Emperor Valerian
First Post
For writing, I’ll use the same system you’ve used in your PbPs. “Quotes belong in quotations,” *actions in asterisks,* and thoughts in italics. I’ll be coloring Haman’s speech light green, and Aust’s speech in yellow. Other people's speech will get colored some colored for distinction as well. You can pick a color for Tess and the halfling destroyer of doom, should you wish. 
Rogue's Gallery
OOC Thread
And without further ado...
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You have many names. Those that fall under chains, who find whips at their backs, those that pray for deliverance, pray with the name, ‘The Angel,’ on their lips. Others, in awe of the reputation of power and benevolence that has come over the past years, simply call you, ‘The Bard,’ as if there were none in the rest of this wide world who practiced the craft of singing and playing.
Then, there are those who oppress others, who destroy the dignity of men, elves, and other good folk for their own ends. They have far more different names for you, whispered in fear in their shuttered halls. ‘Whispering Destroyer,’ or ‘The One that Sees All.’ These names make you chuckle, despite the fact they describe you and your friends.
For over the past twelve years, you, Tesseron Keldare, have dedicated yourself to something far above your own person, or any single person; the ultimate in righteousness... the ideal that might makes right the wrongs of the world. You have been blessed with intensely power arcane skills through your music... and you have dedicated your entire being to defending those with no defenders, overturning usurpers and oppressors.
Many times, this simply requires going around the laws of the Empire, or whatever nation you happen to be in. Sadly, many of these oppressors reign as lords over their victims... a situation you remedy whenever you can. However, this much evil spread over this much territory requires assistance... hence your comrades in arms.
‘The Angels of Mercy,’ they are called in the eastern parts of the Holy Santoric Empire, one of many names they have earned all over through the past twelve years. Once a small band that followed you, followers have gained followers, until this loose knit group of friends has become a true organization, with followers in every city of note within the Empire, and many cities beyond.
Some of joked that the Angels tend to know what is going to happen before it does. This is not really true, but this vast a network of fellows has given you and your followers an impressive intelligence network, one that rivals the knowledge and abilities of many barons and kings.
While you head this massive band, you do not call yourself a leader. Your noble title of ‘Baroness’ comes from a friend long gone, and is one that you use infrequently. Instead, in your eyes, this group is a fellowship of equals, none sitting before the others. Others may follow you if they wish, but you neither force them or lord over them. As long as they work towards goodness towards all, you count them as friend.
On this day, around you stretches the city of Iskeldrun, the enormous haven of humanity, some million and a half souls calling the titanic metropolis home. Rising from all around you are all the monuments testifying to the Empire’s splendor; the spires of the Cathedral of Valor, where priests of Hieroneous sharpen their blades and pray for continued Imperial favor. There also rise the beautiful domes of the sun, their gilt roofs gleaming in the high of the day. The colonnaded complex dedicated to the traditional chief god, Tarantor the Law-giver, that towers near the height of Hieroneous’ spires.
But dominating them all is the massive structure of the Imperial Palace, the Centyn Orbys, Center of the World in Santoric, the priest’s tongue. A mixtures of columns and plazas, battlements and gardens, its structure stretches for many acres, as far as the eye can see on either side, and several hundred feet overhead.
From its highest battlements on this tourney day flutter the same banners that have flown for the past twelve years... blue, with a silver dragon in the middle, a sword clutched in each paw. It is a symbol familiar to you... the sign of House Caladron, Lords of the Empire...
...and your personal friends, as fate would have it. Old adventuring companions from days ago. As things are, you cannot have formal dinners with the Emperor Lucius or Empress Siabrey... over the years your ‘escapades,’ (as your detractors call them) or ‘adventures’ (as Lucius likes to call them with a smile) have made it politically impossible for them to be publicly close.
However, whenever you visit the city, you have the higher honor, in your mind than being invited in and sitting and eating privately with their family, something that happens without fail when you visit Iskeldrun. There are no nobles puffing out their chests, or priests complaining about Imperial favor... just a dinner between friends, where honesty, frankness, humor are all appreciated. Siabrey has vowed that someday you will receive proper recognition, “once all the heads that need beating have been brought to heel.”
