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

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Ruling of the Crown v. Lloyd

Varoche Hall, 14^th 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

Quote

202.023 – Where an individual intentionally and with premeditation causes the death of another, this shall be murder of the first degree, a felony.
209.021 – Where an individual intentionally incites or encourages another individual into committing a crime, this shall be the crime of incitement, and is subject to the same class of punishment  of the crime which incitement is caused for.

209.031 – Where an individual actively attempts, but fails to commit, a crime, the individual shall be held liable with a mitigated punishment according to the crime which was attempted.

204.01 – Treason and Sedition Act (1751) : On Treason

Where an individual commits acts with the intent to compromise the integrity of the Crown and its constituent institutions by waging insurrection and seeking the destruction of the Imperial State by impugning the character and person of the Crown through subversive means such as collusion with enemy entities and actors against the State, this shall be the crime of treason.

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 14^th of Malin’s Welcome, 1769, to the 14^th 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.

top lad +1 would make best AT can confirm

*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

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.

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___________________

A stray note lingers upon the walls of the Capital, it looks greatly weathered over many a day of dismal rain. Most of the words were hastily written and covered in charcoal but still remain legible, and reads:

[OOC Application]

Minecraft Name:

Character name:

Real Age:

Skype:

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Timezone:

Specific interests in blacksmith roleplay:

The Sapphire Halls in its prime days.

An intrinsic fault

(The tale of my character, Eligius Woolwich)

An intrinsic fault, the great flaw embedded within the fabrics of humanity that is our deep lust for glory. Glory, the valiant knight whose likeness has been cast in pure bronze whilst lesser men look upon him with envy; the kingly chalice aggrandized with many-colored gems raised in celebration of one’s triumphs. So powerful is our longing for renown that it may inspire us to reach new heights and exalt oneself, or coupled with imprudent counsel, foster rapacity and lead us astray from our morality. It is our motivation and our downfall. It is our seraph, but also our devil. It is our saving grace, and yet our bane.

It is with this duality that I then inquire how would one, limited in foresight, deem his or her desires to be rightful? We know not what the future may hold nor wholly the implications of our actions, how then can we judge for ourselves the nature of our wants? And how would we act in accordance to these desires so that we may choose righteously? Our protagonist is neither hero nor saint, simply a man who has lived through both ends of this duality, and his story is one that shall answer my questions.

Mystery is often enshrouded in guise, the most guarded secrets hidden in plain sight veiled as another. This was certainly the case for the man’s beginnings. In the early days of his youth, he oft passed a stoned building tucked away in the far edges of Riga, frequenting the street on his way home. Its foundations were greatly weathered as its goldenrod limestone showed signs of greying, yet moss teemed with life with bundles sprouting, lining the brickworks. The lonesome building grew desolate over many an age, its crumbling masonry now burdened with decay, with what remnants of the bustling boulevard that was paved before it now waning, fading away with all life it once clung to save a few defiled trees that were barren of leaves.

To most, this building seemed an abode bereft of any care for many ages of men, yet it intrigued him greatly for in his keen eyes, he saw but glimmers of its bygone grandeur lying deep beneath the layers of ruin, fragments of Riga’s once famed masonry standing the test of time and the vestiges of a respected lineage, and he grew lost in wonder of what lay behind its barred doors. But a strange feeling dawned on him each time his eyes looked upon those lonesome doors that for too long awaited the soft hands of its master, an unnatural surge of belonging to a place he never even set foot in, a deep-rooted but inconceivable connection that drew him closer and closer. He felt every muscle in his body yearning to walk into those halls, as if the very blood that runs deep in his veins had been seduced by a call to arms.

But never did he dare to set his foot in, fearing greatly for his own life, and for years upon years, the building continued its enduring wait.

