Halt

The 12th of The Grand Harvest, S.A. 183.

Amongst the myriad warriors, a knight, one Hvin, a towering Nephilim shrouded in Ved Maar, emerged as a focal point of this epic struggle. His blade, peerless in make, carved through the ranks of enemies with a precision and might that echoed the wrath of forgotten epochs. They were soon to be remembered.

In the midst of the fray, he and Zahkrii confronted a Lion of Xan, a warrior of lessening prowess, albeit one still maintaining a fierce countenance. With a roar that reverberated through the battlefield, Hvin brought his sword down upon the champion of Xan, cleaving through his shield and severing his arm. Undeterred, the Lion bellowed in defiance, his severed limb trailing a line of blood as he summoned a blade of lightning in his remaining hand. Before Hvin could strike again, his opponent flung the malformed bolt of raw energy at him, striking his Dracanium helmet in a blinding flash that left him stunned and without his footing. A blast of mage's fire from a comrade unmade the foe right where he stood, allowing the Dragonkin a moment to recover from the near-death blow.

As the battle reached its zenith, the knight found himself face-to-face with a Centurion of Xan. The Nephilim brought his sword—the morning's mist, forged in the depths of Mulnaar—in a sideward slash upon the Centurion, cleaving through the shield and the arm that held it aloft. Yet, the Centurion, undeterred by the grievous wound, thrust his blade towards Hvin’s chest in a desperate counterattack. In a seamless display of combat mastery, the knight interposed his shield, deflecting the strike with a resounding clang that sent sparks flying. A separate swirl of embers and cinders coalesced around his person, then.

In a rare moment of respite, Hvin, the Seeker, allowed his gaze to sweep over the battlefield. Nephilim and their fellowship clashed with the dwindling numbers of Xan, a tableau of profound beauty and terror—a dance of life and death. Every strike and parry echoed with the weight of fresh-forged destiny and the fury of his Titan's wrath; this Lord of the Skies who has a name, and so it is Azdromoth. Above, the heavens themselves were embroiled in a deific clash—their courts were at war, and so too was he. All around, the battle raged on with a ferocity that could reshape worlds—and so it did—in ruin.

S.A. 170

midst the cold, stone walls of an ever-populated keep, a young boy, one Alexander Caius, lies in his bed atop one of the towers...

The dome of glass gave way to the night sky, which, perhaps, was reflected in the starry circlet gifted to him upon his fifth birthday celebration. His mother, the Queen of Aaun, sat by his bedside. Amelya was regaling him with the tale of Sir Alwyn and his great victories across a lifetime of knightly endeavors. As the tale carried on, his thoughts began to drift. As he lay in the growing darkness, he pondered her words. He still had much to learn and perhaps wished himself to be part of stories so like these in the future; perhaps one day someone else will tell tales of his own adventures.

The following is a small excerpt from a larger interview conducted with Sir Ruben of Middelan. I’ve done a number of these interviews with various citizens across the realm, and they typically focus on the general state of affairs. Additionally, I prefer to let the interviewee highlight whatever aspect of their lives that they wish to, finding that it leads to more organic conversation. I happened upon him while traveling on the road and spontaneously struck up a conversation with him. While he seemed quite eager to be on his way, to my surprise, he agreed to an interview. I walked with him for a time, and the following contains the insights gleaned. My interview with Sir Ruben was mainly centered on his general philosophy on life and the surprisingly ordinary perspective of a knight. One aspect that I found interesting was that Sir Ruben has collected a number of items that he ascribes a particular meaning to. According to him, they stand for significant turning points in his life, and this document provides a fleeting glimpse into the emotion associated with each item in his collection. Toward the closing end of our interview, Sir Ruben left me with a note that I’ve copied here. It reads as follows:

Thus concludes my excerpt from the greater interview that took place over the course of several hours. While we covered a number of topics, this seemed the most noteworthy of which to share with the public. Many thanks to the reader, and I hope that this proved informative or at least provided some form of entertainment wherever you might be.

