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DEATH BY POLITICK It was said many times unto Ildriunn, son of Aldric, that it was unbecoming of a Numenedan to die of old age. And so, from so so young, did Aldric the Harrenite bestow onto his young boy the flepirly light, that untainted seedling of the Ruach HaKodesh to bring about the tzimtzum. To be so carelessly loyal, devout, unwilling to accept wrongness, and eager to learn. To be flepirly, content to stand in a guard post, all day, each day. All the same, it was not enough. It was said many times unto Ildriunn too, to be untrusting of the ‘macecatcher’, of the ‘knife-ear’, ‘treehugger’, ‘twiggie’. And so, from so so young, did Aldric the Harrenite bestow onto his young boy his ambition, to be grander, to be Horenite. It was said many times unto Ildriunn, the code of Uther Pendragon. And so, from so young, did Aldric the Harrenite bestow onto his young boy the VANDER-HARRENITE dream. To serve his Tar, and redeem his race, whether he knew it or not, and to do so with honor, with courage, with that which all goodly knights had before him. It was said many times unto Ildriunn, the Radiant Guardsman, that he mustn’t discriminate, that he must abandon his pride, abandon his inflammatory nature, that he must abandon that which his father made him. But so too did his father make him a servant of the House Arthalionath, so why would he stop in one, and not the other? Why did the good Canonius come before him, teaching him different? Oh Tiberias, why did you leave him so? Why must you have politicked!? Tiberias, why! It was said many times unto Lucien, the orderman, that he should be humble. And so he was humbled, when he lashed out in the same pride and anger that had begrudgingly had him plunge himself into battle by the side of the Numenedain, the same that had had him stripped of his post as guardsman, castigated from his people. But he would not listen, for his father surely knew better. To be goodly, to be honorable, to be courageous, to finish every endeavour, to say everything you say with conviction. And so Lucien said with conviction, ‘This is no justice!’, and so the prince dove at him, and so he swung, and so he kicked when the princess drew her sword, and so he fell when the crowd fell on him. It was said many times unto Lucien, the exile, that he should be loving. And so he was loving, when his wife cradled him to Kretzen, when his uncle had him speak before Gelimar and Saint Tylos, and genuflect, somehow, atop a saddle as he tugged on his horse of miasma more than flesh, and listen, ‘You have come at an impasse, Lucien, where you must choose between your people, and your faith’, and all man that would be loving would say, ‘My people, my wife, my family!’. But he would not listen, for Canonius surely knew better, for Callahan knew better, for the Church knew better. It was said many times unto Lukas, the Apsinthion, that he should be dutiful and diligent and steer clear from all sin. And so he was dutiful, and diligent, when Barend left, when Lug left, when there were none to steer the Judites but he. And so he was dutiful and diligent, when he lassoed the knights-of-benevolently-pink-yechidah, whose flepirhood he smelled on the air, as he smelled the lemon tarts of his mother, as he bore her feather in his helm. And so, as he investigated, and investigated, he was diligent and so dutiful and so well-tested and resolute. But he would not stay such, for the An-Gho knew better, for he, Lukas, surely knew better. For surely, he cannot look upon a being has been taught to kill, one that should despise him, and be accepted, rather than cut down? For surely, they are redeemable. It was said many times unto Slawomir, the Leper, that he should be noble, and prudent, and never lie. And so he was noble, and prudent, and honest, when he forged his story from lies and spun it, and so he was noble, and prudent, and honest, when he hunted down Stein and cleaved his head from his shoulders alongside the very Orc who had kicked him to his knees so many years prior. But he knew, looking to the eyes of Raguel, of Caius-Brandt, and of Callahan, that he was not noble, nor prudent, nor honest, nor penitent. He was not penitent, for surely he did no wrong. But he is sinful!, but he would not say such, for surely he, Slawomir, disciple of Bogomil, knew better. It was said many times unto Lukas, the flepirknight, that he should come and hold discourse. And so he did, and he came, and he talked with the Father Callahan, and he talked with the Father Brandt, and all he knew was all he had known, that they were arrogant, that he was arrogant, that they would not listen, that they would not see the goodliness, that they could not love like he could. For as he cut down every beast, every lich, every demon, so too did he, in the throes of their wallowing tragedy and torment, so too did he see, within