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9 days ago
Current u ever be walkin down the supermarket isle and think 'damn that's some sexy fruit'
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I have information that will lead to the arrest of Hillary Clinton
11 days ago
expert analysis is in: war IS bad, no do
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War: is it bad? More at 11
5 mos ago
I do that too but nobody seems to appreciate it


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Cold stalked the halls of Vólkerben Castle like a specter. It seeped into the skin of all it passed through, causing hair to stand on end and flesh to bristle. Its wordless whispers were carried on the wind, warning of what lied just beyond the boundaries of stacked, lifeless stone: a storm of ice and snow that tore the life from the chest of any living thing brave or stupid enough to enter its embrace.

There was precious little comfort to be found in those halls for Thomas Rosemont. He had never been particularly good at keeping warm. Even back home, where the winters were long yet tolerable, every new layer he'd put on felt like it wasn't enough. It felt like the cold would slip through it with the ease of a dagger poking through sackcloth. The weather down here was different- the seasons were shorter but far more intense. The specter pierced even the heaviest of coats and dug its claws into a man's very being, draining him of his choler and turning his blood to ice. Thomas had given up any hope of feeling warm.

Even the food was cold, he'd come to learn, as he lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips and found it wanting.

It didn't have a distinctive taste of any kind, just hints of poultry and vegetables hidden in discolored broth. His nose turned up at it out of instinct. He still wasn't used to the taste of a normal man's food, even after all this time. He'd grown up on the savory feasts meant for lords and ladies, where there were so many different spices competing for his attention that he could barely keep track of it all. To go from that to dried bread, salted pork and potatoes...

The wooden spoon fell back into his half-finished bowl, the young initiate's attention shifting back to the parchment rolled out on the table and held open with his other hand. Written in fine blackletter script were the notes he'd taken during his time with the blackwardens, detailing every lesson he thought important enough to use ink on. He'd spent most of his time at dinner pouring over ever word, only ever sparing a moment to break a bite off his bread or a sip from his soup.

Try as he might he couldn't still the shaking in his right hand, anxious as Thomas was. Was he even ready for the final trials? Would they swallow him up on the cusp of his ascension, denying him what was surely rightfully his?

He'd spent every waking moment preparing for this: studying, training, and meditating until his mind was as sharp and quick as his sword arm. There was nothing more he could possibly do to ready himself, he reasoned. If he failed at this final hurdle then perhaps-

'-Perhaps success was never meant to be mine in the first place.'

The bellowing of an arrogant little imp drove his gaze above his papers and his mind away from uncomfortable postulations. He recognized the ill-tempered girl as one of the other initiates, though they weren't exactly well-acquainted. She was of a different sort than he- and their sorts weren't prone to intermingling. Still, for all her obnoxious blundering and chest-puffing, he could tell that her hunger was genuine, and not some poor attempt at bullying better men into bending to her will.

Thomas waited until she'd tread closer to his table to grab her attention. He didn't bother speaking, that'd be a waste of breath, only clearing his throat loud enough for the imp to hear. Once he had her eyes he lifted up his bowl, gestured with it, and then set it at the seat across from him.

Just as soon as it was done he went back to his studies, intent on not wasting his time with the frivolities of posturing. That didn't mean he was above a snide remark or two, of course.

"Stop being an arse. You aren't impressing them." He didn't look up from his work as she drew near, motioning with a finger toward a gaggle of real blackwardens sitting at a table all their own. Rosemont had come to learn the hierarchies that ruled this place: it wasn't blood or familial prestige, but glory won with the work of ones own hands. He wasn't worth any more than the imp across from him, painful as it was to admit.

His eyes glazed over on their return to the page. After so much time staring at it, all the words were running together and turning to nonsense in his mind. The stress was still getting to him. Made it hard to focus on what was important.

Keeping his attention tied to his notes to maintain appearances, Thomas spoke to the girl once again to distract himself from the heavy thumbing in his chest. "We've a long night ahead of us. Do you think you're ready?"

Thomas Rosemont
22 | Male | Northron


A youth born of gentle birth, Thomas Rosemont stands a head taller than most and shares the angular jaw of his grandfather. Any sense of nobility these traits might conjure is broken by the presence of his button nose, rosy cheeks and wiry frame. His once fair skin has been shaded by the kiss of the sun, owed entirely to his fancying elk and boar hunts over stuffy courtly proceedings.

Brown hair flecked with gold frames his square face, dropping down to just below his ears in length and contrasting sharply with the emerald in his eyes. And while he does his best to keep his face shaven, Thomas has fancied as of recent to let his side whiskers grow out to better define his rounded cheeks.