A humble bard,

Nashor. 

The following documents were obtained during the conduction of a search warrant by officials in a small tower near the remnants of Keep Breakwater in service of the Haeseni crown. Other materials obtained include a small bag of wizard powder, copious amounts of feathers, and some form of illegally modified crossbow. No suspects were apprehended in this raid.

A depiction of two ancient knights in combat, circa 986.

To those it may concern, primarily one Lorenz Gavaudin,

@itdontmatta

Signed,

Honorable Husband to Margaret, Dweller of an Undisclosed Oceanside Villa, 

Shepherd of a Lone Goat, Treasurer of Knitted Goods, Acquaintance of a Certain Maudlin Baruch, etcetera.

A depiction of Mariya Karenina, Gustaf Otto's mother, whilst reading this missive.

24 R.R.

✠

The flickering glow of lanterns cast long shadows upon the snow-covered cobblestones. The townsfolk, usually bustling with life, were nowhere to be seen. The city Winburgh was nestled between rolling hills, and its populace knew a simple warmth to contrast the coldness of the surrounding winter. Within the fold of his burgundy garb, found he, Gustaf Otto van Aert, some roll of fine Myrinian herbs lit in light of their absence. A plume of smoke escaped his lips, and for that moment, he knew some reprieve.

The river city’s Chambery had a library that boasted a wealth of knowledge—the perfect place to spend his quiet nights. He was there still when he closed his eyes, for his imagination worked wonders. He saw his sister to his left and his mother to his right. When they were open, Gustaf saw only his horse. That too, in his eyes, was alright, for she was good company. His hands were cusped as if he were praying, though he wasn’t. It was only that his ungloved hands were made cold by the winter’s chill. A few loose breaths on them fell short of warming them. In his youth, the books he read fabled his ancestors as regular descendants of dragons. If such were true, maybe his hands would be just a little more warm. And so too, might his life have been a little easier; perhaps if he chose a simpler route, ever, was he in a hurry. Another breath of smoke escaped him—sooner that, rather than some manner of complaint.

Violence is a sweet sound to a man like he, who was born with neither his mother’s compassion nor his father’s reason. So then it should play back again until grows familiar. It had been a long time since he was a child or since he had read a book. Deep down, under a thinning facade of chivalry and nobility, perhaps he was simply a bad man born from a good seed. The face of a knight was a mask he wore—a stolen impression of his uncle. The strings that held the mask together might have been severed the same day his uncle took his hand, if he had told a lie. If he told the truth, whomever was listening would know they were undone sometime sooner. At any time, he’d rather go blind than see a light in the dark.

When the Pontiff divorced his fellowship from Gustaf’s family, they burned a bridge. That same night, he marched upon a city and burned a church. The city had a name, and so it was Vallagne. Every life he took that day tore another hole in his heart. Yet, none so wide as the one made upon the night Caius Mareno went missing. A loyal man to his family’s cause. The men who wore teal might’ve been the closest thing he tried to make comrades of in his lifetime. If he listened to the wicked whispers and invocations the winds carried, he might believe the Mareno simply vanished into the ether.

All around him, a sure menace was reflected in the eyes of men. In his own eyes too, yet not quite the same way. For all the books he’d read as a kid foretelling stories with only wicked ends, they prepared him perhaps for his own. The stories were well written and worth telling. After all, that is why they were put in books. This story, his own, had no such station or place in the world of importance. If anything, it was one worth forgetting. A good thing gone bad. No lesson learned, no sage wisdom offered to another reader. His reality paled in comparison to these fairytales and fantasies he indulged his youth in.

