Halt

March 5

Spoiler

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 wander.

Reminding him of their plans to pick strawberries tomorrow, she rose from her chair and gradually put out the lights. As he lay in the growing darkness, he pondered her words. He still had much to learn and many more stories in which to feature. Perhaps one day, he would be the person to best in the tales of someone else. Until then, his hand would find companionship in a quill, and his gaze would meet the blankness of parchment. He lit the candles his mother had previously sought to dim and began writing. His chambers were filled with books aplenty; he did his best to mimic some missives of great renown, though his intellect was perhaps belied by the childlike imperfection of the letters themselves. Art was scarcely found on his walls, much the same. Thus, inspiration, too, was borrowed and imprinted upon another blank piece of parchment. In the morrow, he would pay this woman yet another visit—at least, he would endeavor to.

A faint tap awoke the young lad, startling him slightly as he realized he had dozed off during his mother's tale. The queen regarded her son with a gentle smile as he began to recount his own day's events to her. With great gusto, he regaled her with a tale of his own valor against the odds and overcoming a much more powerful combatant—another queen, a certain Catherine I of the Petra.

She placed a hand on his head and ruffled his hair gently before remarking that perhaps he hadn't simply overwhelmed his opponent in the duel. Perhaps she, in her graciousness, had decided that, like many before her, it was her duty to allow others their simple moment of triumph. After all, she had little to gain from besting a boy, and he would gain a lifelong memory. A surge of renewed respect went through Alexander as he listened; too, an expression of malcontent washed over his features. Was the victory folly?

February 10

Spoiler

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:

This date shall mark the end of my grievance with Lorenz Gavaudin. Displaying admirable bravery, he agreed to meet my challenge in a year’s time. Tomorrow is that Saint’s Day. As I ready myself for the strife ahead, my thoughts are not of battle. Instead, they lie with the family and friends I have come to know along the course of my life. I venture to Portoregne alone, and while I prefer it that way, it is not an easy decision to make. I came into this world alone, and should fortune not favor me, I’ll leave it that way. However, it is not that loneliness that defines my experience. Instead, it is the companionship and time spent with my beloved Margaret. I leave this for her, knowing that should I err in the duel, she ought to know I didn’t err in choosing to share my life with her. In a way, she chose me. Many will speak of the various relics or storied items in my possession in the event of my passing. A number of these items could be considered precious treasures by many, and I could not fault them for that belief. And yet, I find her heart of gold to be the most valuable thing among them. First, her father’s, and now my greatest achievement to lay claim to in this life—to have shared it so meaningfully with her.

With this, I depart, for better or worse.

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WRITTEN BY,

-R.

KURĀKEN

S.A. 159

It seems fitting that we begin with the most distinct piece in Sir Ruben’s collection. A shimmering longsword wrought of Thanhium and shaped into oceanic iconography. When asked about its meaning, Sir Ruben explained that the item’s symbolism was twofold. In one respect, it served as a way for the former apprentice blacksmith to attempt to craft something that would rival his father’s own sword. He spoke of his upbringing under a blacksmith and how it instilled a work ethic in him. Additionally, the source of the weapon’s material bears its own story. The materials sourced for the making of the sword were a reward to the knight by the realm for which he fought, as thanks for courageous acts and leadership during the skirmish of the Westmark. While recalling the battle, I noted that many emotions crept over his face, ranging from pride at overcoming odds to a generally resigned weariness. I couldn’t quite put my finger on why.

The day-to-day struggles of the common man are often accompanied by a crisis of faith. It is far too easy to experience the many evils of our world and let them corrupt us into lesser versions of ourselves. Freshly from the fields of battle for Westmark and baptized in war, Sir Ruben began to express doubts about the person he was becoming. Naturally, he sought to alleviate this by seeking the guidance of one Sista “Juli’el” Jenny. With her guidance, he found a way to metaphorically cleanse himself of wrongdoings and commit to a fresh slate of righteousness. He delved into his armory and turned a wicked blade into one with renewed purpose. An Azhl dagger, covered in a web of strange veins. Determined to overcome the blade’s poisonous nature, he committed himself to having it serve as a physical symbol of virtuous action. A badge of honor for his own struggle to overcome the evils that had stricken him.