At present, edifice in front of you is less sweeping, but still impressive. Saint Valerian’s Square, the enormous plaza directly before the main gates to the Imperial palace, is normally a sea of white and blue marble, high stone buildings of the guilds and merchant houses on either side. This day, all of this is under a sea of timber, hooves, and feet.
It’s been somewhat of a tradition that you come to the tourneys in Iskeldrun every year. The Imperial matches provide some of the largest spectacle in the world... knights from the four corners, and even many combatants from beyond, flock to the city to prove their worth in seven different tourneys. A sea of chivalry, young people whose mouths call for ‘righteousness’ and ‘protecting those who need protection’ can sometimes be a fertile recruiting ground of the best fighters available.
There are also five other tourneys, dedicated to the masterings of magic, and this year, it is one of those contestants that has caught the interest of your friend, Rothallon. If there was ever a ‘second-in-command’ to your organization, Rothallon, a former thief, is it. Whenever you are away, he calmly and coolly manages affairs, from searching out new people to add to your ‘banner,’ to acquiring and dispersing news and reports to those who need them, to dissuading the egos of young hot-heads who sometimes fail to recognize they fight for the same thing... those who cannot fight.
Rothallon himself has taken interest in a young boy who entered the lower mage’s tourneys, and so far has handily... no... crushed every single opponent he has faced, from instructors at the Academy of Magic to court mages themselves. True, Rothallon agrees the boy has not gone against any of the true masters, or full court magicians (who consider the tourneys below their positions), but he has done remarkably well for a boy so young... and someone so apparently a sorcerer.
He is of enough interest, that Rothallon has asked you to come here, and see him in person. Behind you, of course, sit your two trusted friends and confidants for the past several years, Haman the Blade of Song, and Roscoe Greenbottle, her halfling companion. The match he's asked you to watch is fairly short, and once again, the scuffy boy from the North is victorious.
"That one there, bowing so gallantly in rags." *Rothallon will point over the chattering noise of the rather bored crowd. They seemed far more interesting in the smashing of knights together.*
"Big contrast with that old wizard there in all his robes, lying in the dust, wouldn't you say? They say he's from the city of Argon Pale... far to the north, a port in the Northern Tundras. We don't have any one to bring news or information from that far north yet... there are still many tribes up there where only the strong rule, and no one looks after the weak. None have heard anything of your ideas, Tess."
Rogue's Gallery
OOC Thread
And without further ado...
= = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = = =
You have many names. Those that fall under chains, who find whips at their backs, those that pray for deliverance, pray with the name, ‘The Angel,’ on their lips. Others, in awe of the reputation of power and benevolence that has come over the past years, simply call you, ‘The Bard,’ as if there were none in the rest of this wide world who practiced the craft of singing and playing.
Then, there are those who oppress others, who destroy the dignity of men, elves, and other good folk for their own ends. They have far more different names for you, whispered in fear in their shuttered halls. ‘Whispering Destroyer,’ or ‘The One that Sees All.’ These names make you chuckle, despite the fact they describe you and your friends.
For over the past twelve years, you, Tesseron Keldare, have dedicated yourself to something far above your own person, or any single person; the ultimate in righteousness... the ideal that might makes right the wrongs of the world. You have been blessed with intensely power arcane skills through your music... and you have dedicated your entire being to defending those with no defenders, overturning usurpers and oppressors.
Many times, this simply requires going around the laws of the Empire, or whatever nation you happen to be in. Sadly, many of these oppressors reign as lords over their victims... a situation you remedy whenever you can. However, this much evil spread over this much territory requires assistance... hence your comrades in arms.
‘The Angels of Mercy,’ they are called in the eastern parts of the Holy Santoric Empire, one of many names they have earned all over through the past twelve years. Once a small band that followed you, followers have gained followers, until this loose knit group of friends has become a true organization, with followers in every city of note within the Empire, and many cities beyond.
Some of joked that the Angels tend to know what is going to happen before it does. This is not really true, but this vast a network of fellows has given you and your followers an impressive intelligence network, one that rivals the knowledge and abilities of many barons and kings.
While you head this massive band, you do not call yourself a leader. Your noble title of ‘Baroness’ comes from a friend long gone, and is one that you use infrequently. Instead, in your eyes, this group is a fellowship of equals, none sitting before the others. Others may follow you if they wish, but you neither force them or lord over them. As long as they work towards goodness towards all, you count them as friend.