Gustaf died in the siege of Brasca from some stray arrow. He died quickly and alone in a pool of his own blood. A gritty reminder to those who bore witness: blood did not in fact always run thicker than water. Despite the size of the gathering, his loneliness was in spirit. The one now estranged from his body. Jealousy kills, and as a result of seen and unforeseen consequences, so too did it take his will to live. Before his eyes overturned, they had a look of peace and understanding. It was his belief that whatever awaited him was a chance at something better. Charlatans, under the guise of friends, and platitudes in the form of false promises. His own wickedness and cruelty knew a limit that the world around him evidently did not. Perhaps the arrow was a kindness, delivering him from a world of sure destitution. Everything was as he made it out to be, and close friends he lost all but one.

This account of Gustaf van Aert’s life was written by some druidic scholar who endeavored to document the life of a human noble. That same academic recovered some piece of parchment requesting his cremation instead of a burial. Per his request, no words should be spoken by anyone who might’ve wished to gather. Only silence.

It was a fine show, undoubtedly something befitting the many frills and frollies that those in the lands of the north would amuse themselves with; a spider's spindle tells its tale, and so I tell mine. A bright sun shone over the armies of the coalition as they rode into Veletz’s capital town. King Aleksandr, donned in the armor of his regal station, sat atop his horse at the head of them all. No warrior was he, but as it had been told by his scouts—third-rate men, truly—the capital of our great league had been left ripe for the taking. He mustered the courage to join his forces to occupy this critical city. Having just departed from a ball thrown in their honor, the closest thing to military training they had enjoyed, the forces of Haense laughed and sang as they began to cross our humble wooden walls into our market square. Yet it was a trap! As wise as a fox, our Captain-General's nephew had been forewarned of this approach.

“AT ARMS!” Cried Sir Gaspard, waving his own in the air, and onto the streets streamed five thousand six hundred, ready for battle and clamoring eagerly to defend their home.

For a moment, across the narrow field of battle, the two armies locked eyes. Six thousand Haeseni, Hyspian, Balianite, Petran, Dwarf, and other such soldiers looked on in terror. Although they numbered greater and the battle should have naturally been theirs, instead of war and vigor, their days had been weaned on wine and vice. Each man then turned to their brave, good King Aleksandr, who should have been at the army’s front, as they asked what to do. Gustaf Otto, nephew of Sir Gaspard, led the army in an assault against this retreating mass of men. Nary a man was spared, but perhaps some few found shelter under rocks and muddy creek beds. Only the King of Haense and some of his retinue made it back to the gates of his city alive. Perhaps some few dozen of our own had been wounded and killed, trampled under the spirited surge, but it was no significant number. The coalition had been thrashed, pushed back to Haense or whatever hole they crawled from!

Yet he was not there! Half a league or more down the road back to his kingdom, the King of Haense fled as fast as he could. His confidence broken and his spirit shattered, he left his army behind to do all he needed of them: die so that he may escape. While the coalition did not fight well or bravely, they did do this sufficiently enough. Trying to follow their disgraced king’s lead, this mass of men was cut down by a charge.

Hey everyone,

As a few of you may be aware, Minecraft now supports 6-digit hexadecimal colors to specify custom colors other than the 16 default color codes. This introduces millions of new options for colors in text components. In simpler terms, this means things like custom emote colors are now possible. The first critique that comes to mind when suggesting a change like this would be something along the lines of: find colors that fit within the existing LotC ecosystem (no obnoxious gradients or neon colors). I understand there's a certain nostalgia attached to some of the current color codes too. It's my personal belief that the community can probably come up with a better set of color schemes and conventions than I could on my own, should we decide to implement some. Nothing is set in stone; this post is purely meant to solicit feedback and hopefully start a conversation. I'll leave a poll to gauge opinions. What's more helpful, however, are comments.

I've run this idea by @Llir and @The60th. After a brief discussion and a cursory look at the existing codebase, this feature should be able to be incorporated on the server. The question is: how?

The changes don't need to be dramatic, it could be as simple as adjusting the tablist's header and footer. A rough example of this can be seen below:

Another idea is revamping some of the VIP colors. For instance, Ender and Bedrock share a color; the differentiating factor between them is simply one being bold. Here is an example of what it looks like now, as well as an idea for a way to make them differ. Should bolded characters only be reserved for staff teams?