IMPIA

S.A. 160

BŪRŪMUN

S.A. 162

The next item bears a similar sentiment to that of Vox Draconis. It serves as a signature of sorts for Sir Ruben, and holds a great deal of emotional importance to him. Gifted on his 18th nameday, it was originally borne by one Húrin Ibarellan. This was quite an honor for the young knight, as the blade was already storied by this point, and the man who wielded it much the same. Húrin served as a source of inspiration to an impressionable Sir Ruben and would witness many of the man’s greatest triumphs and pitfalls. Whilst searching for a worthy successor to wield Būrūmun, Húrin found many lacking. Eventually, he chose Sir Ruben as the blade’s successor, finding no one more worthy to be its wielder. With it, Sir Ruben inherited a hefty responsibility to live up to the blade’s history and its previous wielder’s expectations. The weapon itself is an elegant katana, crafted from Carbarum and frosted with Lunarite to grant it a soft silvery glow. It is only natural that the next item should follow suit after the introduction of Būrūmun. Sir Ruben recounts a harrowing tale of a duel within which his opponent’s blade was shattered by this very katana. While initially disheartened at the loss of such a fine weapon, the knight was determined not to let the rare material go to waste. Sir Ruben repurposed the fragments into a Lunarite sword breaker. Its hilt is covered in the hide of a strange beast—a manticore—-and while it is not as ornate as Būrūmun, the sword breaker has a simple charm that is hard to ignore.

The final item is one that, I must confess, bore the greatest interest to me. As an amateur scholar of sorts, I found myself quite fascinated at the concept that lay with the creation. An intricate ring wrought of Dracanium, bearing similar imagery of a dragon to that of Vox Draconis and yet appearing distinct. According to Sir Ruben, said ring possesses an uncanny ability. One can hear strange whispering while observing the ring in proximity, and reportedly, the consciousness of a dragon rests within. While the ring also possesses the ability to produce a dazzling display of light, it is the primary ability that bears most of my interest. The insights that could potentially be gained from such a creature are immense, and the perspective alone would be worth its weight in gold. The procurement of such a mysterious artifact is surprisingly mundane. Sir Ruben recounts that it was a parting gift for him and his wife, originally meant for his father’s possession but given to the knight in his stead.

KINBOK

S.A. 167

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.

February 4

Spoiler

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cSGdGIeepAIoj0PcqXFHIFBtkboaKWVczPNNsOXsBd5j4c-cMlIs6Qbl50LdFqsOUZ-MMeGo7FggIJqK4aSO8VnGSl2ZSJ3nbVjC-zgFy3wKvT_iILEZZcbeYa4dw6maYXUsyAeRr4joFh-A

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

To those it may concern, primarily one Lorenz Gavaudin,

@itdontmatta

It is with a heavy hand and a heavier heart that I find myself forced into this situation yet again. As I find myself drawn into violence further, the sense of weariness grows with each passing day. And yet, one cannot turn a blind eye when it comes to matters of family. In his direst days, you abandoned my father, Sir Gaspard, to preserve your own hide or for personal gain. I cannot guess as to what your motivations were, and frankly it matters not now. The weight of responsibility demands I address this in the only way I have become accustomed to.

I hereby issue a formal challenge to the named party. You may view this as the proverbial gauntlet being cast at your feet. While many would cast aspersions on the name of my family, I will state the terms of this duel clearly, so that my honor might not be questioned. I demand satisfaction for this grievance in the form of blood and steel, with only one of us emerging from this clash with his life. Furthermore, I have been made aware that you have possession of something you should not, for it belongs to we. I would see it reclaimed at any cost, even if it must be taken from your lifeless form. The meeting location, time, and further specifics shall be deferred to you as the one challenged, be it in either Winburgh, Whitespire, or as far as the stretches of jungle that so surround the Kingdom of Balian, and its capital.

Signed,

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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.

December 10, 2023

Spoiler

@Nectorist @Phersades @bickando

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.

December 1, 2023

Spoiler

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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.

November 12, 2023

18 R.R.

A SHORT STORY, BY AMELYA VAN AERT

@Fie

Emmelina, a precocious child with braids tumbling down her back and a mischievous smile, was always on the lookout for ways to play matchmaker. Her cousin Gustaf Otto was a man of many things, primarily without much immediate family or kinship except for his sister and cousin. For, he had yet to find a partner in this life of his. One morning, one Emmelina rushed into Gustaf’s periphery and pulled at his cloaked wrists. “Cousin! There’s trouble brewing in the square of Winburgh,” she cried. Gustaf let loose a sigh and followed in her wake toward the ostensible chaos. But as he arrived, expecting a ruckus, the crowd seemed to disperse. Instead, he found only a single figure—Margaret.

