Xayshi

With the wars behind us and peace now won, the time has come to look not to survival, but to preparation. The strength and future of Idunia lies in the next generation of soldiers, Knights, vassal leaders, and members of the Harren Court. Over the next five years, the Iron Guard of Angrenost shall host a series of training sessions, focused mainly on the basics of combat, but also divulging into other areas such as medicine and the history of Idunia. These sessions are not meant to hone every individual into a prodigy, but rather to prepare them, to promote confidence in themselves, encourage companionship, and provide a firm understanding of a variety of topics which will only serve them in the future, and by extension, all of Idunia. Participants will be introduced to a range of skills, including, but not limited to: 🟆 Sword and shield 🟆 Spear and javelin 🟆 Archery 🟆 Basic Medicine 🟆 Wearing and understanding armor 🟆 The fundamentals of horse riding and care For combat, children will be taught the foundations – stance, movement, awareness, and control – at a pace suited to their age and experience. Emphasis will be placed on discipline, coordination, proper handling of training weapons, and learning to act with both confidence and restraint. No prior knowledge is needed, only a willingness to listen and desire to learn. Beyond martial skill, these gatherings will also foster understanding of the Laws of Idunia, the Scrolls, Darkspawn education, and establishing the values that shape a good and honorable life. All children of Idunia aged 8 and above are encouraged to attend, especially those without formal training. The soldiers of the Host and the Knights of the Realm are also encouraged to come aid in this endeavor – offering their experience, insight, and knowledge to help guide those seeking to learn. This is not a call to war, nor an opportunity for more willful children to hit each other without consequence; it is a call of growth – to raise a generation that is capable, wise, and steadfast. Trainings shall be held within the Viscounty of Angrenost, in the barracks of the Iron Guard, located directly North of Alduun. Sparring weapons and armor shall be provided and distributed before each session. Signed, The Honorable, Ser Boromir Orodrion of the house Mithrenion, Viscount-Consort of Angrenost, Knight Captain of the Knightly Order of the Silver Stags, Captain of the Iron Guard, Knight of the Silver Shield

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Ser Boromir scarcely spared the fallen city a second glance. He left the ruin of Urguan behind without pause, jaw set tight and stride steady, his thoughts already turning to the west -- to the Horde where his blade would soon find its true work.

Ser Boromir read over the missive excitedly but frowned by the end when he realized he wasn't invited. Nor was the Knightly Order of the Silver Stags....nor even his lady wife or her lordship. His chances of claiming a victory in the joust drifted away in the wind, along with the missive, the shattered pieces of his broken heart accompanying it, but at least his good Squire and two of his Guards were remembered. He will not forget this betrayal.

Ser Boromir untied the letter from the bird's leg, unrolling it to give it a read. There was a quiet tightening in his chest at "kindlings of confidence." Not pride -- discomfort. He never liked the idea that he had shaped people, only that he stood nearby when they needed someone steady. He lingered on "Yes I have suffered. But so do all." That, he'd accept. And when he first said it, he wasn't sure Nickolai had heard him or understood. He was happy to know in the end, he had. For a moment he simply stared at the page, jaw set, thinking of all the times he hadn't acted -- the times he'd failed to ease suffering when it was within his power. The letter didn't feel as much like praise as it did a reminder. But he was grateful for it. He folded the letter carefully and tucked it within his belt to keep. Not as proof of who he was, but as a reminder of who he was supposed to be. "Flame guide, Nickolai." He muttered to himself as he sent the bird off and went back to his duties, his heart feeling heavier.

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Boromir leans back in his chair, the candlelight flickering across the parchment. His jaw tightens, and his fingers drum against the armrest almost unconsciously. The names, the titles, the pomp--they all blur as one thought rises above the rest: Roger de Rouen. His chest tightens at the memory of Louis, twenty years gone but never forgotten. Justice. Finally. After all these years. He murdered two men like dogs--and was pardoned after offering a hollow penance. But Boromir had always known the truth: that penance was nothing more than theater. It was evident when he waged war on Ivoria, driven not by duty or honor but by greed for land. And now… the evidence is undeniable. He sees the path clearly. This is justice but also reckoning. Roger will answer. For Louis. For his family. For the pretense of mercy that hid ambition and cruelty. He exhales, slow and measured. Twenty years of waiting, of holding himself in check-- and now the world has handed him the means to set things right.