The last idea is adding custom emote colors as an ostensible VIP perk. We could preapprove a list of hundreds of colors as well as have a system for approving unique ones similar to the custom tag system for Aether VIPs.

[!]

A series of missives would be posted around the Commonwealth of the Petra, the majority of which would be seen in its capital, Vallagne.

☩

ΉΣЯΣ ᄂIΣƧ ƬΉΣ ЦПƧΣΣП

✦ Hwæt! Þonne com oferne plegan, þær scēapa and gāt seofonfald hātan.

Listen! When the game is over, the sevenfold shall be named, the sheep and G҉O҉A҉T҉.

✦ Hwilum blæd and wæstm þæs ofersēola fylð, ac him bið lytel freoðe āfre geteohod.

۞

۞

Sometimes the abundance and growth of the high pasture shall fail, but little peace shall ever be bestowed upon them.

✦ Gesāwon wēardas, blēatsprǣce sēon, hwylce bēacna sēcþ, þonne scēapan fuglað.

The shepherds have seen, they seek signs of bleatspeak, when the sheep are flying.

ƬӨ ƬΉӨƧΣ ЩΉӨ ᄂΛᄃK IƬƧ FΛVӨЯ

☬

THE MAKINGS OF SOMETHING SINISTER

1st of Snow's Maiden, Year 94 S.A.

Amidst the streets of the pale-bricked city of Celia’nor, the warbled, parched cries of its nighthawks pierced the frigid air. It was a peaceful place, where the mages and guardsmen often kept order. Like the complex castle structures and strong buttresses that fortified the city, there was a luminescent glow to the running, cold waters of the channel that ran through the city. Two young men had their first encounter in the dead of night, adjacent to some such flowing waters. The demeanor of one of the men was as icy as the cold, wintertide winds that bellowed around them. His purple skin was incandescent and glowed with the pallor of the surrounding buildings—the mirrored specter of light that ebbed and flowed like the tide of the moon.

“I have received your letter,” the elf began with brevity. His voice was raspy and garbed from behind the confines of a mask that obscured his facial features. The metal mask was wrought from a substance not unlike daemonsteel, and its ornate design refracted the light from nearby municipal city lamp posts. Carved into the crest of the mask just below the temple rested two hollow slits containing hidden, blue-tinged eyes that were partially obscured.

“It revealed much. You mentioned that your grandfather was some type of sorcerer. Yet, that leaves it unclear to me why you would approach somebody like myself. We do not conjure baubles. We do not heat pans, create lights, or forge antiques.” The newcomer at first seemed at a loss for words once confronted. The dark elf bore whitish eyes, not unlike the Matron Velulaei, the mistress of the crescent moon, a forebear of the Mali'ker, spoken of hollowly in fraught legend and song. Unlike his compatriot, the dark elf had hidden nothing of himself, bearing only close-cropped raven black hair and a simple traveler’s garb that served to make him appear indistinct in the largest Elven city to grace the continent since the Dominion of yore. 

“I seek not to be a conjurer of useless baubles,” he spat vulgarly, contemplating the image of balding house mages and bard sorcerers in the contemporary world. To him, they were nothing but frauds. In the old days, to be a sorcerer meant striking a Faustian bargain for eldritch powers, not accessing a book in a public library to cook your chicken, and doing simple tasks that any man or woman simply ought to do with their own two hands. “True study,” the dark elf went on. “It is accompanied by risks. Risks in return for immense gain. A pay-off, a trade-off of immeasurable value.” 

He simply nodded his head in affirmation upon hearing the dark elf answer his query. His horns were slicked back tersely atop the roof of his earlobes. “I see then.” His eyes peered into the dark elf’s soul from beyond his mask, distant and demonic. Within his irises flared a putrid aura, a lingering feeling of unrest that seemed as though it had been plucked from the fiery confines of the underworld itself. With that and to limited ends, the two men had then established the basis of their pact.