“Emmelina spoke of unrest?” Gustaf began to inquire, still looking around with a gaze made cautious. Margaret chuckled softly and looked confused, maybe. His younger cousin took this opportunity to make known her cousin’s station as a man yet unwed. Gustaf dodged the topic with a polite smile. “Children and their games. I apologize if she troubled you.” Too, he wrote her a simple note; pulling a stick of charcoal from the pocket of his burgundy robe, Gustaf made clear that he was not involved with her schemes. Margaret waved her hand dismissively. “No harm done. Though I must admit, it’s not often I’m introduced under such pretenses.” In the ensuing conversation, Gustaf mentioned a tournament his uncle was attending in Celia'nor. Margaret’s eyes lit up at the mention of the bustling city.

“Would you care to join me?” Gustaf offered, “There’s room on my horse if you’re willing.”

Margaret considered briefly, then nodded. “I would like that.”

Together, they rode to Celia'nor, the journey filled with shared, idle thoughts and occasional laughter. Upon arrival, they joined Gustaf’s father in the noble stands, overlooking the throne room, where knights and warriors alike clashed. As they watched, they made small talk, continuing in their conversation held prior.

“I don’t drink,” Margaret remarked after declining a glass of mead offered by one of the attendants.

“No matter,” Gustaf said, smiling. “The tournament is entertainment enough.”

As the tournament continued, Gustaf’s eyes were drawn to the fierce fighting between the famed Húrin and a nameless warrior of unknown prowess. Their blades clashed with a symphony of steel, and the crowd erupted into cheers.

“Why don’t you compete?” Margaret asked, turning to Gustaf. “Aren’t you a swordsman?”

Gustaf leaned back, his fingers tracing the hilt of his sword. “I prefer to fight in real battles,” he replied thoughtlessly.

Margaret smirked. “Well, a victory here would surely be real enough.”

Gustaf considered her challenge, then leaned closer. “If you’ll agree to have a drink to my success, so I’ll fight the winner of my Húrin and the man unknown.”

Margaret’s smile scarcely widened. “Deal.”

After Húrin was defeated by the unknown warrior, Gustaf stood up and vaulted over the stands into the arena. The crowd fell silent as Gustaf Otto challenged the mysterious victor, and so the man clad in golden armor obliged this request. Their duel was intense, albeit one made brief; Gustaf’s technique was flawless, and his strikes were only precise. The man was overmatched and defeated swiftly. From her seat, Margaret watched with amusement, or so Gustaf thought. He returned to her side, victorious and still catching his breath, only to find her face painted ambivalent.

“A drink to my success?” He echoed it with a grin.

“Perhaps one,” Margaret replied with a suppressed smile.

“If I so survive the siege come the morrow,” Gustaf spoke in earnest, “I will buy you one such drink to make good of your promise.”

“I’ll hold you to that just the same, Gustaf. But, you had better return to Winburgh safely.”

August 17, 2023

Reminder: All of this is a rough draft purely for the sake of demonstration. If there is interest in making adjustments, then further feedback will be taken into account.

Hey everyone,

A few updates ago, Mojang increased the character limit for nameplates. What this means for LotC is that it's now possible to display a wealth of information, including statuses, roleplay names, health, and more, all at once. An example of how the server currently functions can be seen here:

Spoiler

An example of a new way to format names can be seen here:

Spoiler

Proof of Concept:

Courtesy: @The60th

There's a poll attached to this thread; please be sure to vote in it and/or leave a comment with additional feedback.

Secondly, the forums used to have badges in the form of circles (●●●) related to reputation or post count. It seems that feature has been lost over time. We have three options: leave them removed, read them in the form of text symbols, and lastly, add custom images. In the spoiler below, I'll leave a few references, and those three options will be listed in the poll. I appreciate everyone who takes the time to vote on these polls; each one matters.

Spoiler

August 6, 2023

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:

Spoiler

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?

Spoiler

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.

June 16, 2023

Spoiler

[!]

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

Spoiler

☬

September 15, 2022

Spoiler

THE MAKINGS OF SOMETHING SINISTER

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

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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.