almost all, humanity. But, if they had fallen, and they were once human, why would they not be accepted as penitent? Why can they not be penitent? Why are they not penitent? He brought no change, and he grew haughty, angry, arrogant, that he, and none else, could ever be right. It was said many times unto Lucien Aldricson, the goleh, that he was a blasphemer. And so he was lashed, and so he was starved, and so he was chilled, and so he grew infected. He festered. But more than he, the shard of Ein Sof, of the shattering of the Ruach HaKodesh in their golus, so much alike to HIS golus, it had embedded itself within him. And so he saw the FOUR KINGDOMS of DANIEL, and so he saw the heretic in Silasia, and so he rebuked them, again, and again, and again, for Raguel was true. For he had seen Raguel, again, and again! Everytime he slept, he saw Raguel, he saw the angels, he saw the Lord, and he saw the palaces. He saw the palaces, and in his stupor, he walked them, and the Light whispered to him, ‘You will not die, for it is not your time. You will not die, for it is not your time, for you have the hard case of Sin to shatter on the hearts of men’, the seraphim whispered all at once in unison to his ears as he gazed upon the moss as his hand grew steady as his hand grew unsteady and wrote and wrote and wrote and never ceased again. But he was not free. It was said many times unto Harreniel, the kohen, that he must make them flepirly. And so he tried, and tried, and tried, but never enough. Never enough, for his father left him, and his father succumbed, and succumbed, to the illnesses of his hermitage and pilgrimage, to the illnesses of the politick that the Godwinite so evilly whispered into his ear. And so he tried, and tried, but never enough, for his king had left him, and his people had followed and left their king to stay and infect themselves with the lies of Druii. And so he tried, and tried, but just enough to turn the Ivori-Oren-Shills loving. He tried, and he tried, but it was never enough. And so in all his stress, in all his writing, in all his works, he tried. Why are they not penitent? Why are they not penitent? He asked, again, and again, to icons, to himself, to icons, to saints, to visions, ‘Why does the boy see, but I no longer?’, he asks, ‘Why am I not enough for the Collegium?’, he asks, so poopslave they call him, so noob, they call him. But he was noobly, and he was a poopslave, and he was, at his heart, the same flepir he once was. But despite all he had seen, all He had shown him, all blinding emanations of His light, the merkevah shot across the sky of Kretzen, he could not change them. It was said many times unto Harreniel, the shepherd, that he must keep his father from the politick. And so he tried, and tried, but never enough. He never could keep the taint of the tinge of Sin of Ibliz from rotting the lemon groves, from seeping into the oils of his anointment, and so he was never enough. And so he passed it unto his acolytes, all six, and so he hoped, and he prayed, that as they were loving and flepirs-of-of-benevolently-pink-yechidah, that they would do so after him. That they would love, that the Great Rift be mended, that Villorik may die knowing that all that Caius-Brandt had fought for was not in vain. That Horen may look down at his peoples, and say, to himself, to his Lord, ‘Lord, look, they are one again!’. And so he fought, and fought, and fought, and threw himself to every fight and every debate and every resolution and every baptism and every penance and every penitent and every heathen and every little tinge of the Corruptor he could ever find, merely to find, he was not enough. So they said a final time unto Harenniel, ‘You cannot die, father, you cannot die!’, and so he heard his child’s cries within the door. And so as he seized, before the icon of the Blessed Caius-Brandt, and as the sneering Crabspawn said, ‘We have no free will! We have no free will! Let my husband into the Collegium, let him in! He must be in!’, he froze. It was all too much, as he saw, no matter how much he fought, no matter how much he preached, no matter how much was burnt into his skin, no matter how many limbs or eyes the Lord gave him back to fight anew, no matter how many sermons he gave, no matter how many slop-theses he threw out to Candonom, no matter how much he fought, and fought, and sobbed, and fought, Lucien Aldricson was not enough. So, the Keen said a final time unto Harreniel, ‘The Lord welcomes you with a smile father,’ so the vile Petrine delayed her healing, so the Ivori bickered between themselves of how to best treat their priest, and so he knew, in his heart of hearts, that his time had come. He knew, that no matter how much he had done, that the Crabspawn, that any sinner or Saulican that can hide behind the mask that Adrian of Ascalon had once done, could do so, again, and again, and again, and forevermore. He knew, and he saw, that that mask of the Crabspawn, was too the mitre of the Cardinal, and he knew that there was no use any longer. Poison, fate, a clot. It did not matter how it happened, for the keen said a final time unto Harreniel, ‘He welcomes you with a smile. It is your time.’, and the priest, in his heart of hearts, knew it was true. But he did not pass quietly. He would be accepted as penitent, and so in one last cry, he said nothing of note at all. A true noob. But in his heart of hearts, he knew what he wished to cry out, ‘YOU MAY GIVE UP YOUR PURPOSE BUT MINE IS ASSIGNED TO ME BY HEAVEN, AND I DARE NOT!’ Far in the heavens, a kohen falls in line alongside a man who had blown his legs off with grapeshot, a man who deemed him his greatest failure, and the Black Swordsman between them all. So Lucien Aldricson, with his soul devoured, was denied his eternal rest, to join the hyperwar he so valiantly fought to bring peace, and an end to. Let the Raev rip the Orenian to shreds, and the Renatan kill his grandson, and the Raev his grandson after him, and the Marnan his grandson, and the Raev his grandson, and the Veletzer his grandson, and the Raev his grandson, and the Holylander his grandson after him. This land is mine. Let hyperwar be here, let my failure haunt me forever. Let Siegmund peck on carrion forever. Let Owyn purge him forever. REQUIESCAT IN PACE, LUCIEN. ☺ [!] Missives would be sent from Gottenthal to the last known addresses of the noob's acquaintances:

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Theodorus Sebastian Guile—Theo to those who knew him—was never a man bound by convention, nor did he ever fit the mold of the perfect knight. His early years were spent on a farm far, where the simple pleasures of working the land and chasing the horizon were enough for him. Theo was a man who lived for the moment, full of laughter and rebellion, never one to abide by the strictures of duty or ceremony. Though born into a humble family, Theo’s life would eventually take a different turn. Under the venerable Ser Philip and powerful Ser Robert Stroeim 's tutelage, he received and trained with the diving blessing of the Archaengul Malchediael. Soon after, he was inducted into the Church’s order, where he was sworn in as a knight under the guidance of the righteous Holy Ser Macskaul. But even as he was bestowed with the sacred title, Theo’s heart was never truly in it. He did not seek the divine mission for faith or virtue, but only for his own vanity. Theo’s knightly life was anything but conventional. Where others dedicated themselves to prayer and devotion, Theo found himself more often than not found himself off in taverns, telling crude jokes, or seeking out the next scrap of combat for the thrill of it. His swordsmanship, though refined, was nothing special, his oaths of fealty lightly sworn but rarely upheld. Not above using deceit and immorality to achieve his goals, he looked with disdain at the pious rituals of his order, and the discipline of his fellow knights was a foreign concept to him. It was all a game, a game where the prize was nothing but glory. In truth, he had never truly understood the gravity of his calling. The Church had given him a sword and a title, but it was the land he had come from that had truly shaped him. The farm was where he had learned to live for the day, to chase the fleeting moments of joy and abandon, to run barefoot through fields of green. So, when Theo embarked on a routine patrol to Port Tatiyana with Cardinal Ivan, it was little more than another diversion from his duties. They rode north, nothing more than a simple check-up—no danger, no conflict. But, as fate would have it, they stumbled upon what was the end. A gathering of darkspawn, necromancers, and paleknights stood in their path—a twisted assembly of unholy forces. For a moment, Theo’s ever-present nonchalance faltered, but only briefly. He was not a man given to fear. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ "Ivan, take my horse, get help." ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ As he stood alone against the horde, it was clear he was not focused on victory. He fought not for honor, nor for glory—he fought merely to survive. The undead closed in, and Theo’s movements were a frantic blur of evasion. He ducked beneath strikes, dodged blows, and desperately avoided being overwhelmed. He never sought to strike down his enemies in those first moments, only to avoid being crushed under their numbers. The fight dragged on—Theo’s movements were growing slower, more sluggish. He was tired, his body battered from the relentless assault. As Theo fought alone, his strength waning with each passing moment, the sound of hooves on the horizon reached his ears. Ivan had returned. The light of hope flickered in his chest—reinforcements had arrived, and with them, perhaps the chance for