Ser Martinus is seen receiving a troubling report detailing monster sightings in a small village just beyond the Crownlands.

Every time but one, he rode with his blade at his hip. Many trips were quick, gritty reminders of mortality—the cut threads of brigand lives. His favorite outings were the ones with long hours spent with the love of his life, dancing in the warmth of the summer seasons, or exploring faraway lands. As he rode far and yonder, he’d dip his head one last time in reminiscence of the one fair lady who had been beside him from the moment he first arrived in Helena until now. He could not bid her farewell, for he knew she would scream bloody murder; for his journey north would be his last, and he knew such, but she could not. His love for Octavia was bewildering; she would come to learn of his fate in due time.

He had left a journal bidding his own love and joy. Expressing both his regrets and joyous occasions, he reveled in the youth he spent in Aeldin and the time he was knighted before the entirety of the Empire. From his time as regent, his service as a Dragon Knight, and his successful skirmishes and battles up until the day of his trial. He left no detail hindered, no stone unturned, and all that would come to read his journal would come to understand the heart and soul of the man who wrote it. To his dearly beloved, Octavia, he would bid her farewell, leaving her a poem to pair with his poetic departure from the realm. He would express his dismay in the task at hand and for his general line of work. But alas, without servitude to those above us, we are naught but creatures befuddled by chaos with no order to contain our darkened hearts.

“Ser Martinus!” Hailed a brother, not by blood, but by way of the sword. Martinus abruptly came back to reality and returned to his senses. Time had passed, passed indeed, for the sun had set behind the veil of clouds. They were no more than an hour’s ride from their destination. The terrain had all but gone rugged and wet; marshland was in the distance, wild, and animalistic. Fog had begun to roll in, rendering their visions thin and short.

Martinus, whose golden hand had his horses reigns grasped ever tightly, would take the lead and advance forth into the unknown. His kin, igniting the way, with flickering torchlight barely poking through the dense fog as they neared the village. They were beginning to think they had rode all this way for naught, for it had been a quiet and quaint journey thus far. There was not a single beast or demon in sight. Some of the knights and legionnaires spoke amongst each other: “Whatever it was must’ve fled,” chuckled one from behind a visor. Their banter was hastily dismissed by Martinus.

A thick stench of rot and decay would soon begin to fill their nostrils, making their eyes water and causing their faces to tug back in sheer disgust. Martinus knew, then and there, that this was no fool’s errand or senseless misadventure. He glanced back within his group, his eyes upon a youth in particular, who had recently joined his brigand of knights and squires.

“Careful and quiet,” he began to say, though before he could finish his sentence, a horrific screech was heard originating from somewhere off in the distance. The screech of a banshee or ghoul, no doubt. As this unseen beast’s momentary terror came to an end, the fog partially gave way, and the brigands now found themselves within the heart of the devil’s frame. A village stood before them, with obviously ransacked houses partially enclosed by blood-laden walls. Promptly, Prince Martinus would turn to his kin, with his good hand sat upon the pommel of his blade. He glanced briefly at the sight ahead once more before drifting his gaze toward the youngest of the group.

“Home! Ride fiercely, and do not look back, Adalbert! Ride home and inform the others of our findings. All of you, return to the place from where we came.” As Martinus spoke, his brethren, strengthened by war and bloodshed, faltered for but a moment. Surely he did not intend to walk in there by himself? Had the prince ordered his own death? These were questions he could not answer.

As Martinus spoke, the sounds of not one but many foul creatures would be heard encroaching upon their position. At the behest of the prince, the youthful squire and his escort slowly withdrew, surely doubting the integrity of the order that was given. Right or wrong, an order is an order, and perhaps against their better judgment, they adhered to it.