It was only on the eve of his fifteenth that it would be awoken from its great slumber. Darkness had crept over the western hills as a wintery frost stormed the darkening city. Its labyrinth of streets grew empty as the boy threaded through the familiar pathway behind his father’s lead, and as he gazed before him, the towering figure seemed like a silhouette of pure black against the paleness of a full moon. It had been a time since he last crossed this path, and his eyes wandered about the canyon of houses close at hand in remembrance of his childhood, but they were quickly lured to the distant right for there it was. The grey building hidden in the shadows, and the feeling returned. The dreadful struggle of mind and body, the great trial of resolve against an innate longing, and a single word escaped from his lips, a deep thought he could not hold back from uttering: “Home.” It was at that exact moment that his unfathomable yearning triumphed over all else, his mind was set on one thing and one thing alone, to return to the place he truly belonged. With each step he unknowingly took towards the building’s arched gates, his pace was quickened and before long he found himself in a desperate scurry.

Already it seemed that the mossy walls lay before him; but as he raised his hand to meet its gates, a great white light pervaded the lonesome alleyway and soon the crackle of thunder. It dazed him, and impaired his vision temporarily, but it was in his blindness that he saw the building’s age-old veils being drawn, the full picture of a masterpiece he had only been given glimpses of as if passing into an era long forgotten. He witnessed the sun and moon reverse their ever unbroken cycles tens of thousands of times in an instant. Night become day, day become night over and over again, and as he returned his focus to what lay before him, he saw not the deserted hearth he had always known, but one returning to its blossoming youth. The barren trees were now adorned with their old cloaks as dried leaves upon the ground returned to their branches, regaining their greenish hue and alive once again. Banners of crimson red hung on the walls fluttering about in the ancient breeze, its trough now embellished with their venerable motto: Forged with blood. The words of an artisan family long revered for their crafts, surmounted only by its sigil, a phoenix of pure gold, wings spread far beyond its own beak to surround the thick outlines of a hammer and anvil.

He knew those words, better than any concept that has ever crossed his mind, and he repeated it constantly as the banner shone proudly before him- “Forged with blood, forged with blood.” commanded by family tradition and a regained sense of pride. Yet, as his gaze ventured downwards, it rested upon the chiselwork by the gates, the same phoenix now of limestone hue, carven into the very walls of the building itself. “T’is the phoenix of Woolwich.” he heard a familiar voice say. “The beast who conquered flame, our forefathers hath yearned for many a generation to equal its mastery of fire in our forges.” The dream-like world faded from his sight whilst the present held sway, and he turned around. It was his father that spoke, the towering black figure that stood against the moonlight. “It is time, Eligius. You have been plagued for years with a desire you have yet to understand, but know that it is in me too for the same blood runs in our veins. Know that you hath been called upon to fulfill your godgiven purpose as all sons of Woolwich since the days of Talon. Now is the hour that you come of age.” he continued solemnly, scaling up the crumbled flight of stairs and passing through the gates, beckoning for his son to follow.

A single torch was lit as they entered, its searing presence meagerly reflected upon the cold steel of a lengthy display of blades that hung upon the walls. But overwhelmed would its light be as torrents of moonlight draped from panes high above, reminding Eligius of a rushing waterfall that fell gently upon the rocks beneath. The sapphire tinted rays cascaded upon the swords on either side of him, and their surfaces, as if they had been struck by the conjurings of a Mage, expulsed an aura of greater light. “This place..” cried Eligius as his eyes looked yonder to the mother’s tales of his childhood. “Yes..” replied his father at length, for this was indeed the Sapphire Hall, a place of Woolwich legend and of many childhood stories that Eligius held close to heart. A feeling of deep bliss then fell upon him, and his heart rested at ease for this was, truly…

Home.

But too soon did the euphoric moment come to pass as a shadow of doubt reigned. “Th-Then it is.. finally time..?” he stutters, now breaking into cold sweat. His father nods. “Near is the hour that you shall relieve the great burden upon my shoulders as I have done, many long years ago, for my own father. This family’s legacies will rest on you, as a roof would its pillar, and you shall bear the pride of our forefathers till another willingly carries it in your stead.” said Eligius’ father as he blessed his own son with a trinket from his neck. A pendant, sculpted in the shape of their family’s sigil.