August 25, 2022

Courtesy: @Nectorist

Spoiler

HIS MOTHER'S KEEPER

22nd of Owyn's Flame, 1887

“Are you deaf, man? Your name!”

The words of the ruddy-faced guardsman rung clearly in Thomas’ ears. His heart, which for a moment had stopped its heavy thudding, resumed again. As the blood began to travel through his veins once again, the man could think clearly.

Best to give them a false name for now. The governor may be more inclined to hear me out, but I can’t bet my life on street watchers.

Thomas looked away from the guard, and to the governor’s palace behind him. Brick, brick, and more brick. A man could spend a lifetime counting each and every one, laid perfectly atop one another. A short wall, starting from the palace wrapping around the estate; encompassing the post office, the granary, and the servant’s quarters, akin to how a mother embraced her children. It was the largest building for miles around, by far. Still, it was the home of a provincial governor, assigned to oversee farming and ensure grain shipments were sent on time. It could not hold a candle to the lavish courts of Montclair or Vesetta, never mind Langford or Pronce. Regardless, it was Thomas Augustus’ last chance at finding a home. It would have to do.

“Well? I haven’t got all da-”

“Edwin. My name is Edwin. I come from Fenbel. I bear news for Governor Richton, from Lord Amiel.” Thomas reached inside his overcoat, pulling from it a few crumpled papers. “The drought has rendered five of our mills unusable. I’ve come to see if Obel can spare any flour.”

The guardsman looked over the papers for a moment before handing them back to Thomas. “Not that I can read them. Go on in.” He lifted his halberd and stepped aside, allowing the man entry.

The interior of the palace was as similarly unspectacular as the exterior, though it was clear that Governor Richton had spent a small fortune on decorations. Rugs from Oyashima lined the floors. A mixture of boar, deer, lion, and other animal’s heads lined the walls. A chandelier, clearly made from the craftsmen of Arkent, hung from the ceiling. A handful of slaves, servants, and attendants scuttled throughout the house, but aside from that it was mostly quiet. Ascending a polished wooden staircase, Thomas made his way to the second story of the palace, where he was told the governor’s office would be.

The second floor of the palace was little more than a narrow hallway lined with plain wooden doors, save for the very end, where a large double-door, laced with silver and painted black, was waiting. Presuming that this was the governor’s office, Thomas made his way down. Though he tried to keep quiet, his footsteps thudded loudly. When he had finally made his way to the end, he rapped his knuckles upon the door. Without delay, a low, guttural voice responded. “Come in!”

Governor Richton’s office was nothing short of a catastrophe. Papers and books flooded the room in messy, haphazardly-stacked piles. Black tea, or was it ink, had seeped into one stack, and instead of throwing them out, the governor had allowed them to languish in a corner. The governor himself, a short, portly fellow of middling age, sat behind a desk that was no less cluttered. The only saving grace was the large, uncovered window in the back that led out to a small overlook. The room, thankfully not bereft of sunlight, could at least be shown in all of its unholy glory.

“Sit, sit!” Governor Richton called out to Thomas cheerily, gesturing to the two seats in front of his desk. Both were occupied by stacks of papers. “Never mind those,” Richton assured him. “You can set them aside.”

Thomas warily made his way over to the right chair and carefully moved the papers onto the floor. He sat in it and stared across to the balding, fat Governor Richton, who bore a small smile. “Thank you, governor.” He shuffled through his overcoat again, passing the same papers as before to the man. “I am sure you are aware of who I am.”

Richton nodded, and his kindly smile turned into something of a smirk. “Baron Sirion informed me of your impending arrival… along with a recommendation that I have you thrown in the cells.”

Thomas’s heart dropped when he heard the words. It was rare to even be received now at the courts and estates he ventured to. His lineage was too high to be allowed near the jobs of the common man, yet his family’s station was too lowly, too disgraced, for his presence to be welcomed or even tolerated. He had hoped that in Obel, a place greatly disconnected from the many great courts and intrigues of Aeldin, he could find a home. Now that final door appeared to be closing.

“Please, Governor Richton! I’ll work for you in any office, high or low, and not resent my service. Give me a small room here, and I will work loyally and ably until the end of your service,” he begged.