So, the Dragon Knight drew his blade one final time and stood beside his men, offering them a final nod so as to usher them off. They rode forth and forth into the fog, partially lit by torchlight, which, in turn, would diminish. One by one, as they continued down the path, the torches faded away. Accompanied by horror and torment, a lone man was reduced to bloodcurdling screams and then silence.

Written by Adalbert de Villeneuve and dubbed “Writing Upon the Wall," this was all that was left in young Adalbert’s household when it was repossessed by the Imperial Government.

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

PACT OF VERIDIAN

“Peace is not the absence of conflict, it is the ability to handle conflict by peaceful means.”

12th of Horen’s Calling, 1713

This pact hereby entails the principles to an accord agreed upon by the signees, to be adhered to by both their respective civilians and military alike. Should either principle be broken by a respective participant of either nation, then a truce will be inherently invoked, ergo allowing a maximum of three saints days wherein efforts to re-evaluate the accord, and, or, deem the accord no longer viable.

1. Both signatories shall become at peace with one another, ceasing conflict between the two.
2. Henceforth, both parties will adhere to a strict non-aggression agreement that will be enforced.
3. Regarding the flow of goods and trade, no customs will discourage any exchange.
4. Mobility between the nations will be enforced by both, and the roads swept of bandits who may harass our fair people.
5. Both parties will aid one another in obtaining fugitives and criminals to their respective civilisation, unless one has a pact with said respective nation from which the fugitive hails from.
6. Both parties will aid one another in the defensive means of any of the signatories providing they are aggressed upon.
7. Recognising the supremacy each signatory holds over their race (Uruk, Man.) if this supremacy is contested then for the duration of the situation -- the pact will ascend into a full alliance.
8. The Orcs of Krugmar will join in with the ongoing war against the EU, or any homogenous group, adhering to the commandments of “Desolation.”

HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, Antonius I of the House of Horen, Emperor of Man, King of Renatus, Marna, Mardon, Salvus, Seventis, Savoy, Courland, Santegia, and Norland, Duke of the Crownlands, Avar, and Frederica, Count of Helena, Alamar, Frederica, Thesmer, Thelen, Lorath, and Cantal, Baron of Darkwood, Gravelhold, Fidei Defensor, Protector of the Heartlanders, Highlanders, Farfolk, etcetera

REX, Burbur’Lur Farseer and Elementalist of Krugmar, Protector of the Hou-Zi.

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

A GREAT FACADE.

Issued and Confirmed by His Imperial Majesty, Antonius I of the House of Horen,12th of Harren’s Folly, 1711

Yet another instance of Norlandic idiocy: one could deem it expected. Those of lackluster minds were once again fooled by a ploy -- a feigned missive sent out by the Imperial Grand Knight, Darius Ault, of a proposed deposition to lure them into our palace. And, as schemed, the wretched followers of Clan Ruric succumbed to Imperial Might.

To their dismay, the portcullis slammed to a close, those within the throne room resembling squealing vermin who have been cornered; Bewildered as their flighty response to a feigned claim cost them their lives, the Norlanders soon realised these moments inside of the palace were their last.

The Imperial regime considered pity, unable to initially unsheathe their swords and deplete the Norlandic forces - but rather heaved their heads back and relinquished laughter at the feeble attempt.

Despite this, the Norlanders persisted, unwavering in their attempts to flee -- though to no avail. The laughter encompassing the room soon ceased as their ichor besmirched the lavender carpets: yet another rebellious effort thwarted.

In light of this, one would hope today’s events serve as a reminder for any Adrian migrating to Vilachia to not side with men who so blatantly are outwitted by Imperials in a desperate attempt to relish in a moment of glory that will evidently never occur.

No dignity, No wits, No brains.

—-

“It was such a good bait, I’m not even mad about it. They did all the small things perfectly.” -Hot_Dip

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

CHIVALRIC RECONSTRUCTION ACT

I. PREFACE

We do issue this Act in recognition of the need for reform to the existing structures of Knighthood. This Act will therefore contain a number of provisions covering and pertaining to: the structure, formation and rules governing the Orders of Knights; the hierarchy of knights within the Empire; the general rules by which knights must serve.