The weight of it felt almost tormentful as it was being wrapped around his neck, as if he was laden with the weaponry of an entire brigade of men. And the steel of its chains scorched his neck like an aggressive flame he was unprepared for. So he fell. “Please..” cried Eligius, his cheeks now covered in tears. “I- I have not the heart to bear this! Please, father!” Yet even as his son lay upon the ground sobbing, his father tried desperately to hold back his remorse, maintaining an unmoved composure. It was then that he realized a greater burden was to be borne as the pendant was passed down. He had to remain strong against overwhelming emotions for his son’s sake.

“Only pride may ease your pain now.” he said. “Only pride will keep you going.. Hold close the long lineage of this family, and be ever honored that you alone hath been chosen to continue it.”

The weight of a thousand year long lineage rested upon the strength of a young boy, the legacies of great smiths from bygone seasons, the esteem of an entire house held upright only by his conviction. Pride alone was not yet enough to keep him going, to keep him sane, and what morsel of the yearning that had brought him before the very doors of this hall held new allegiances. “Run!” he berated himself in his thoughts as a chill blast rushed in from the entrance. “Run!”

(To be continued)

P.S. I do greatly apologize for the amount of detail used at times, I cannot help it.

So will there be any changes to Nexus profession? The current idea of wiping skills with a compensation has caused quite a fiasco, and a large number of players want either a less rp-limiting mechanic or no mechanic at all. http://bit.ly/2ad7eQq

Have my  +1 's. Have it all!

 The Dualities of Knowledge

It is a powerful thing, the influence of curiosity. The thirst for knowledge as innate within our human nature as it is may enlighten a man to seek refuge in God’s everlasting and divine halls or lead him astray from the path of righteousness, it can bring a man the riches of knowledge or fling him into the guttering holes of those who seek to withhold it. It is terrifying, but compelling. It is the bane of men, but also its saviour. Yet, how would one judge its nature? How ever would a man, limited in his foresight, see the consequences or rewards of acquiring knowledge? How could we understand its infinitely complex dualities?

It had been a time since your serendipitous meeting with the frail painter, the exact duration you’ve lost count of by now. As you recounted your brief time with the Guild, (Read this before continuing: http://bit.ly/1K642ks) you pondered upon this duality, whether you should have come here as instructed by the anonymous letter, whether such a blinded decision would tear you asunder? The mudded streets of Riga had grown dark by now as Night engulfed the lands with her absolute reach, few candles had been lit but the eyes of a number of shady alley men reflected its light, their fixated gaze cleanly piercing through your flesh like an arrow.

“I should never have come here.” you thought, turning on your heels to return home. Almost by design, an enigmatic figure reveals himself before you, justifying your suspicions. He was clothed in black overalls and a hood, his face was hidden as the moonlight shone behind him but his chest bore the sigil of The Raphaelite Brotherhood to your relief. The man did not utter a word as he led you away from harm. Gliding through the streets without a footstep to be heard, he was almost unnoticeable.

A sketch portrait of the enigmatic figure from what you could remember.

Through infinite alleysway did the man lead you through, the path seemed almost interminable. A myriad of emotions flowed through you with each step you treaded behind his lead. Suspicion became optimism. Optimism became anger. Anger became protest. The same Protest who saw many whom bore her in their hearts swept away by figures you knew little of but feared ceaselessly. In the eternal moonlight, he chanted and re-chanted a melancholic elegy:

“ In grandiose halls do these /gods/ reside,

Behind closed doors they are blinded by pride,

To the starving peasants of whom they rely,

Until Justice marches for those they vilify. ”

You understood little of what these words meant, yet morality overwhelmed you with dismay. It urged within you an irrational impulse to shun the words away, to stop the man’s almost cyclical /blasphemy/. It felt as if the words themselves had ‘stained’ everything you believed of this world, the inner turmoil grew ever more heated and forced a few words out of your lips- “I don’t understand! Why does it hurt so much!?” The man turned around, nodding in understanding underneath the shadowy cloak as he too, had felt this devastating loss of belief. It was reassuring, only to the extent that you’ve met someone who understood the imponderable pain.