survival. Through the haze of battle, Theo could see the figures of Haeseni soldiers charging toward the fray, the banners of the Light fluttering in the wind. Among them were the youthful squires, about to prove their mettle in combat. Their faces were set with determination, their eyes filled with the courage of youth. The reinforcements slammed into the darkspawn with the ferocity of a fresh wave, cutting into the rotted warriors and paleknights that had hemmed Theo in. The undead forces staggered under the assault, and the soldiers fought valiantly, their swords flashing, their cries of battle ringing out with great fervor. But it wasn’t long before the weight of the enemy began to tell. The undead horde was vast, and their numbers seemed endless. Flesh constructs—controlled by masters of twisted inclinations—rushed forward with terrifying speed, skeletal knights, unexhaustable with their unending reserves of stamina surged forth. The soldiers, though valiant, were not prepared for the sheer number and grotesque strength of these abominations. Theo could see it now—his comrades were being overwhelmed. The initial hope that had surged through him began to drain as the battle turned against them. The soldiers, now spread thin, struggled to hold their ground. Theo could hear their cries, their voices choked by the agony of battle, their hopes slipping away with each step the enemy took. His heart sank as he realized—this was no longer a fight they could win with numbers alone. The darkspawn were too many, their ranks too thick, their bodies too relentless. The squires, once eager and full of spirit, were now being overwhelmed where they stood, the enemy sparing no quarter with the youth. Theo struggled on, but the weight of the situation grew clearer. Reinforcements had come, yes, but they were not enough. The light was being overwhelmed. The battle had become unfavorable, and the darkspawn seeming nigh undefeatable. Theo’s heart pounded, and as they fought to hold their ground, he knew the battle was slipping away. Pinned beneath two undead warriors, he could do nothing but watch as they fell beneath the weight of the horde. His sword, once bright with the promise of valor and glorious stories to tell, now felt like a dead weight in his hands. His life—his carefree, thrill-seeking life—had led to this moment: watching others struggle while he could do nothing but fight for his own survival. Then, in the chaos, in a rare moment of clarity and gravity, he knew what had to be done. It was not a call to glory, nor a cry for vengeance. It was something deeper—something that had lain dormant within him for all these years, something much greater than he. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ "Malchediael...Aengul of Courage...Grant me your strength." ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ And in that instant, everything changed. The world seemed to pause as a burst of divine fire consumed him, burning away his exhaustion, his doubt, and his very flesh. His limbs, broken and battered, were restored in an instant—replaced with limbs of pure, radiant light. His wounds healed, his strength renewed. The power of Malchediael surged through him like a tidal wave, pushing him beyond the limits of mortal endurance. In that moment, Theo was no longer the carefree, unserious man who had sought nothing but his own pleasures. He was a vessel of Malchediael. With his sword raised, Theo turned the tide of the battle. His strikes were swift and devastating, cutting through the undead with precision and force. He cleaved through the enemies with the power of a thousand men, each swing of his blade sending waves of divine light cascading through the ranks of the darkspawn. The enemy scattered before him, retreating into the shadows. Victory seemed assured. But as the last of the darkspawn fled, Theo could feel the cost of his power. The divine fire that had healed him began to burn too hot, too bright. His skin cracked, white light spilling from the fissures. The power of Malchediael that had saved him now consumed him from within, pulling at his soul, tearing at his very essence. He turned to his good friend, a smile upon his face as he spoke to him. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ "I'll be laughing at you from up there." ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ There was a response from the Cardinal, a somber chuckle ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ "Save a chair for me, you little rat." ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ It was then that he saw her. His soul's anchor—emerged from the mist of the battlefield, her movements hesitant as her eyes scanned the chaos around her. She had come looking for him, perhaps knowing something was wrong. Theo’s heart sank when he saw her, her face pale with horror as her gaze locked onto him, her steps faltering when she saw the condition he was in. She came forward, her hand reaching for him, but Theo, his body trembling, felt a coldness settle within him. She had seen his soul faltering. They shared brief words of reminiscence and encouragement, Theo handing her what little worldly possessions he could give. Yet as they spoke, the Templar could not help but feel one thing, regret, thoughts swirling and overwhelming his mind. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ Too much to say, not enough time. ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ They embraced, the soldier waiting for his end in her arms. With one last heavy sigh, he closed his eyes. The moment of surrender came in like a gentle ushering. A beam of light shone down, taking hold of his spirit. His essence, his soul, relinquished to the Aengul of Courage. Yet in this final moment of surrender, a strange thing happened. As Theo’s soul was taken by Malchediael, his body—now pure flame—began to transform. The divine light that had consumed him did not simply take his soul and destroy his body, it reshaped it. The ground beneath him trembled as the flames that had once been Theo’s flesh took form. Where the Templar of No Renown had stood, there was now a tree. It was no ordinary tree. It was a thing of white, ethereal beauty—its bark like shimmering silver, the leaves glowing faintly with an otherworldly light. The tree stretched toward the sky, its branches reaching out as if in search of something—redemption. The light from its leaves illuminated the snow around it, casting long shadows on the battlefield, a beacon in the night. The tree stood as a silent monument to the man who had given nothing until his last moments. And Reronda, standing a few paces away, could only watch as the man—flawed, reckless, and yet so full of life—was transformed. He was no longer the Theo she had known, but the light of Malchediael had shaped him into something eternal, something that would never fade. And in the end, there was no more Theo Guile. There was only the tree, standing illuminated in the snow. Theo had no letters written at the time of his death. For he had expected to live on for many more years.

*In all major cities and Kal'Halla, besides the Orcish ones, you see a several flies posted up.* The Holy Order of the Knight’s Templar Early History Modern History *A large portrait of a Templar knight is here.* Ranks and Positions Grand Master: The Leader of the Order in charge of everything. Noble Master: A noble in the Grand Master's council, they advise the Grand Master and have all power in things not concerning military. Seneschal: 2nd in command of the Order's military, he is responsible for training the knights and commanding them in battle. Right hand man of the Grand Master. Turcopolier: 3rd in command of the Order's military, he is responsible for training the sergeants and commanding them in battle. Confanonier [standard Bearer]: 4th in command of the Order's military. A knight in charge of all of the squires, responsible for their training, and worship. Templar Knight: A Holy Crusader who has risen throughout the ranks, he may take on a squire and train as well as command them in battle. Crusader Knight: A fresh knight in the Order who is commanded by the Seneschal. He may not take on a squire. Sergeant: The core footmen of the Order, they are the next step above a Squire. They no longer serve knights but continue to train and learn of the gods. Squire: A petty servant in the Order, they serve Knights and learn the ways of the gods as well as swordsmanship. Code Honor: The Templar believe in a strict code of Honor, meaning they will not back from a fight or start an unnecessary one. Loyalty: The Templar believe if anything is more important than the other codes, it is loyalty to the Order. Chivalry: Although not enforced, the Templar believe a touch of Chivalry is all but better. Chastity: Although the Templar do not restrict one from love, they believe that intercourse before marriage is a sin, and a man should only take one wife. Respect: The Templar believe that respect is not given, but earned, and all should respect their superiors no matter how hated they may be. Beliefs Our Order believes in the Creator and fights for him. Those who join are required to worship and take the Creator as their deity and fight for his respect. Other deities aren't welcome in our order and you will be killed if you worship another. Regular praying and mass are required within our Order. Recruitment If you wish to join leave a notice on one of these fliers (This Post) and come to Kal'Halla, the Entrance of the Wilds and speak with either Lucius Murmillo II (sprintindwarf), or Lucretius Murmillo I (Rexx8) Application Uniforms Other Notes: We are not copying anyone, this is a very old guild that me and rexx8 started in Aegis and we are restoring it finally after it was destroyed.