II. Knightly Structure

No more shall all knights be held within a singular all-encompassing Order - although they will all still belong to the global community of Sers who are sworn to uphold their God-given oaths. All must, however, obey the Grand Knight who sits upon the Privy Council and lends his advice and sword-arm to the Emperor himself. The Grand Knight has the ultimate say on all issues pertaining to Knighthood, and is tasked with ensuring the sanctity of the role is maintained.

All knights shall henceforth be grouped into regional orders who are granted permission to function within their localities by the Grand Knight and the Emperor. These Orders shall all, with only one exception, have Paramount Knights who lead their Orders. Paramount Knights shall answer to the Grand Knight and the Imperial Crown and maintain control over all knights within their subject Order.

Ranking within such Orders is subject to the authority of the Paramount Knight - no more shall there be a centralised system of Knight Errantry - but knights may only be made and granted their spurs with the permission of the  Grand Knight themself; the sanctity of the role must be held above all doubt.

III. Knightly Orders

    The following Orders are granted permission to exist:

The Imperial Order of the Red Dragon, they exist solely to serve the Emperor. They have no Paramount Knight, and instead exist as an elite of soldiery solely designed to protect the Imperial household and further their aims. Their writ runs true to this aim above all else. At the pinnacle of this Order shall stand the Dragon Knights, the foremost of the chivalric community. Their permanent existence is enshrined in law and listen to none but the Emperor himself.

The Order of Pertinax, the force maintained by the Kingdom of Renatus

The Order of Ursus, the force maintained by the Kingdom of Curon.

The Marian Retinue, the force maintained by the Kingdom of Haense.

IV. Imperial Rules

There will remain a number of precepts which bind knights together across the Empire. All knights are required to undertake the same oaths to the Empire, and in the case of localities to their local ruler, and to God. All knights are also required to maintain the same Code of Chivalry; failure to maintain its precepts can result in expulsion and the honour being stripped away. Orders may add to this Code with their own additions, but they must also follow the central Code which has been passed down by knights from time immemorial.

V. Knightly Code of Chivalry:

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall be loyal to the Emperor both in thought and in practice.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall live by honour and for glory.  

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall guard the honour of fellow Knights.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall at all times keep the faith,

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall serve his liege lord valorously and with conviction.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall persevere to the end in any quest begun.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall never turn their back upon a foe.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall refrain from the wanton giving of offense.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall never leave an insult left unanswered.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall never refuse the challenge of a duel from an equal or superior.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall respect those placed in authority.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall abstain from deceit and treason.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall never draw his blade upon a fellow Knight in unlawful combat.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall be vigilant and show courage in the face of evil.

☩ A Knight of the Empire shall at all times speak truly.

IN NOMINE DEI

HIS IMPERIAL MAJESTY, Antonius I of the House of Horen, Emperor of Man, King of Renatus, Marna, Mardon, Salvus, Seventis, Savoy, Courland, Santegia, and Norland, Duke of the Crownlands, Avar, and Frederica, Count of Helena, Alamar, Frederica, Thesmer, Thelen, Lorath, and Cantal, Baron of Darkwood, Gravelhold, Fidei Defensor, Protector of the Heartlanders, Highlanders, Farfolk, etcetera.

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

IMPERIAL ORDER OF THE RED DRAGON

✝

“We walk in the light of the Emperor.”

This declaration, issued and affirmed by His Imperial Majesty, Antonius of the House Horen on the 8th of Tobias’ Bounty, reforming the ancient Imperial Order of the Red Dragon.

THE MISSION OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER

Following the anarchic descent of past knightly groups into misrule and dispute the Imperial Crown has seen fit to order the reformation of the Imperial Order. The group is to serve as not an all encompassing force of chivalrous warriors, but instead a collection of the Empire’s most elite Knights. They have a single purpose - the protection and maintenance of Imperial power.