Before long, you found yourself in a heavily torched hall, the illumination within the room juxtaposed with the bleakness of the streets, giving you a sense of security. You turned your attention to the walls, to which you saw many oil paintings with a common theme. One, in particular, struck you with awe. It depicted an almost nude man covered in his own blood crawling towards a crowd, many of whom were embellished with gold and silk, their faces either turned away or filled with disgust at the man. Noticing your interest in the painting, the cloaked man repeated the lines-

“In grandiose halls do these /gods/ reside,

Behind closed doors they are blinded by pride..”

One of the paintings on the walls depicting a peasant protest.

Oil paint on canvas. 178cm x 203cm.

He then gesture to a painting of an army, though not one of brave men clad in armor, but of peasants who held pitchforks and other tools as they marched towards an ever distant castle. Their weapons were laughable, but their numbers innumerable. It wasn’t long before you completed the man’s elegy in understanding-

“To the starving peasants of whom they rely,

Until Justice marches for those they vilify.”

The man heaves a deep sigh of relief. “You understand. The ever-growing disparity of the subjugator and the subjugated, the endless struggle of our own countrymen to survive whilst a handful feast in their pretentious halls, neglecting their own people,” said the man. “I too once felt the bewilderment you now feel, it is terrifying to be bombarded with truths you were led not to believe... If it may bring you solace, enlightenment is bliss.” It became clear to you how unfair the world was. Yet, for years had you been taught otherwise, to believe in the supremacy of a small number of people not for your own sake but for theirs. You stand there, perched against a small marble pillar crying for hours upon hours.

It was only the next day, when you awoke on a woolen bed that the man decided to approach you- “Do you know why I brought you here?” he asks. You looked out the window, the sun’s rays casting a warm veil over your legs. Perhaps it was true that enlightenment is bliss, you felt a tranquility like no other and a deep relief that you understood the reasons for your distress. “No.” you then replied. The man did not have his cloak on anymore, he had long hair of the hazel hue, a strand of which covered his blue eyes. His face was stern, but reassuring. He circled about the room as he spoke- “The old painter in Edgeware Lane expressed to me your interest in the Guild, I’ve taken it upon myself to show you our ways.” he explained. “You see, we are a protest society, activists against the cruelties of Oren’s hierarchical system. Only to the extent that our protests are justified, if I might add. Thus, our brotherhood’s words, art is truth.”

“So you seek to recruit me?” you ask. It was a few moments later as the man gazed out the window that he shook his head. “No, not unless you believe yourself to be ready to fight for our cause, the people’s cause. We are not very well liked by authority, our dealings in protest art have won us some powerful enemies that would have our heads on spikes. It is a life of fear our members lead, but also a passionate one.” the man says, his head now tilted downwards. “I’ve come to give you a taste of the injustices in Oren, to see if passion may overcome fear.”

“The dead must always have their stories told. Yet, a certain individual has made it rather difficult to do so. His Grace, Arthur Roswell.” he continues, to your shock. “Surely you do not mean to question a Duke? Especially one with an army!?” you ask. The man laughs- “A standing army of 40 men, hardly comparable to even a guard force. I watched him, watched him closely as he hid in his keep’s tower as his commandant’s life had been ended by an Istrian rebel. Dishonourable!” he exclaims, his voice grew more and more angered as he went on. “No, no! The man deserves his due punishments and the Falkenraths shall rest in peace.”

With each word the man spoke, you understood clearer the atrocities of the Oren you once believed to be holy, the treachery Duke Roswell had put on an entire township, you began to question the humanity of the nobleman. “False accusations were presented to the Emperor by him, claiming House Falkenrath as associates to the Dunamite scums, and of their plots to usurp the de Solas from their Ducal throne despite their long and faithful service to Titus. Yet, was it not him who took the title, despite the apparent objection of his rightful lords?” he laughs. “Was it not him that terrorized the people of Alsace despite their former lords, Falkenrath, not desiring a furthered conflict? Was it not him that continued the conflict despite attempts made for peace? Was it not him who accused an innocent House of treasonous plots against the Emperor when they did not even have the army to do so?” The man slams the mahogany table, breathing heavily as he attempts to calm himself down.