Richton did not respond, and instead looked over the papers that had been handed to him. “Your mother makes a similar appeal here, it seems,” he scoffed. “How kind of her, given the sort she was. Does she fare well?”

Thomas thought back the beatings he had endured by her hand, the drunken mess she made of herself in the castles and estates of each host. More often than not, her incessant groveling and begging had resulted in the two of them being thrown out. More often than not, she had blamed him for it, and rendered another beating. The last time Thomas had seen her was well over a year ago, and by then it was clear the drink had taken what was left of her feeble mind. He quietly hoped she was either being well-cared for or was burning in hell.

“As usual with her, Governor Richton.” He shrugged. ”Probably not too different since the two of you last met.”

The governor laughed at that.

“You've got her wit, at least. One of the few things she possessed. Tell me, Thomas Augustus, what do you know of tending a field?”

“Nothing, Governor Richton.”

“Of directing grain shipments?”

“Nothing, Governor Richton.”

“Of surveying land, so it may be sold and distributed for use as a farmstead, or any other necessary purpose?”

“Nothing, Governor Richton.”

“Of settling legal disputes between grant holders?”

“Nothing, Governor Richton.”

“Then what use do I have for you? Do you think I’ve room to sponsor some wastrel courtier? To give you a cushy job behind a desk that doesn’t require the brains of an ox?” The governor squinted at Thomas with small, beady eyes. “I thought you’d have learned from your father’s example. He went around begging for postings, as you once did. The fourth son of a man two generations removed from a baron in Sabonen, himself five generations removed from an emperor. Yet still, he called himself a ‘Horen’ and said that he ‘bore the blood of the dragons.’ He was no dragon, Thomas. He was a pathetic sod who married a wretched woman, and they both pissed away their meager inheritances.”

“I understand, Governor Richton.” Thomas clenched his teeth, staring back at the man with a stony gaze. He had no love for his mother and never knew his father, yet he could hardly tolerate these insults to his family, to himself.

“An hour before you did, I met with a cobbler’s son who was seeking work. Some of my farmers needed their shoes repaired, and we had few spares, so I hired the man on the spot. To think that I have more use for a cobbler’s son than for the ‘blood of the dragon’.” Governor Richton laughed again, though this one was far crueler. It was evident to Thomas that the man could no longer think of him seriously. “How old are you, Thomas Augustus?”

“Thirty, Governor Richton,” he answered through clenched teeth.

Richton laughed again, his large gut wobbling as he did so. “At thirty, I was overseeing repairs to border fortifications to the east. Yet, looking through your records now, I see nothing of note…” He flipped through a small stack of papers before him, neatly aligned and presented.

“If I knew that my service here would be limited to being an object of your jests, then I would have brought a glove, so I may have challenged you for the slights you make,” hissed Thomas, gritting his teeth as he rose from his desk. “I bid you a good day, Governor Richton.”

“Stop. There is one thing I see here, and it may just be your lucky ticket to make something of yourself, belated as it is,” Richton called out to Thomas, gesturing for him to return to his seat, which he did. The governor then put one of the many papers before him. “It says here that you took part in some anti-piracy operations off of the coast of Endaen.”

“I did, yes.”

“It doesn’t seem you served with any great distinction, but that matters little. You have experience, which is what my brother needs.” The governor rose from his desk for a moment. He waddled to a chest in the room and opened it, pulling from it a large map, which he unfurled atop the desk, knocking aside a quill and several books in the process. “He’s an admiral in the navy, if you weren’t aware.”

Thomas’s eyes went wide, and his spirits returned to him again. “I know ships, yes. Anything your brother may need, I can do.”

Richton nodded. He then pointed to a cluster of islands on the map, far to the south and west of Aeldin. “Here lay the Duchy of Furnestock. Have you heard of it?” Thomas shook his head. “I thought so. They’re far away, and have had little relevance. Until now. They’re a collection of sixteen islands, conquered by some prince from the far west half a century ago. Some of our traders have found that the islands are rich in spices, but we’ve long been denied the rights to found a port of our own. Now, though, the tides have changed.” He drew a circle around one of the islands on the exterior of the cluster, the smallest of them all.

“Agathor wants a port here, and now we’ve the opportunity to. News travels slowly from the west, but whispers have reached me. Oren is no more, leaving Furnestock isolated. My brother has been authorized to lead a small fleet to force the governor to grant us rights to build a port. We don’t need, or want, the whole thing. Just one port.”