Knights of the Red Dragon are mandated to protect the lives of the Imperial house and Horenic line, whilst also acting as the vanguard of wider military efforts. They are to be at the front of every military action and represent the bravest, most skilled and experienced of knights, while answering only to the Emperor himself and, established beneath him, the Ordermaster.

DEGREES OF KNIGHTHOOD

1. DRAGON KNIGHT

The ‘Dragon Knights’ stand at the pinnacle of the Order. The finest warriors of the Empire, renowned across the entire world, they are embodiments of all the values which the Red Dragon represents: power and dominance over challengers, obedience to the Emperor, courage in the face of certain death, unbridled military might. It is rare for any one knight in a single generation to attain such a privileged position - to do so means they have dedicated themselves entirely to the service of the Empire and proven themselves to be fighters without parallel.

2. RED KNIGHT

The majority of the Order consists of Red Knights. While to many these are considered the average knights, merely normal compared to the paragons of virtue who stand above them, they are anything but. Each Knight has undertaken a lifetime of preparation for their role, proving themself totally as devoted to the Empire and capable of bearing arms in its name. Red Knights have responsibility for many things - upholding their code, guarding the Empire and its Imperial family, maintaining peace amongst the realm, leading soldiers, and aiding the Emperor in conducting his duty.

THE PATH TO KNIGHTHOOD

Although it is the right of the Emperor to dispense ranks as he so desires, should he recognise the exemplary strength of a certain individual and desire to place them into his service, the vast majority of new knights emerge from within the Order. Beneath Red Knight stands a lower rank - that not of a knight but an Orderman. These Ordermen are apprenticed and or squired to the legendary Dragon Knights so that they may learn their duties and train to improve themselves. Serving as auxiliaries and levy forces to the heavily armoured core, it is not rare for many to never complete their training due to its intense rigour - only the most dedicated and most skilled go on to take their place as Red Knights.

Proving oneself as worthy of the position requires a hopeful to exhibit all the traits a member of the Imperial Order should display: dedication and obedience, strength and valour, piety and zealotry, intelligence and innovation. They must know the Code and live by it.

LISTS OF CURRENT KNIGHTS

Dragon Knights:

Ser Darius Ault, Ordermaster

Ser Martinus Horen

Ser Jan Sigmar

Ser Carlovac Kovachev

Red Knights:

Ser Uthred Gromach

Ser John Ballard

Ser Cassius Horen

Ordermen:

Aurelius Iani, apprenticed to Cassius Horen

Theobald d’Anpalais, apprenticed to Carlovac Kovachev

Edward d’Anpalais, apprenticed to Darius Ault

Vitus Horen, apprenticed to Antonius Horen

Zvonimir Kastrovat

Philip Windsor

Konyves Ivanovich

Gotz Tannhauser

Daniel

Karl

THE CODE OF KNIGHTHOOD

The Imperial Order of the Red Dragon rests its values upon the ancient Code of Chivalry, revised over two centuries ago by Ser Maric II Varodyr. It is appended here:

A knight shall live by honour, for glory, and guard the honour of fellow knights.

Honour The Creator and maintain His Church.

Keep the faith and act in righteousness.

He shall serve his liege lord valorously and with conviction.

Persevere to the end in any quest begun and never turn his back upon a foe.

A Knight shall not give wanton offense and shall despise pecuniary reward.

Give succour to widows and orphans and regard the honor of women.

He shall offer that which is not needed, to those who are needy.

And safeguard the helpless and uphold the weak.

A knight shall respect those in authority but fight for the welfare of all.

Abstain from Injustice, cruelty and deceit.

He shall be vigilant and show courage, even in the face of evil.

Resolve not with swords what can be with words.

And at all times speak the truth, even if faced with death.

In his blood the creator’s will shall be written.