He continues in a milder tone- “Men like him hath deprived me of much sleep, his lack of honour and deceitfulness sickens me beyond cure. How he continues to live knowing what he’s done bewilders me, but he will receive judgement in due time by the One who sees beyond all facades.” The man then returns his focus towards you, his stern face ever more serious this time. You foretold what he wanted to ask, yet no answer came from your lips- “Do you have the courage to take on these men? Crooks who would, at the soonest possibility, seperate your head because you defied them or would you cower in the safety of ignorance?”

The rest of the story is in your hands.

- The Raphaelite Brotherhood 

Reflection (2015) - Self-portrait in compressed charcoal.

The Raphaelite Brotherhood

Sigil of The Raphaelite Brotherhood

A serendipitous meeting

Some call into question the reality of fate, is it mere chance or perhaps the execution of God’s will upon our being? No matter what it is, one serendipitous event soon became the hallmark of your life. It was on the 15th of The Deep Cold, 1542, that you received a letter from a man you’ve yet to identify. The contents of the letter directed you to a small, weathered building in the suburbs of Riga which you entered with a fervent curiosity, despite your apparent suspicions.

A frail man of grey hair rests his palette atop a rich mahogany end table, his skin wrinkled as its years were long overdue, whilst his posture mimicked that of a dying elk yearning for a final glimpse of God’s beauty that surrounds its being. As you crept deeper into the damp room, the taps of a light drizzle catch your ears, its fragility you likened to that of the seated, old man. Nothing of him suggested even an ounce of life, yet the canvas before him could not be contested by even the mightiest of warriors in its energy. The richness of its color, the fervour of the depicted, the explosiveness of the brushwork.

As you approach the man, naught but one question came to mind- “What is this place?”, you eventually asked. Unable to utter the words he so desperately desired to, he simply pointed to the sign plastered onto the walls. The markings had long faded, yet you were able to decipher but a few words: The Raphaelite Brotherhood.

It finally struck you. The grandeur of the room hidden underneath its veil of dust, all about you were paintings of an age forgotten, some hung along the walls while others simply awaited under the sheets for a keen eye to appreciate its beauty once again. You knew of this group, a revered guild of artists that rose to prominence in the outbreak of war with Urguan. Its name frightening to behold, but its values the envy of saints. For decades was the Guild slandered by the prominent for one reason and one reason alone, the sincerity of its work. Through the arts, the group spoke true of the cruelty faced by the low-born, the devastation felt by those who could barely live, and the futility of war. Its strongest asset was its bane.

The works

As you wandered about the room, longing to behold the beauty around you in its fullest, a few paintings that hung by the windows allured your sight. The following-

Reflection (1576). Self portrait of the Guild’s founder, Hendrick Rembrandt.
Oil paint on canvas. 84cm x 66cm.
 

The Eagle’s Vigil (1543). Painting by Hendrick Rembrandt, depicting the Rigan guard force during the time of war. Oil paint on canvas. 147cm x 181cm.

Negligence (1541). Portrait of the Rundstedt family by Johannes Alphenberg.
Oil paint on canvas. 167cm x 172cm.

Peasant Girl (1553). Portrait of a young peasant girl by Henry Seymour.

Oil paint on canvas. 84cm x 107cm.

The necessity of expression

You return to the man’s side, his body was shivering in the merciless iced east winds that pervaded the room but his arms remained still as he struck the canvas with a dark grey hue. You desired not to interrupt him, but your heart burned with inquisitiveness. Then, without hesitation, a few words escaped your lips, a question- “What is the necessity of expression?”

T’was a simple question to the mind of any artist, yet the answer remained unfathomable to you. The necessity of expression. The need for art. It did not occur to you that such a frivolous question could cause great distress as you fidgeted about, awaiting the answer.

A single word was muttered by the old man with great difficulty. “T-T-Truth.” he stutters. “Truth?” you thought. “What in God’s name could he even mean?” A sudden realization then came to you. Truth. The clearest expression of one’s emotions, of one’s soul. Truth. To unlock the chains that once strangled you and open yourself to the world, to find the inherent beauty in one’s surroundings, to understand one’s being.

As you look back at those five paintings that had first intrigued you, you begin to feel the emotions surge through. The darkness of the self portrait gave you a bitter sense of anguish, enhanced by the emotions of the portrayed. The shadow that loomed about the group of men brought out the idea of futility. It was then that you understood art was not merely to be framed on the walls of an aristocrat’s home, but to be felt as if someone were speaking to you.