Apart from his boyish looks, Rosemont's worst feature is easily his awkward demeanor. Thomas never took to the training of his tutors when it came to gentlemanly behavior and etiquette; not to say he was intentionally rude, per se, but that he was so intensely insecure that he of came across as aloof and dreary. He still to this day carries his shoulders in a low slouch and walks in short strides with his head tucked down, despite more than a decade of chiding from his family and teachers.

Owing to his station as the son of a minor noble house, Thomas's clothing and equipment is always of quality make. He favors thigh-length tunics, long cloaks and riding boots for general use- typically in dark reds, golds, blacks and whites. When entering combat Rosemont dons the iron half-plate, chemically washed a porcelain white, his family's armorsmith fitted for Thomas specifically. The metalwork, while of excellent quality compared to what many of lower birth use, is still a step below that of a knight or lord's full harness.
---P E R S O N A L I T Y

Growing up in abuse and hardship required that Thomas adapt to cope with his situation if he wanted to maintain his sanity. He chose to deal with it by putting distance between himself and his despondence with a layer of sardonic detachment, finding humor in even the worst moments. That sort of coldness has bled into all aspects of his personality, where in even positive or safe environments its incredibly rare for Rosemont to appear comfortable.

He's never felt any particular connection to others of his class, as most nobles look down their nose at him for being a bastard or, worse, a Rosemont. And he never had much of an opportunity to interact with others of different standing. Thomas was never too bothered by the lack of proper companionship, though, finding solace in his vices and other, less harmful outlets, like week-long hunts for elk and boar, or digging his nose into some stuffy tome he liberated from the family library.

There'd never been any line for Thomas to cross before he entered the service of the Blackwardens. There were things he wouldn't do, of course, but never because he'd developed some strong sense of right and wrong- all he had to go on was an intuitive feeling in his gut to act as his moral compass. Those were ideas he thought belonged to knights and noble kings and their like; Thomas's only goal was to avoid notice and survive. It wasn't until he was introduced to the warden's creed, The Path, that he began to consider such heady things as good and evil.

Some parts of the creed were more digestible than others. Evil lingering in all men was something he'd seen himself. It was easy to believe that, given the right circumstances, just about anyone could commit incredible acts of cruelty that they'd normally think revolting. Other things, like the preciousness of life or that none deserve to suffer, were...harder to contend with. He'd met many a person so gratuitously brutal that there was little they weren't deserving of, and their lives meant precious little to him. Still, if he were to ever actually be a Blackwarden, those were ideas he'd have to actually reckon with.

---O R I G I N

Thomas was born fourteen years before the Age of Dawn to Baron Cedric Rosemont. Cedric's wife, Eveline, was never fond of keeping the servant girls around once the bastards were born, so it wasn't any surprise the boy never knew his mother. He was the second youngest of seven male siblings and a half-score of sisters, all born either from one of Cedric's three legitimate marriages or any of his many extramarital affairs- earning Cedric the nickname 'The Salacious.'

As one of Cedric's legitimized bastards boys, Thomas wasn't raised for succession- but to act as an instrument of the family's will. He was training in swordplay when he was strong enough to hold one and was riding horses when he was tall enough to reach the stirrup. The trainers encouraged fierce competition among the siblings, punishing compassion and rewarding ruthlessness where they saw it. Thomas was never the best of them, but he managed to avoid the whipping's that came with repeated failure...most of the time, anyway.

The children were assigned work in their later years based on their aptitude for various things growing up, some going on to become stewards, others diplomats, spies or enforcers- Thomas fell into the last role, owing to his swordsmanship and his impatience for work in courts. It was his duty to act as retainer to his father during travel, to accompany the tax collectors and to deal with criminals, debtors, and threats to the baron as requested of him.

Nothing good was ever asked of Thomas. There were no knightly heroics or daring adventures, just the bloody work of a nobleman's thug: capturing runaway slaves, dragging indebted fathers from the arms of their families, and picking villagers clean of the little coin and bread they had. Thomas grew to hate it, choosing to distance himself from it by indulging in wine, girls and hunting at every moment. It was easier to drown his miseries away in frivolous luxury than to actually confront the things that bothered him so.

He wished he could say things changed because he tired of acting as a tool for evil men. Say that he came to a revelation and chose to confront the baron. Things were never as romantic as they were in the stories.

It'd been a late night out hunting down a gang of poachers when Thomas and his brothers road back to the town of Redbrook, the seat of the barony and Rosemont Keep. They'd already been drinking on the ride back, but Rowlan, the eldest of the bastards, suggested they stop at the alehouse to celebrate. Thomas, feeling particularly miserable that night, indulged more than usual. In a drunken haze he mouthed off at Rowlan, letting slip more than he'd wanted about his family's cruelty, and the trading of words quickly became physical. Rowlan was far stronger than Thomas and had little trouble putting him on his back. There was talk of dragging the boy before their father for his insolence, though they came to the collective conclusion that waking up Baron Cedric in the middle of the night to deal with this wasn't wise; instead, they'd tie Thomas up in the stable and deal with him in the morning.

