- Invitation Status
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- Writing Levels
- Prestige
- Douche
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Genres
- High Fantasy, Modern Fantasy, Epic Fantasy, Yaoi, Political Intrigue, Supernatural, Post-Apocalyptic
From the convoluted mind of [malk]Malkuthe Highwind[/malk] comes another roleplay meant for the more... experienced in the matters of the RP world. Sit back, relax, and do try to take it in.
[DASH=#ADD8E6]
Discord's dominion is the heart that knows no restraint
A fist came crashing down on the hard wooden table, hewn from timbers unknown to those who lived south of the Edge of the World, a realm explorable only by the hardiest of men, by its centuries-old order of guardians: the Swordsingers. There was a palpable air of hostility and frustration between the two men. The larger and older of the two was evidently angered by what he'd just learned. The man's heavy steel gauntlet left a visible dent on the dense, otherwise durable wood. "Where are my Dansers, Marksmen and Singers?" he asked. "My Maestros?" He leaned over the table. "My Instruments?" He growled angrily. "Where in all the known realms are the Swordsingers?" he demanded, settling both his fists on the table in a manner far less aggressive than he had prior. "Pray, tell, how many men and women did you see as you ascended the steps to my Eyrie?" The Choirmaster's gaze burned through his helm's visor — he hated the damnable thing, but for formality's sake he had to wear it while convening with the other, smaller, mousier man in front of him. The Lord Courier was unable to maintain eye-contact, flinching, instead, when the Choirmaster leaned closer. From the courtyard of the Citadel a decent ways below them, the soft, pleasant sound of song and steel clashing against steel rose up to the Eyrie in the dead silence that followed.
The Lord Courier fidgeted where he stood, unsure how to answer the query. He fiddled with the collar of his blue silken tunic with golden trim. He was only meant to be the messenger. He had no authority, nor did he have training to answer such things. "There could not have been more than one or two hundred, my Lord Choirmaster, but I do not see what this has to do with the Crownsong's comm—"
The Choirmaster cut the Lord Courier off with a sharp glare. "One or two hundred, my Lord Courier, one or two hundred! Are you aware of our strength in numbers in years long gone, during my youth as a Mockingbird?" The Lord Courier shrank away from the glare, and shook his head in response to the question. "There were thousands" he hissed, contempt evident in the menace that crept into his voice. "Do you hear the clash of sword and song from the courtyard, Lord Courier?" queried the Choirmaster as he walked over to one of the windows in the Eyrie, flinging it open to allow the full volume of the glorious, Harmonious noise rise to the lofty room.
"Yes, my Lord Choirmaster, but the Crownsong insists tha—"
"It's pleasant, soft, and mellow, yes?" pressed the Choirmaster, interrupting the Lord Courier once more. He would hear talk of the Crownsong when he wished to heart of it. At the moment, he had no desire whatsoever to hear of the rumoured-to-be-Discordant king. The gods damn him and his enemies.
"Yes, Milord, but please, listen to what the Crownso—"
"You will be silent" stated the Choirmaster simply, bristling rage barely contained by a facade of necessary professionalism. "You are in my Citadel and it would do you good to not evoke my wrath. I am halfway tempted to hurl you through this window for your incessant talk of that greedy, hot-headed bastard." The Lord Courier made a disdainful face and opened his mouth to protest the treasonous address of his king, but the Choirmaster needed only to throw open the window a little further to silence him. "Good. In the days of yore, the sound from the courtyard was uproarious. Come Zenithstime, these coloured glass windows would shake from the force of the battles there. Now nothing can be heard compared to the clangor that once was."
The Choirmaster paced back to behind his desk and regarded the Lord Courier with a level gaze. "Where do my Swordsingers go after they leave these halls of learning these days? In the Old World, when humanity still valued Harmony, they would go to serve the noble Houses, become sworn Voices for the Crownsong's Orchesgard!" The older man scoffed before clasping his hands behind his back and continuing. "Gods, if you were lucky, you could become a gallant knight, saving princesses from villainous Flamesingers." The Choirmaster cast his gaze out the window, a morose and sad tune creeping into his voice. "Alas. These days they become godsdamnable sellswords. Merchant guards. Mercenaries! It's shameful, what this once-glorious order has become under my rule. Unfortunately, in a world not interested in upholding the virtues of Harmony, it is what we must do to keep our order alive."
He walked to the window in the opposite side of his study in the Eyrie, flinging it open with little regard for the coloured glass that formed its panes or its intricate designs. If they had been able to take the raucous uproar from the courtyard when it had once been filled with children learning the Art, they would be able to take slamming into the wall of the Eyrie. Staring out into the blue of the High Hour just after the morning Zenithstime, he asked the Lord Courier, almost in a dismissive manner, "What does the Crownsong want?"
The smaller wiry man walked up to his desk and set upon it a scroll sealed with the blue wax jay of house Skynne, the ruling family. "He wants you to rally the Swordsingers. The Wolfsong of Renala has declared war upon us." The man waited for a response. It did not come. After a couple of minutes of waiting, he walked out of the study, back stiff in anger. The man was unused to being commanded when to speak.
The Choirmaster shook his head, massaging his temples. "Damn you Skynne. The gods damn you seven times to the Silence" he growled under his breath.[/DASH]
Not meant for the weak of heart or the weak of constitution, both emotionally and in terms of RP experience, of course, Reign of Discord is an epic tale of an ancient order laid low by circumstance and a world that no longer values the virtues that it represents. If you think you can handle my GM'ing and meet the standards, come join us on the adventure that will either tear down the Swordsingers or rebuild them!
