Order of the Radiant Heart Role-Play

[Atlas]

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[Ariella]

It is late in the evening when a blonde-haired figure, dressed in casual worn leathers of purple hue, passes by the gates of the Chapterhouse. Pausing momentarily, her blue eyes dance over the exterior with fond recollection. It had been a few tenday since Cecilia had returned from her voyage home, sought out soon after by the Lady Erza of Sune with a request: to rejoin the Order of the Radiant Heart, and see it flourish once again.

Days had passed, and still the Tyrran could not make up her mind nor come to a decision.

It was not long until her gaze found the plaque, however, and she approached so that it might be read it more clearly in the dim light of eve. The nearby guard is given a warm smile, quite likely that the two would recognise each other, before Cecilia reads over the words formed in stone. A sigh leaves her lips some time later, her blue orbs lingering on the final paragraph that detailed her former mentor... or rather, its lack of detail.

Jonas was right.

"One would think the Grandmaster, having been a witness to the deadly blade plunged into the Dreadlord's chest when weakened by the gauntlet, would have recorded such upon said notice, rather than omitting the deeds of another in fear of his own actions being unravelled; the graze borne by the Dreadlord coming at the cost of a Squire's life, for example. Or that it may have been his own words which drove Eliphas from the path of possible redemption and into the arms of Bane." the blonde woman murmurs softly. It is possible she offers words to the nearby Man-At-Arms, or perhaps she is merely thinking out loud. Regardless, her gaze remains fixed on the plaque, fingers brushing over the cold stone. "Were I a woman more chaotic at heart, perhaps I would seek to correct such. Alas, there remain those dwindling few of us whom serve with humility and seek not the spotlight."

....Only worry for future generations of Squires to come.

Pulling up her hood, the Lady-Knight smiles sadly and dips her head to the nearby guard before turning on her heels and departing in the direction of the Gate's hustle and bustle.

If nothing else, at least Cecilia had found her answer to the Heartwarder's question.

The Heartwarder is glad she is not around for this hiding out with the other faithful of sune

[Hitman Hard]

He remembered his first conversation with Arkaine. One of the questions being: “What bothers you the most, brother Valiant (though a fragmented memory so verbatim could not be appropriated)?”

The answer however was crystalline clear.Valiant had replied, “Indignation." He could relate to his own sentiment now. The night had grown balmy ... it coaxed him, as he teased out the kinks in his bones (shoulder-blade and neck specifically).

Truthfully, it wasn’t really the night-time weather administering his warmth but the reaction he saw upon Arkaine’s face... the way his chubby gauntleted hands tightened over the war-mace (that had scarred his head physically and killed so many innocents).

The mapped expanse of Valiant’s face retreating from voidful disconnection to moonstruck attention. Cecilia’s words grated the paladin (the abomination who tainted the Order of the Radiant Heart and held back it’s potential).

He vividly recollected Eliphas’s word : “I have never met someone more self-centred.”

Valiant remained in shadowy impuntiy, his visage ragged (he truly looked old and sin gnarled) yet steely focused on the rampart and Arkaine. His dark blue eyes burned with the familiar chemical changes of eavesdropping. He was perfectly motionless (much to his chagrin) in the impregnable sweet darkness, gazing at the two figures known as Cecilia and Arkaine.

He reckoned his shadow appeared to look more like a twisting thick branch of a tree clawing outwards for an unwitting prey than human.

A melody of fury could of scratched across the edges of Valiant’s eyes-- even the sadness of legitimately trying hard as he could to bring down the head of this organization yet the only theme in his existence... dominating him was the insatiable, empty hole within him, the realization of it pinioned him to the ground most days.

He felt ready to leave this world... he was tired enough of his ambitious-fueled mind and almost throwing this clown out of office. It was the fire filled dream that had pressed him forwards.

A strained sigh escaped his lips; like he breathed through a hitch as he cast himself deeper into the shadows. He rotated his head a hair, to see Arkaine turning his full attention to the Warden at Arms; his voice was a bellowy growl.

“Yor debased villain; Valiant the Mad Man yet lives! His eyesight it appears does not fare him well; for the stone plaque is wrought and accurate! And while this trespass goes unrighted; there shalt be no reprieve! Run from me or fight me again, if you dare; villain! By the iron of my mace; and your duly date with the gallows as your fair; you'll still answer to Helm's justice! This I proclaim and in his name, I so swear!”

The stone plaque is wrought and accurate... are we talking about the news?

Valiant’s lips narrowed into a taunting grin; he drunk in every primal manifestation of rage Arkaine conveyed.

He nodded to himself before assuming a stealthy inaudible click of his boots... (could of been mistaken for a cricket somehow) slowly walking away from the Chapterhouse (his shadow walking rather augmented in comparison to Arkaine’s well known terrible eye sight)...his boots scraping against the grass discretely.

A powerful bitterness echoing out like hard nails smarting against the raw-sanguine skin of a lover; dallying along the gale of the wind, at full bloom.

[Atlas]

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[Miasmata]

The man-at-arms would be handed a letter by a templar that boast the seal of the Song of the Morning. The missive is directed to one "Gaervin Goldenshield."

The young templar with a golden cloak could then be seen making his way south without delay.

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[b00seven]

Mortimer Doomscythe returns from a long pilgrimage to his homeland in Thay.

He spends his days tending the local graves and crypts, and traveling to temples up and downt he sword coast seeking tending after the recently deceased and consoling their loved ones.

In addition to tending to local crypts, he recalls a tale of meeting with and offering guidance to a young aspiring paladin of Helm named James Watts (sp). Mortimer collected a Tithe of 5000 gold from the young Watts.

When at the chapterhouse, he quietly tends his duties, or can be heard in his room scrawling away in his notes and tomes. No light flickers under his door, nor candles burn within.

[Miasmata]

The man-at-arms would be handed a letter by a templar that boasts the seal of the Song of the Morning.

The missive is directed to one "Mortimer Doomscythe."