Covered in mud, his nose shattered and in a drunken stupor, they tied Thomas to a post and left him there for the night to contemplate his fate. He wasn't particularly hopeful about his father's judgement, having seen what happened to others that stepped out of line firsthand. If it weren't for the kindness of a stranger its entirely possible he wouldn't live to see the next day. A young stablehand, woken up by the racket, wandered outside to find Thomas in his sorry state and chose to cut him free. Thomas took the opportunity to gather his things and flee south, never turning back.

It was in some shoddy, roadside tavern where Thomas was drinking himself under the table that a Blackwarden recruiter just happened to notice the sword on his hilt, the noble's sigil on his brooch and offered him a second chance at life.

---E Q U I P M E N T

- Arming sword, 'Littlethorn,' banded hilt & rose-engraved pommel
- Heater shield, emblazoned with familial heraldry
- Lance
- Javelins (x3)
- Half-plate armor
- sallet helm
- mail hood
- breastplate & pauldrons
- greaves
- gauntlets
- riveted tassets
- mail faulds
- Female courser, Wander
- riding cloak
- Satchel
- journal
- bundle of maps
- provisions
- flint and steel
- lantern

---O T H E R

Thomas, ironically enough, has a pollen allergy.

-A Template by Load Wraith

A beast lumbered into the entertainment hub, ducking underneath the portal's lip to make room for its giant frame. The decrepit freighter's dim glowpanels only partially illuminated the creature, hiding much of it behind long shadows. It hovered by the entrance for a moment, frightfully still as it seemingly mulled over where it should go. Several seconds passed before it plodded its way over to the bar.

Liakurra wandered into the better illuminated part of the hub, shoulders hunched in tired defeat. The Wookiee had surely seen better days: his chestnut fur was slick with off-color grime, dirty bandages were wrapped about his left arm the bandolier harness he wore around his chest was cut and tattered in several places. Beady eyes tracked along the nearest tables, hovering on any that stared until they flinched and looked away.

He stopped at the counter, bringing his trunk-shaped arms down on its surface and resting his weight against them. Signaling the bartender with a grunt, Liakurra called for a drink in his people's trade tongue- it was better known throughout the galaxy than the local dialect he was more familiar with. <"Quarter-pint of Ardees."> It was the strongest thing they had that wouldn't drain his critically low coffers, and anything less than it wouldn't be any different from ordering water.

"I'unno if you can tell, pal, but I don't speak walkin' carpet." The bartender, a mostly hairless human female, gave the Wookiee an incredulous look. "Which one you want, 'xactly?"

Liakurra let out a low growl in frustration, gesturing broadly toward the Jawa Juice dispenser lined up with the others behind her. Thankfully she was able to tell what he meant by that and went to fill up a pint-tall glass of the stuff only for him to bark out at her again.

<"Not that. Too expensive. Quarter-pint.">

The exasperated worker let out a series of expletives as she rounded up all the different cups instead of continuing their little game of charades and let the Wookiee pick out which one he wanted himself. It took twice as long as usual for her to get the drink poured, placed in front of him and paid for, and it was about four times as frustrating.

Once all that was said and done with, Liakurra settled into his resting place and started sipping at the drink, stewing on his latest failed outing and the loss of his datapad. He'd gambled too many credits to get to that world and expected an easy capture. Instead he got stuck in a den full of razor hounds and barely managed to claw his way out before they tore him to shreds. Worse yet, he lost the datapad he'd been documenting his travels on- the whole point of him leaving Kashyyyk to begin with!

Maybe he never should've left. He could be home now, spear-fishing with his clan on the Wawaatt as they built their food stockpile for the winter. He'd been gone for five years now. How big was little Salthata, now, he wondered. Wrrlova would go through her Test of Ascension soon- how would she fare in the Shadowlands? Did she learn well enough without him around?

'Ahhh. There I go, making myself homesick...' Liakurra thought to himself, a low, sad groan passing between his teeth.
14 for Liakurra

So does a tie mean we all re-roll or
<Snipped quote by ComradeMaxx>

How dare you betray me, Maxx. I thought we were friends.


its for your own good ok
Doing a poll.

Should we try to have this RP on a schedule (a post a week? every two weeks?) or keep things as it is with people posting when they can?

Deadlines r cool and good. Every two weeks at a minimum would keep us moving but its a little more forgiving to slower posters than once a week.
<Snipped quote by ComradeMaxx>


no u

Backstory is finito, lemme know if there’s any glaring issues that need to be addressed, like that one time I left an e out of Wookiee and you threatened to murder me.
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