Click the [HERE] to go to the OOC!
[DASH=#ADD8E6]
Discord's dominion is the heart that knows no restraint
A fist came crashing down on the hard wooden table, hewn from timbers unknown to those who lived south of the Edge of the World, a realm explorable only by the hardiest of men, by its centuries-old order of guardians: the Swordsingers. There was a palpable air of hostility and frustration between the two men. The larger and older of the two was evidently angered by what he'd just learned. The man's heavy steel gauntlet left a visible dent on the dense, otherwise durable wood. "Where are my Dansers, Marksmen and Singers?" he asked. "My Maestros?" He leaned over the table. "My Instruments?" He growled angrily. "Where in all the known realms are the Swordsingers?" he demanded, settling both his fists on the table in a manner far less aggressive than he had prior. "Pray, tell, how many men and women did you see as you ascended the steps to my Eyrie?" The Choirmaster's gaze burned through his helm's visor — he hated the damnable thing, but for formality's sake he had to wear it while convening with the other, smaller, mousier man in front of him. The Lord Courier was unable to maintain eye-contact, flinching, instead, when the Choirmaster leaned closer. From the courtyard of the Citadel a decent ways below them, the soft, pleasant sound of song and steel clashing against steel rose up to the Eyrie in the dead silence that followed.
The Lord Courier fidgeted where he stood, unsure how to answer the query. He fiddled with the collar of his blue silken tunic with golden trim. He was only meant to be the messenger. He had no authority, nor did he have training to answer such things. "There could not have been more than one or two hundred, my Lord Choirmaster, but I do not see what this has to do with the Crownsong's comm—"
The Choirmaster cut the Lord Courier off with a sharp glare. "One or two hundred, my Lord Courier, one or two hundred! Are you aware of our strength in numbers in years long gone, during my youth as a Mockingbird?" The Lord Courier shrank away from the glare, and shook his head in response to the question. "There were thousands" he hissed, contempt evident in the menace that crept into his voice. "Do you hear the clash of sword and song from the courtyard, Lord Courier?" queried the Choirmaster as he walked over to one of the windows in the Eyrie, flinging it open to allow the full volume of the glorious, Harmonious noise rise to the lofty room.
"Yes, my Lord Choirmaster, but the Crownsong insists tha—"
"It's pleasant, soft, and mellow, yes?" pressed the Choirmaster, interrupting the Lord Courier once more. He would hear talk of the Crownsong when he wished to heart of it. At the moment, he had no desire whatsoever to hear of the rumoured-to-be-Discordant king. The gods damn him and his enemies.
"Yes, Milord, but please, listen to what the Crownso—"
"You will be silent" stated the Choirmaster simply, bristling rage barely contained by a facade of necessary professionalism. "You are in my Citadel and it would do you good to not evoke my wrath. I am halfway tempted to hurl you through this window for your incessant talk of that greedy, hot-headed bastard." The Lord Courier made a disdainful face and opened his mouth to protest the treasonous address of his king, but the Choirmaster needed only to throw open the window a little further to silence him. "Good. In the days of yore, the sound from the courtyard was uproarious. Come Zenithstime, these coloured glass windows would shake from the force of the battles there. Now nothing can be heard compared to the clangor that once was."
The Choirmaster paced back to behind his desk and regarded the Lord Courier with a level gaze. "Where do my Swordsingers go after they leave these halls of learning these days? In the Old World, when humanity still valued Harmony, they would go to serve the noble Houses, become sworn Voices for the Crownsong's Orchesgard!" The older man scoffed before clasping his hands behind his back and continuing. "Gods, if you were lucky, you could become a gallant knight, saving princesses from villainous Flamesingers." The Choirmaster cast his gaze out the window, a morose and sad tune creeping into his voice. "Alas. These days they become godsdamnable sellswords. Merchant guards. Mercenaries! It's shameful, what this once-glorious order has become under my rule. Unfortunately, in a world not interested in upholding the virtues of Harmony, it is what we must do to keep our order alive."
He walked to the window in the opposite side of his study in the Eyrie, flinging it open with little regard for the coloured glass that formed its panes or its intricate designs. If they had been able to take the raucous uproar from the courtyard when it had once been filled with children learning the Art, they would be able to take slamming into the wall of the Eyrie. Staring out into the blue of the High Hour just after the morning Zenithstime, he asked the Lord Courier, almost in a dismissive manner, "What does the Crownsong want?"
The smaller wiry man walked up to his desk and set upon it a scroll sealed with the blue wax jay of house Skynne, the ruling family. "He wants you to rally the Swordsingers. The Wolfsong of Renala has declared war upon us." The man waited for a response. It did not come. After a couple of minutes of waiting, he walked out of the study, back stiff in anger. The man was unused to being commanded when to speak.
The Choirmaster shook his head, massaging his temples. "Damn you Skynne. The gods damn you seven times to the Silence" he growled under his breath.
Not meant for the weak of heart or the weak of constitution, both emotionally and in terms of RP experience, of course, Reign of Discord is an epic tale of an ancient order laid low by circumstance and a world that no longer values the virtues that it represents. If you think you can handle my GM'ing and meet the standards, come join us on the adventure that will either tear down the Swordsingers or rebuild them!
Click the [HERE] to go to the OOC!