont, budding silk merchants who, upon the settling of political dust, sensed opportunity to be rife in the imperial capital, Johannesburg, where they founded a prominent mercantile company. It is rumored that even after the centuries that have passed since those days, untold numbers of their descendants still roam the lands of today, blissfully ignorant of their historic relations as their predecessors once intended. Yet, their compatriots of more enduring faith found resolution not in denial of what has been, but atonement in what shall be, doubtless in their belief of our family values and traditions. For these resolute devotees, the semblance of ‘home’ was only to be found in the fraternity of another sinfully displaced from the security of their own hearth. It was nay mere chance but perhaps the boundless mercy of the Almighty, who in his omniscience perceived an inherent kinship between two vagrant peoples, which chartered our unforeseen meeting. A nomadic life was hardly one sympathetic to human carelessness, highwaymen roamed the emperor’s roads at all hours seeking defenseless travelers to prey upon whilst townsfolk shunned foreign wanderers with a disgraced name at every turn, but such was the path our ancestors chose as repentance for their ‘irrational’ allegiance to a cause which had, up to then, rewarded them with naught. Yet, by no means could they be named saints, for ever did the temptation of immediate reprieve in abandonment cloud their conscience, gently aiding them with each exasperated step towards the beginnings of a ‘needlessly’ arduous life, until even the most ardent of believers started to doubt the very reasons for their loyalties. However, it was at the brink of this capitulation that their seemingly endless journey led them towards closure hidden away in the muddled paths of a hastily assembled encampment at the very outskirts of humanity. Clusters of apathetic camps dotted a clearing in the crowded woods by the river Eamont, from which the valley gales heaved relentlessly at all hours of the day, calling forth a bitter cold to which our southerly kin could hardly grow accustomed. Yet through its hardened inhabitants were our predecessors greeted with an unfamiliar warmth as reassuring as the mighty flames of the pavilion square. Doubtless, the mere image of a welcoming sanctuary must have seemed unthinkable in the eyes of our nomadic ancestors so accustomed to perpetual animosity, but here within these assemblages of makeshift hearths were gathered a peoples amassed by intertwined fates; Wayward mercenaries weary of bloodshed, nomadic tribes persuaded towards sedentation, and displaced religious refugees in their hundreds so far from their home in Curon. Through their shared hardships a camaraderie was borne out of mutual desire for belonging, and suddenly the prospect of ‘home’ seemed not so distant as before, for our kindred were swift in their investment of this melting pot community, whose culture of tolerance we knew to appreciate from our abandoned migratory way of life. In gratitude to the generous peoples of Curon and in homage to the ancient traditions upheld by generations of our ancestors, we led the charge in erecting its first capital, Cyrilsburg, an early testament to the unwavering resilience of its people so prevalent in the decades to come and the utter devotion our family would sooner be known for. First amongst these devotees was Wilhelm ‘the Faithful’ who, in such times of tumultuous change, proved himself worthy of the regard afforded only to those true heirs of Falken. Sired in an epoch of our lengthy history defined by prevailing sentiments against singular authorities, Wilhelm was neither bred from command nor scholared in the subtle ways of politics, such was the conviction our forebearers harbored never to repeat the mistakes of our past. And yet, through an unfailing conviction which shone in his labors did Wilhelm inadvertently reveal to his peers a new path that granted him their blessings in spite of his own misgivings towards leadership. A reluctance not wholly without reason, for he shared a deep regret for the failings of an avaricious Octavian, still fresh in the collective psyche of our kindred, and wished only for the simply but fulfilling life granted to those fortunate souls born without the onus of duty. A distant dream he would quickly learn to be far beyond his reach. Yet, it was in this burden that Wilhelm recognized an opportunity where many his equal were dissuaded by thin veils of anguish. An opportunity to make right the falsehoods which have for an age plagued his flesh and blood even in the farthest reaches of humanity. An opportunity to rekindle the lost spirit of this household so ravaged by controversy that the mere mention of its moniker would sooner irk many of its once loyal adherents. And for his faith alone do we remain ever grateful even in the centuries that have come and passed as swift as the wind, so much so that we branded him as such, for it was under his direction that the very foundations imperative to our blossoming were laid. Indeed, it is here that the roots of our age-old mercantile traditions may be traced, in the halls of a humble market-house where naught but tents once stood, which was to become the beating heart of Curonic industry in the decades to come. (To be continued) Sincerest Regards, Leufroy Falkenrath OOC: If you wish to play a Falkenrath or any of its subsidiary families, please fill out this form. In-Game Username: Discord: Current Affiliations: Branch You Wish to Play: Misc:

Ruling of the Crown v. Lloyd Varoche Hall, 14th of Malin’s Welcome, 1769 Presiding Justice Leufroy Falkenrath Prosecution Terrence Johantah Defendant Lloyd Witnesses Edward Galbraith Grey Galbraith Lieutenant Sir Henry R’nir Charges Verdict The accused, Lloyd, is found guilty on all counts for inciting (209.021) another individual for attempted (209.031) murder in the first degree (202.023). The accused is also found guilty under the Treason and Sedition Act (1751) of committing acts to compromise the integrity of the crown. Sentencing The accused is sentenced to confinement in prison for a period of sixty years – from the 14th of Malin’s Welcome, 1769, to the 14th of Malin’s Welcome, 1829.