Ser Boromir sat alone on a worn bench in the square of Númenost, one arm draped lazily over the backrest, the other holding a crumpled scrap of parchment. The late afternoon sun cast golden light over the cobbles, but his attention was fixed solely on the inked absurdity in his hands. The first time he read it; his brows rose slowly from disbelief. The second time, his mouth curved into a grin, the disbelief giving way to something dangerously close to pride. "Whoever taught this child to write," he muttered, voice already tight with stifled laughter, "may the Creator bless you and protect your home from flying bar stools." A sharp snort burst from him. Then a chuckle. And then he was gone --- doubled over with a full, roaring laugh that echoed down the square like a drunken knight falling down a staircase. He slapped his knee, barely able to breathe, head thrown back as he gasped--- "A bar stool and a ******* spoon---!" He leaned back, tears in his eyes, laughter still shaking his chest. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his palm, still chuckling, and lifted the parchment again like a sacred text. "No biting, no hair-pulling, and no crying for your ma...." he read aloud, shaking his head. "God above, Morwen, you are truly a menace." He sat there for a moment longer, letting the laughter fade to a soft, warm grin. Then, solemnly, he folded the parchment and tucked it into his belt as though it were a dispatch from the throne itself. "I'm framing this." He muttered under his breath as he stood and stretched, then walked away, a light chuckle trailing behind him.

The garden was quiet, save for the soft rustling of leaves overhead and the distant chirp of sparrows nesting in the boughs. Boromir sat on the old stone bench beneath the tree, one leg crossed over the other, a scroll unfurled in his lap. The sunlight filtered through the canopy in dapples across his shoulders and armor, and for a brief moment, the world felt at peace. Then he read the first line. By the second, his brow had arched. By the third, he gave a single, incredulous snort. By the time he reached the part about gnomes being slathered in honey and thrown from high walls to be judged by squirrels, he laughed—a deep, involuntary laugh. The kind that shook his shoulders and made the birds above scatter. He wiped his eyes with the back of his glove, wheezing through the remnants of it as he finished reading. “Someone’s given the rodents a quill.” He muttered with amusement, the words slipping out between the cracks of a growing grin, disbelief dancing at the edge of his voice. It was the sort of laugh that came not from joy, but from a wearied recognition that the world had, once again, outdone itself. He leaned back against the bench, eyes scanning the rest of the letter, catching every self-righteous flourish and indignant squeak of its author’s voice in his head. Cosmorazek. That was the name. Sounded like something you’d cough up after breathing in too much smithy soot. And of course, it could only have started with him. “Schmebuleock,” He muttered, venom wrapped in a sigh. “Spawn of a badger and a sack of spoiled turnips. Gods-cursed, feral, finger-snapping little plague-maggot.” The first time he met the gnome, he tried to bite his finger clean off—three times in a single hour. Only his plate gauntlets had saved him from losing digits. The creature had the teeth of a fox and the soul of a wet rat. Then came the badge—scratched into bark, painted with berry juice—declaring himself the Warden of the Kingswood. The tiny bastard marched through the capital waving it about like he was some hero of old. It was probably the highest honor a gnome had ever received. And it was made up. Fully invented on the spot, yet he was too stupid to realize the grandeur he claimed was worth less than the twig it was carved on. He stood, stepping over to the small brazier nearby where scraps were sometimes burned. The scroll in his hand fluttered as he held it over the flame. The edges blackened, curled, then caught. He watched it with grim satisfaction, arms folded across his chest. “May you go up quicker than your author, you squirrel-kissing little inkgremlin,” he muttered as the parchment collapsed into glowing ash. The last thought lingered as he turned back to his home, chuckling to himself all the while. We should’ve crusaded the gnomes, he thought. Not the halflings.