On this day, around you stretches the city of Iskeldrun, the enormous haven of humanity, some million and a half souls calling the titanic metropolis home. Rising from all around you are all the monuments testifying to the Empire’s splendor; the spires of the Cathedral of Valor, where priests of Hieroneous sharpen their blades and pray for continued Imperial favor. There also rise the beautiful domes of the sun, their gilt roofs gleaming in the high of the day. The colonnaded complex dedicated to the traditional chief god, Tarantor the Law-giver, that towers near the height of Hieroneous’ spires.
But dominating them all is the massive structure of the Imperial Palace, the Centyn Orbys, Center of the World in Santoric, the priest’s tongue. A mixtures of columns and plazas, battlements and gardens, its structure stretches for many acres, as far as the eye can see on either side, and several hundred feet overhead.
From its highest battlements on this tourney day flutter the same banners that have flown for the past twelve years... blue, with a silver dragon in the middle, a sword clutched in each paw. It is a symbol familiar to you... the sign of House Caladron, Lords of the Empire...
...and your personal friends, as fate would have it. Old adventuring companions from days ago. As things are, you cannot have formal dinners with the Emperor Lucius or Empress Siabrey... over the years your ‘escapades,’ (as your detractors call them) or ‘adventures’ (as Lucius likes to call them with a smile) have made it politically impossible for them to be publicly close.
However, whenever you visit the city, you have the higher honor, in your mind than being invited in and sitting and eating privately with their family, something that happens without fail when you visit Iskeldrun. There are no nobles puffing out their chests, or priests complaining about Imperial favor... just a dinner between friends, where honesty, frankness, humor are all appreciated. Siabrey has vowed that someday you will receive proper recognition, “once all the heads that need beating have been brought to heel.”
At present, edifice in front of you is less sweeping, but still impressive. Saint Valerian’s Square, the enormous plaza directly before the main gates to the Imperial palace, is normally a sea of white and blue marble, high stone buildings of the guilds and merchant houses on either side. This day, all of this is under a sea of timber, hooves, and feet.
It’s been somewhat of a tradition that you come to the tourneys in Iskeldrun every year. The Imperial matches provide some of the largest spectacle in the world... knights from the four corners, and even many combatants from beyond, flock to the city to prove their worth in seven different tourneys. A sea of chivalry, young people whose mouths call for ‘righteousness’ and ‘protecting those who need protection’ can sometimes be a fertile recruiting ground of the best fighters available.
There are also five other tourneys, dedicated to the masterings of magic, and this year, it is one of those contestants that has caught the interest of your friend, Rothallon. If there was ever a ‘second-in-command’ to your organization, Rothallon, a former thief, is it. Whenever you are away, he calmly and coolly manages affairs, from searching out new people to add to your ‘banner,’ to acquiring and dispersing news and reports to those who need them, to dissuading the egos of young hot-heads who sometimes fail to recognize they fight for the same thing... those who cannot fight.
Rothallon himself has taken interest in a young boy who entered the lower mage’s tourneys, and so far has handily... no... crushed every single opponent he has faced, from instructors at the Academy of Magic to court mages themselves. True, Rothallon agrees the boy has not gone against any of the true masters, or full court magicians (who consider the tourneys below their positions), but he has done remarkably well for a boy so young... and someone so apparently a sorcerer.
He is of enough interest, that Rothallon has asked you to come here, and see him in person. Behind you, of course, sit your two trusted friends and confidants for the past several years, Haman the Blade of Song, and Roscoe Greenbottle, her halfling companion. The match he's asked you to watch is fairly short, and once again, the scuffy boy from the North is victorious.
"That one there, bowing so gallantly in rags." *Rothallon will point over the chattering noise of the rather bored crowd. They seemed far more interesting in the smashing of knights together.*
"Big contrast with that old wizard there in all his robes, lying in the dust, wouldn't you say? They say he's from the city of Argon Pale... far to the north, a port in the Northern Tundras. We don't have any one to bring news or information from that far north yet... there are still many tribes up there where only the strong rule, and no one looks after the weak. None have heard anything of your ideas, Tess."
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