Art’s importance lies in its honesty. Art is truth.

An artist’s obligation

You look back to the markings on the wall, reminiscing of what you believed to be the Guild’s past when you made out but a few other words. A motto, you supposed it was- “A people’s expression..”. Such a sentence, you thought, was befitting of the Guild for they were famed amongst the masses as an outlet for their sufferings. They served none but the low-born Orenian masses who lacked the means of expressions that they flourished in. They were obligated through emotion to speak out for the injustices faced by those amongst them.

An artist’s specialization

While oftentimes do artists venture into various mediums, in search of a style that compliments the artistic integrity of its practitioner, only the immensely experienced choose to specialize, believing in the full merits of their chosen medium in enhancing their ideas. It is this belief that separates the talented from the masterly. The following are but the most common specializations-

 

Painter

Perhaps the most prominent of art specializations, the painter commonly uses a palette of brushes to aid his artistic expressions, though knives have rose to prominence in recent times. The painter utilizes the innate power of color to spark emotion whilst allowing his subject matter to create intimacy with his audience.

Sculptor

A sculptor is called upon to capture the beauty of human physicality in his work, and thereby expressing the anguish in his heart or perhaps the pride of his loyalties. Sculpture has long been a tool for nobility to boast the might of their arms and the beauty of their women, while depicting the sufferings of those who serve them.

Ceramicist

Perhaps the least notable of all specializations, the ceramicist plays a cardinal role in the depiction of one’s wealth. His creativity comes primarily from the form of his works, and his skill in the handling of such fragile mediums.

Architect

The architect’s categorization as an artist is a debatable one, yet his role in sending messages throughout an entire society is unparalleled. History has confirmed the role of buildings in showing political and military might, as well as the modesty of the low-borns. The architect’s role has never simply been to shelter those who ask for it, but also to create an experience that one feels whilst walking through a building.

Writer

In place of brushes and knives is the infinitesimally complex language that the writer holds at his disposal, and through the manipulation of words, he speaks truth of the reality that has befallen on him and that of his kin. The writer is truth-seeker and a protester. He shall and will not surrender to authority, his artistic and humane integrity is absolute and cannot be undermined by any force. His body shall grow weary, but his mind shall not. He will die with age, but his ideas shall not.
 

Poet

Much like the writer, the Poet manipulates words to speak out, words that penetrated even the most pragmatic of defense. His works shall venture across the lands, his ideas shall be ingrained within the minds of peasants as they seek to find a commonplace in this world.

The Duke of Courland, His Grace, Richard of House Staunton has commissioned the reconstruction of the Northern Capital of Riga. We're looking for builders experienced in Messy Medieval and having the time/are wiling to help build an entire city from scratch. More detailed information on the build style, city layout, and theme will be provided upon your application being accepted. Wages will be discussed once you're accepted.

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House name: Falkenrath

House Patriarch: Count Octavius Falkenrath

Patriarch’s Heraldry: To be added

House Sigil/Motif: To be added

House Standing: Nobiles Nova

House Holdings: County of Laria and the Township of Alsace

House History:

Founded upon the backbones of war, the Falkenraths who were traditionally an Auvergnian family, had sworn their extreme loyalty to House de Sola in the midst of the bloodied Duke’s War. Serving in both diplomatic and military roles within Dour Watch, the family soon grew to prominence as the war carried on, and were eventually granted the County of Laria by the late Titus of House de Sola, former Duke of Istria, for their unwavering loyalty and dedication.

With the end of the Duke’s War, the Falkenraths, who were fiercely dedicated to the betterment and maintenance of legacies of House de Sola, had greatly sought to ameliorate the domestic situation within the Duchy of Istria. As such, they headed the founding of the Township of Alsace, aimed to improve the Duchy’s populace, as well as the Istroit Mercantile Company, which sought to improve the economic situation.

Family Tree: Octavius (Patriarch), Arstide (First-born son), Alexander (Second-born son), and Augustus (Deceased brother).