Atreus Falkenrath reaches over the table’s end for his quill before dipping it into the near-depleted ink bottle. As he begins to pen his signature onto the document, his shoulders began to feel the weight of his forefathers bearing down on him. Yet, even as he felt each stroke of the quill, he found a rejuvenated determination well up inside of him. “Ave Curonia. Ave Avernia.” he would say, finally putting the pen down.

Chill, we just slipped and accidentally rebelled. It’s a common mistake.

I, Lord Augustin of House Falkenrath, Count of Laria, swear fealty to Curonia, House Devereux, and the Ducal Throne of Curon. I shall serve as a loyal vassal to the patriarch of House Devereux and Duke of Curon, from this moment until death. My house shall be bound to House Devereux as its vassal for all of posterity. My sword is his to command. My house is his to protect, and my banner are his to summon. I shall uphold the Virtues of Curonia, and live beneath the eternal guidance of our Paragons and the light of our God. The Green Tide Rises, for we stand as one. Ave Curonia.

*grabs popcorn*

[!] A feathery shadow circles the azures above Oakshade, its gradual downwards spiral upon the nearby stoneworks seemed akin to the orange cascade of leaves in autumn as the setting Sun glimmered behind its wings. As it drew closer, the near-kaleidoscopic array of brown, grey, and white became apparent. Its cerulean-tinted eyes gawked at you from a nearby stone pedestal as it extended its right hind where a small note would be tied. “To whom it may concern, I pray this message reaches you without much hindrance. It is with great humility that I introduce myself as Arcadius, formerly known by a different alias though it has long been discarded. Personal avowals have compelled me to request my admittance to the Manticore Initiative, a deep-rooted and experiential hatred of the multitudes of beasts and horrors that plague our world and the many worlds prior. In spite of my lacklustre combat prowess, I wish to offer my services to the Initiative. Such as it is. Sincerest Regards, Arcadius” (Out-Of-Character) Character Name: Arcadius Minecraft Name: Soviet Fish

MC Name: Omnomnius RP Name: Dargrim Doomforged Reasoning for Applying: Been roleplaying in Oren since joining the server but I'm starting to realize that their kind of roleplay doesn't fit me very well, and I'm looking for something more lore-intensive that I can easily get immersed into. The Doomforged clan was my top choice not only because some of my friends are already part of it, but also due to the depth of the lore behind it. Do you accept to follow the rules of playing a Doomforged? I do. Bloodline: Dormin's line Parents (Optional, only if you are playing a current member's child): NIL

Eligius R. Woolwich would lean upon his marred walking stick, a bloodied bandage wrapped around his Achilles. An expression of dismay on his visage as he pens a note to Ser Hakon, rejecting his help.