The mist clung to the pine trees like thin veils, whispering as the wind stirred their high branches. Dawn broke slowly over Garenbrig, the hilltown crowned in grey stone and weathered timber. From his small manor at the town’s edge, Boromir stirred. The raid on the old castle — two days’ hard ride to the west — already felt like a half-forgotten nightmare. Darkspawn had blackened those halls, though at the time of the raid, none but a single ghoul stood against them. A dozen strong, knights and free warriors alike — had ended it swiftly, Boromir himself never even drew his blade, and more time was spent scouting and breaking in than ransacking the place. An easy task, one that saw no casualties, or so he believed. He stepped out into the morning chill, the scent of pine thick on the air. His cloak dragged across the dirt as he stepped from his front door to check his mailbox. The battered iron latch stuck slightly before yielding under his gloved hand. Inside was a single letter. No crest marked it, just a hurried press of wax, sealed by a thumb — a sign of no ceremony, only urgency. Boromir turned to head back inside as he broke the seal open with his thumb. He pulled the letter out, unfolded it and began reading, stopping as he pushed his door open. As he finished reading, his hands tightened around the parchment, the chill of the morning biting deeper than before. There was no farewell drawn out in sorrow. No self-pity. Just simple words, honest and rough-edged, exactly like her. He could see her grin in those words — the way she would slap him on the shoulder after a hard day's training, or chuckle grimly after a narrow escape. She had been more than a mentor, she was his first friend, the first person he grew to love after arriving in Numendil. And now she was gone. Another loss he had never imagined, and he'd still not gotten over the first. The pines shifted gently in the cold breeze as he stood there, letter in hand. Somewhere beyond Garenbrig’s hills, Ser Runagleth— the orcess knight who was training him — was walking a road he could not follow. And yet, even in her leaving, she had left him one last shield: her faith. He folded the letter carefully and placed it against his heart as he pressed his head against the front door of his home and closed his eyes, a quiet prayer muttered as tears slowly crept from beneath his eyelids. He would stand firm. He would endure. And he would remember. Always.

The loft was still when morning came, though the sun had long since risen above the pines. Pale light filtered through the narrow window, soft and cold, washing the wooden room in a gray hush. He hadn't slept. Boromir sat slouched at the desk in his bedroom loft, shoulders heavy beneath a wool shawl that had slipped from one side. His tunic was creased, one sleeve rolled up, the other forgotten. He looked like a man made of stone—solid, unmoving—but inside, the sea raged. It was the day after it had happened. His eyes were bloodshot, ringed in the bruised shadow of grief and fury. Not the kind of grief that weeps and begs. No. This was the cold, hollow kind. The kind that coils behind the ribs and waits. The wooden beams above felt heavier somehow, like they were sinking inward. Or maybe he was. The quill sat in his hand, stained with ink but unmoved. The parchment in front of him bore only a name—written at the top with a trembling hand, then left untouched, as though he couldn’t bring himself to write the words that would follow it. As though saying them out loud, even to paper, would make it all real. He stared down at the paper, wanting to write—no, needing to. He drew a sharp breath through his nose and sat straighter. The quill hovered again. The words would come. They had to. He dipped the quill into ink, slow and deliberate, and began the first line—not for closure, not for peace—but because to say nothing would be to forget. And he would not forget. Not him. Louis I write this with trembling hands, though you will never read it. The ink runs like the tears I can no longer hold back, and every word feels far too small to carry the weight of your name. You are gone. And not by time’s natural hand, nor in the glory of battle—but stolen. Taken by cruelty, by injustice, by hands that knew no right. I can still hear your laughter, echoing in the halls of my memory. You were light in shadowed places, a soul bold enough to stand when others turned their gaze. And now I sit here, ink staining my fingers, trying to say goodbye to someone I would have stood for, fought for, died for—if I had only known. If I had been there. I'm sorry I wasn’t. I always believed that death is a release from suffering. But... now it is just an ache. An emptiness. Why did you have to die? We had so much more to talk about….so much more to do. I always believed that I was strong. That I could do anything. But now I feel so weak. I hate you for leaving me, and yet I love you with all my heart. I hope wherever your soul has gone, it is far from here—far from the chains of this world. I hope it is bright, and warm, and quiet. I hope you finally have peace. I've got it from here, meneit ami. Farwell.

MC Name: Xayshi Character Name: Xay'shi Ireheart Character Age: 113 Profession: Blacksmith / Miner Appearance: Stands at 4'2, rather big but in a muscular way. Brown Mohawk and a beard coming down to his chest. Green eyes and green tattoos on both arms. Does no have a shirt, but wears the legion shoulder guards and gloves on his arms as well as the leggings of the legion. Bloodline - Feel free to contact Odin (greener161), Tormund (__PJ) or Drynn (Gorgemel): Roggar Define who you shall be related to inside the bloodline (E.g, Son of ___, grandson of ___ etc): Great Grandson of Roggar Do you agree to follow the Clan Tenets OOC’ly and IC’ly and face the consequences for their breaking?: Yes Do you have Teamspeak?: Yes Do you have Skype? (If yes put in your skype name or send it to me through a pm): Malgonious has it Image of the skin you intend to use:

IGN: Xayshi Course Requested: Tactics and Offensive Strategies I Past Completed Courses: N/A Current Rank: Grunt

What’s your Minecraft account name?: Xayshi How old are you?: 16 What timezone are you in?: Eastern Are you aware the server is PG-13 (You won’t be denied for being under 13): Yes Have you read and agreed to the rules?: Yes What’s the rule you agree with the most?: The rule stating "Excessive trolling and memes in roleplay are disallowed" Are there any rule(s) that confuse you or don’t make sense? (if so we can help clear it up!): No, I fully understand all rules How did you find out about Lord of the Craft?: My friends and I were searching for a roleplay server and came across it. Link(s) to past Whitelist Applications (If applicable): http://thronecraft-server.enjin.com/dashboard/applications/application?app_id=8097127 Have you logged into the server yet? (You cannot be whitelisted without logging in at least once): Yes Definitions Feel free to Google the answers or browse our forums, but make sure that you write the reply in your own words, not those of another website or person! Plagiarizing will result in the automatic denial of your application! What is roleplaying?: Acting and taking part in a specific role usually with other people What is metagaming?: an out of character action. Using out of character information and facts to influence in game roleplaying. What is power-emoting (powergaming)?: having an aim of focusing on a specific goal. In-Character Information Now you actually make your character - be creative but stay reasonable! Make sure they make sense and that they follow lore. Try to come up with a character that you actually want to play. Character’s name: (what do you want your character to be called?) Xayshi Character’s sex: (male or female?) Male Character’s race: (you can find all the playable races here.) Dark Elf Character’s age: (upon application, your character must be 18 or older, and depending on the race, they can be over five hundred years old!) 48 Biography (Please make it a decent two paragraphs long. Remember to add three references to the server lore.): (where does your character come from?; where have they traveled to?; what year were they born in? et cetera.) I grew up in a small shack with my parents and my sister. We were deep in the forests of Malinor, and very rarely met any outsiders. Growing up I was taught how to survive. This meant everything from hunting and gathering, to cooking and building, and lastly and most important, how to fight. My father fought in the 18-years war and taught me everything he new. When I reached the age of 24, my father was killed by a group of inferis, which is why I have a strong disliking towards the humans. After my fathers death my mother left. She felt that she no longer had any meaning to stick around and left me to take care of my 13 year old sister. It was hard at first, but she was very attentive and listened quite well. She helped me cook, hunt, and trade with outsiders who would pass by on long travels. This helped adapt her to all sorts of skills which I eventually felt proud of. Unfortunately, 7 years after my father left, my sister fell extremely ill and resulted in her death. I was left without a family, and felt it was time to move on. I gathered everything of value from books and letters to weapons and food. And with it, I left the place I had been for 31 years. I have been traveling for many years, never settling. Meeting friends and foes on all of my journeys, and some I still see today. I am on my way back to see them, and feel it is time to create a better relationship and to finally settle down and begin my life the way it should be. And not only to start my new life, but to leave the loss and tragedy behind. Personality Traits: (what are your character's quirks?; habits?; likes and dislikes?) He is very quite when meeting new people, especially humans. He tends to gather as much information on them as he can and go over it in his head in order to gain trust or distrust. He likes loyal and strong people, drinking, humorous, and laid back. However, he dislikes arrogance, rudeness, and disloyalty as well as betrayal. And above all else, he hates humans. Ambitions: (what does your character aspire to be?) He wants to make a name for himself. He enjoys fighting and has a strong voice for the people, although he doesn't quite realize it yet. He tries to do the right thing all the time and wants to be known as well as slightly feared. Strengths/Talents: (what is your character really, really good at?) He is an exquisite archer and strong swordsman. Although not the best, he can stand his own against many strong warriors and has a powerful impact on friends. Weaknesses/Inabilities: (what is a skill that your character needs to work on?) He inst the most patient person. Although he can gain power if wanted and sought for, he lacks in the patients and will to gain it. Appearance: (what does your character look like?; how tall are they?; hair color?; scars?) He is slightly taller than the average elf. He a long white and silver hair pulled into a ponytail and deep red eyes. He has a light blue steel chain chest that is so thin most people cant tell he has it on and it even appears to be almost white or off white. On top of this is a dark gray scarf and cape and gloves and boots that are all the same color. Skin: (please provide us a screenshot of your character’s skin; if you need help, see our screenshot guide here.) picture down below