“Am I to join this expedition, then?” Thomas asked.

“Precisely. No doubt they’ll put up some resistance. It shouldn’t be too much, but we’ll need someone to lead the forces ashore. Agathor has been blessed with peace for years, but it means we lack men with combat experience. You bring some of this. Succeed here, and we can promise to outfit you a ship, which you may take to anywhere you want. However, it is best you leave Aeldin behind. You carry with you the burdens of a lineage that benefits you little, and parents that have weighed you in debt. Make a life elsewhere, Thomas,” the governor said, now quite sincere. He clasped a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Your mother, the wench that she was, saved me once. Consider this a favor repaid. I’ll let you reside in one of the guest rooms for tonight. Tomorrow I’ll give you a letter, which you are to take to my brother in Pronce.”

Thomas sat there, stunned. For years, he and his mother had traveled from court to court, begging for some estate, some income, some job that they could work in service of the local lord, lady, or governor. In almost all cases he had been met with rejection, shunned for sins that were not his, and mocked for a name he could not live up to. Now, though, opportunity stared him in the face. He needed only to wrap his fingers about it, grasp it, and never let it from him.

December 27, 2020

+1

June 12, 2019

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zTXJNPGZZIwMMMLMtBgD5MSNmTZYz9FBXqtjBwZ-LJAJ4y1-lqKyQWjpZm_sTJHDTnJudM1nP1mblpv08jG3EMcMGW9IMvzeImfvEIIjVkfTU-t3SGctLstohergrnUDHhKetudV

The southernmost islands of Arcas provide habitat for a wide variety of vile creatures and beasts, which have been otherwise relegated from the rest of the realm. The jungles on these islands have successfully fostered a large population of swine, specifically feral and ever-aggressive boars. There is strength in numbers, which works both ways. Any huntsman or trapper is advised to bring a well-prepared party if they wish to leave in a condition similar to the one in which they arrived, assuming they are able to leave at all.

Spoiler

CREATURE NAME OR OBJECTIVE – BOAR

LOCATION – JUNGLE ISLAND

THREAT LEVEL – INTERMEDIATE

REWARD – 50 MINAS PER BOAR SLAIN (CAP OF 500)

PROGRESSION SYSTEM (IF APPLICABLE) – TIME

May 28, 2019

Spoiler

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

O’ does the eye of the sun oft gaze down ‘pon the realm of Arcas. As the skies drifted across the lands, they left in their wake the brightest sunlight, which staves away the darkness of mankind and creatures of darkness alike. The rays of said light reached all, from the lowest valleys of the south, to the mountainous terrain of the north. Some such radiance was known to have reached the land on which Hollyhold was built atop—the keep of Ser Martinus Horen, or Márton. T’was the 10th day of Harren’s Folley, a day wherein the sky was painted a misty gray, void of the usual light it so regularly graced the land with. Heavy rains pattered down atop Ser Martinus’ plate while forming puddles, which patterned the walkway adjacent to Carolus’ Bridge. His warhorse, among others, cantered forward, splashing peasants and other bystanders in their wake. Over his shoulder, the sight of the capital was fleeting. Slowly shrinking behind him as he moved further down the bridge, one which he had crossed a thousand times before.

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.

April 30, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

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DECLARATION OF REGENCY

8^th of Sigismund’s End, 1713

His Imperial Majesty has deemed it suitable to pursue an extended absence as he partakes on a sentimental pilgrimage across the fabled continent of Aeldin, where his progenitors hail from. It is due to this that the Privy Council has come together to declare a state of regency across the Empire in order to better maintain the prosperous state of the Realm and to continue the ongoing war against the EU. Therefore the following is declared:

SECTION I: REGENCY

The Arch-Chancellor, Wilhelm Devereux, shall ascend to the position of Regent and assume the responsibilities of the Emperor until His Imperial Majesty returns.
The Privy Council shall aid the newly-named regent in leading the Empire, just as they would assist the Emperor. However if a matter arises where two or more members of the Privy Council deem an issue to be so serious it should not be handled by the Regent alone, then the matter shall be handled democratically by the entire Privy Council.
1. This can also be invoked to revoke, undo or alter the decisions made by the regent.