The Almarian Maestry “Whither now are thy blades, Talon, oh Talon? Has thy legacy now been long forgone? Dearly shall they miss the Sapphire moonlight, Till cometh the end of their plight.” - Eligius, of the departure from the Sapphire Halls. Chronicle Purpose of the Maestry “To prepare the aspiring but youthful. To uncover that which is yet known.” Bygone are the eras whence the mastery of Orenian blacksmiths be revered, whence blades were wrought not merely for purpose of battle, but that of artistry. No longer have our iron-forgers sought to extend the limits of their knowledge and craft. And for too long have Men idled, marvelling at the intricacies of elven-work or the strength of dwarven-craft without themselves, seeking to challenge with their own make. Such can be attributed to the founding of the Almarian Maestry, a society whose patrons seek wholly to address two paramount purposes above all; a dutiful urge to uncover the mysteries long enshrouding the metals of this world, and the requisite of passing their skills to another. “To unearth that which is lost.” With the great migrations to the Isles, comes the opportunity for discovery. A land yet untouched by the likes of our people, many riddles lay yet doubtful, enshrouded in thick layers of mystery. Forges of a bygone era remain unkindled for many an age, longing for the warmth of flame in its heart. Blades once wielded by great men cast aside, left to rust in the chambers of some forgotten ruin. Metals in the greatest of depths awaiting to be mended by the hands of its discoverers. Such are but a few of the secrets this lands of Axios has to offer the keen blacksmith. The Maestry, then, seek not only the excellence of its elected craft, but also its lore and history. “To reward that which is deserved.” Founded upon ideals of meritocracy and peasant artistry, the Maestry was borne out of a great yearning for opportunity. A lasting desire amongst the common peasantry of Lorraine for industry, one that they have been bereft of for many an age. The Maestry seeks then to fill this gap and to reward this longing for work where it is deserved. OOC The out-of-character purpose for the Maestry is to create an environment where players may partake in authentic Blacksmithing roleplay, based on a combination of realistic procedures and fantastical lore. Our activities include regular iron forging, metallurgy, apprenticeships, cave exploration, lore-writing, and so on. The Oath For those who willingly come before the forges of the Maestry seeking only the modest livelihood of an Almarian blacksmith, an oath shall be taken, as it was by Talon Woolwich ere the founding of the Guild in the early years of Lorraine: “From vast battles I am come to Summerhall; To the fire amongst golden fields; And here shall I hold to my duty As ironsmiths of Old; Seeking only Mastery over flame and metal. To prepare the aspiring but youthful, To uncover that which is yet known, To unearth that which is lost, And to reward that which is deserved. Verily, shall I keep this pledge to heart Until another releases me Or death take me.” Ranks Initiate Addressed as ‘lancio’, a derivation of traditional Auvergnian and influences from the Common Tongue. This title is typically given to but the most verdant of the Maestry’s members, whom have yet to join the apprenticeship of a more veteran guild blacksmith. Such rights are given to those who hold these titles as access to the Guild’s public premises and facilities, though they are prohibited from metalwork. The sole purpose of an Initiate then is to seek out an artisan willing to tutor them in the art of smithery. Apprentice Addressed as ‘apprenti’ by their seniors, members who hold this title are fledglings of the Guild, ‘lancios’ under the wing and supervision of a recognized blacksmith. Typically, upon the naming of an apprentice, a ceremony is conducted where they are gifted a hammer and pliers, each bearing the Maestry’s mark. Other administrative matters as the teaching of the lesser passwords are also settled, permitting them to enter but a few of the Guild’s rooms. (The Iron Vaults, Hall of Talon, etc) Members who have attained this title are expected to upholds the values of the Guild, training to polish their own skills under the wisdom of their tutor. Novitiate Commonly pronounced ‘noviciat’ by Maestrians, these people are the aspirants of the Guild, recognized for acquiring some skills in craftsmanship but still a far cry from their more senior accomplices. Such guild members may often be found under the tutorage of their trainers, and are distinguished from lancio and apprenti by a surcoat bearing the hammer and anvil. For the more keen-eyed or learned, however, a noviciat’s hammer will bear their tutor’s name carven into its wooden handle. As with all promotions, the noviciat are taught the full extent of the lesser passwords, allowing them entry to most of the Guild Hall. Yet, they are also expected to maintain a high degree of expertise and discipline as they have been taught beforehand, aiming now to take the next step in their Blacksmithing careers as artisans. Artisan The first of the meister ranks, these Maestrians have achieved excellence in their craft, rewarded now with the right to tutor their more juvenile brothers. Traditionally, while they are required to have at least one apprentice, other activities as experimental research, ruins raiding, and cave delving may be conducted to better their understanding of the art. Veteran Pronounced ‘vétéran’ by the Maestry’s more native members, they are deemed the elites by most of the Guild. While their responsibilities do not differ much from that of an artisan, these Guild members are given the right to attend Meister Guild Meetings if they so choose and have access to a large portion of the Guild’s resources. Additionally, veterans are permitted entry to such areas as the Sapphire Hall, where the Guild’s finest works are displayed, and the Crying Forge. Meister Maîtriser, the finest blacksmiths the Maestry has to offer, they are recognized greatly for skill and craftsmanship for those who have the opportunity to witness them, and represent the Maestry’s council. A maîtriser may be distinguished by a golden necklace hung around their necks, with the likeness of a phoenix with wings spread out. While they have the right to hold an apprentice, which most often do, they are also highly devoted to the research of their crafts, in such areas as metallurgy and enchanting. Their goal then is to better the Maestry’s understanding of the metals this world has to offer them, so as to improve the strength of their craft and educate the younger generations. Grandmeister The Grandmeister, or Granmaîtriser is the chief of the Guild, overseeing all of its operations. Few have held this title, with the likes of Talon R. Rutherford and Eligius ‘Dwarven-kind’ Woolwich once bearing the honour. Currently, a dwarf by the name of Dargrind Floreck holds the title. Recruitment Minecraft Username: Character Name: Real Age: Character Age: Character Profession (and tier): Skype (compulsory): Previous Blacksmithing RP experiences: Reasons for wanting to join the Maestry: ___________________