SECTION II: WAR

While most matters can be entrusted to the Regent, all matters pertaining to war shall be handled by His Imperial Highness, Martinus Horen, until His Imperial Majesty returns.
This position shall be guided alongside a The Regent and a War Council that shall persist of the Grand Marshal, the Grand Knight, and the Siege Master, Tiberius Horen.
If these terms are not held to then any additional powers granted to the aforementioned shall be revoked and the Empire shall sit without a sole leader until the return of His Imperial Majesty.

IN NOMINE DEI

THE IMPERIAL REGENT, Wilhelm of the House of Devereux, Regent and Archchancellor of the Imperium Septimus.

HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, Ser Martinus “The Lover” of the House of Horen, Prince and Dragon Knight, and Warlord of the Imperium Septimus

HER IMPERIAL HIGHNESS, Amelia Philipa of the House of Horen, Princess of Alstion and the Imperium Septimus, Duchess of Alba and Furnestock, Lady Keeper of the Privy Seal of the Empire

HIS IMPERIAL EXCELLENCY, Darius of the House of Ault, Grand Knight of the Imperium Septimus, Ordermaster of the Imperial Order of the Red Dragon and chaste servant of God.

HIS IMPERIAL EXCELLENCY, Charles-Edmond of the House of Talraen, Minister of the Interior and Arch-Seneschal of the Imperial and Royal Crown of Exalted Godfrey and Renatus-Marna, Baron and Lord Protector of Rennes

HIS IMPERIAL EXCELLENCY, Rozmeo of the House of Kastrovat, Lord Marshal

of the Imperial Renatian Legion

April 25, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

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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.

Both signatories shall become at peace with one another, ceasing conflict between the two.
Henceforth, both parties will adhere to a strict non-aggression agreement that will be enforced.
Regarding the flow of goods and trade, no customs will discourage any exchange.
Mobility between the nations will be enforced by both, and the roads swept of bandits who may harass our fair people.
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.
Both parties will aid one another in the defensive means of any of the signatories providing they are aggressed upon.
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.
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.

April 11, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

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A GREAT FACADE.

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

Spoiler

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

April 9, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

Spoiler

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THE EMPEROR’S JUSTICE

Issued and Confirmed by His Imperial Majesty, Antonius I of the House of Horen,12th of Harren’s folley, 1710.

✠

Peace, prosperity, and cooperation define an Empire and lead it to glory under GOD: a divine accord that was severed this Saint’s Eve. His Imperial Highness, Yury of the House of Horen, has been accused of leading his men into the Adrian Capital of Ves; In light of these allegations, as stipulated in Imperial Law, a trial will be held in the Imperial Capital of Helena to determine Prince Yury’s innocence and where he may safeguard his rights as a citizen of Man.

All viable witnesses, which include but are not limited to: His Royal Majesty, Marius Barbanov II, and the Adrian populace may attend to testify their accounts of the occurrence.

But to you, my fair friend - Marius, there is no need to summon a member of my family to stand trial, for the Emperor’s justice shall always prevail; Prince Yury would have stood trial regardless of your request.

OOC:

The trial will be held in the Imperial Throne room tomorrow, Tuesday the 9th of April at 3:30PM EST.

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

_Ijc_RjEMQ4jB-UW9L-pDRo_ed9tepQIR8V1fkJjy9aahljM80J2H-_aWI3Vqy4B3P2NIOfNwR6bGev_V04qxRg8nXBPLsR5zO936mtbne5YBAUjI5cj_EAHYuE_yEgJ5w

March 23, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

CHIVALRIC RECONSTRUCTION ACT

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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.

March 23, 2019

Courtesy: Council of Renatus

THE ORDER OF PERTINAX

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Issued and confirmed by his Imperial Majesty, Antonius of House Horen, 8th of Tobias’ Bounty , 1708.

MISSION

The Order of Pertinax acts as Knightly Order to the Kingdom of Renatus and the Crownlands. Consisting of every sanctioned Knight within the Crownlands, the Order of Pertinax seeks to uphold the etiquette and prestige of the Knights within the realm.

ENLISTMENT

It is required, by decree of his Imperial Majesty, that all Knights within the Crownlands are to enlist within the Order of Pertinax. The Order of Pertinax has no uniform. It is also noted that not all Knights are Nobles, yet all Nobles should seek Knighthood, the order like all others is headed by a Paramount Knight.

THE KNIGHTLY CODE OF CHIVALRY