Created: 2006-10-25 00:05:22
Game: unity
Faith: Barnabas
"The Wheel of Time turns, and Ages come and pass, leaving memories that become legend. Legend fades to myth, and even myth is forgotten when the Age that gave it birth comes again."
There are no beginnings. But this is a beginning.
-Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time
Thick, jagged bolts of lightning crashed down from skies turned inky black. The storm roiled above like an inverted whitewater, but whereas a whitewater was white, these were dead black and lifeless grey. Very little light penetrated them, and the majority of the illumination came from fires burning on the funeral plains that were called the Waste. That, and the jagged bolts of lightning that flickered constantly, raining down from the heavens to strike down friend and foe alike. Even from here, the Sidhe could feel the taint woven into that magic; the Dark Lord not only reaching out and touching the world, but burning everything and anything He touched. Seska drew her cloak about her more tightly, shivering at the thought of losing here. Her tall, elven frame - at least, it looked to be elven even if it was not - stood silhouetted against a blazing fire within her camp. Shapes moved in the inky darkness behind her, all armed, all in a hurry to be other places. This was the most fiercely defended point of their entire force. There was reason for this, good reason. Seska had been trying not to dwell on it overmuch.
Across the burning plains, across a roiling mass of fighting men, women and beasts; she looked across them all, ignoring the dying screams, ignoring the pleading cries of those not slain yet mortally wounded. Across the great expanse of nothingness to the towering spires of rock that formed the Mounts. She could see four of the five peaks in the distance, their tops capped in storm and lances of lightning. It was so far away, and yet they would have to get closer still in order to do what needed doing. She looked over her shoulder into the camp; two others detached themselves from the shadows nearest her tent, long graceful strides bringing them to stand by her side. They were dressed like her; dark green cloaks held with turquoise brooches, soft leather boots. Their hoods were drawn up, but she could see the gleam in their eyes; Sidhe she had managed to find and who were willing to help in this cause, lost as it was. Markas, a tall willowy man with luminous blue eyes and features sharp, as if chiseled from stone. Dark hair, tied at the nape of his neck, stretched down to his shoulder blades. A long bladed hunting knife hung from a belt around his waist, a staff of ornately carved oak in his hand.
Asherum was shorter, fair of skin and round of face with penetrating eyes, shimmering green. His hair only hung to the back of his neck, but it was bound into a topknot now. He wore various daggers hidden about his person, and carried a plain ash staff, every bit as plain as Markas' was ornate. Seska herself carried only a sword, legendary though it was. The Dragonslayer, the blade she had used to kill an ancient wyrm centuries past, gleamed in its scabbard at her waist. The green dragons' eye set into the pommel gleamed wickedly; it was said that the blade could cut through any defense, could reduce even the truly immortal to the underworld with an expert enough stroke. She had her hand on that hilt, on point of drawing it as she studied the plains below.
"He gathers his strength. He will finish us soon enough.....we have little time." She said, curtly, stepping off and descending the shallow slope. It would only be minutes until they were in the midst of the fighting. Even as she descended, the other two followed in silence, listening to the howls of the Wolves that the Lord preferred to use so very much. As she descended, she brought the full length of the Slayer out; it gleamed brightly like polished silver. Nothing could mark it, dull it, or break it that she had found. "We must start drawing now."
"As you wish, m'Lady." Markas muttered gruffly. Even in the face of certain death, the man had a sense of humor. Seska cast a dark glance back at him - she was not Nobility among her own - before stalking on. They continued in silence. But now, to the trained eye, they began to glow.
The Sidhe woman could feel the power, drawing, channeling it from the land and the air, from everything living and even some things that did not. She began her weave; they would add their power to hers once they had drawn enough to even begin. They were all three Sidhe, but her strength and prowess with the Power, with the Art, far outmatched them. Such young children - they would despise being called such, but a mere seventy years was a child in her peoples' eyes. So young, and fated to die. She herself felt no sorrow for her own demise. She had found a way to possibly circumvent death, though only dying would prove her wrong or right. But
she could see the tightness on their faces, the strain hidden in their perfectly composed faces.
The first of the Lords' minion approached. Her bands of fighting men surrounded them now, the clash of steel and the screams of the slain. Burning eyes, flesh half rotten and falling sickly from their bones, the Undead Horde attacked in force.
Seska flew, a flurry of thrusts and slashes, and where ever she went, the dead fell in final peace, their bones turning to ashes and their flesh melting to nothing. But there were many, and only three of them. Staves and knives and swords played a dance with death, dispatching their enemies left and right, and all the while the sorceress kept drawing, folding the power into threads that could be woven into a design that would affect the world. The threads were thick; she could see them, she knew the others could too. Huge, mammoth things, and thick as she was: the elements of Fire and Wind, a trace of the Light woven in sparingly. She could feel it all too well, now - the rhythmic pulse of barely controlled Power that flowed from her own veins, from the land she walked on, from the skies she walked under. She had drawn all that she could without killing herself with it - all that remained was to get close enough.
The undead continued to come, sometimes rising again after falling. But always more; hundreds of them. They carved a path through them - through undead, through the Wolves. Even the twisted Mah'riel, the males bestial, gigantic forms striding through the ranks of human and elven warriors, ripping throats out with taloned hands. One turned and came towards them - and then felt the touch of the Dragonslayer. Its shrieks were satisfying to the sorceress' ears; she reveled in it as she cut its head off, the only sure way to make sure a slain Mah'riel stayed that way. One of their women turned, feeling one of her kinds death, and loosed fiery death herself. The flames were deflected without as much as a backward glance by Asherum. The flaming mess coalesced into a pinpoint of light, hurled back at the women who had cast it to become a swirling sphere of liquid flame fifty feet in diameter. She ignored the dying shrieks of those caught in it, pushed onward. Pushed onward and struggled to keep her link with that Power. Without it she would die sooner than she wished.
Burning eyes surfaced below the crowds, dark things filled with hate. Seska cursed them, deflecting a bolt of lightning intended to lay her to rest. Her hair stood on end for how close it earthed itself, but wrapped in power as she was she could barely feel it. It was all she could do to control what she had drawn. A touch of fear gleamed in her eyes, for she knew that she would have to draw more, a terrible amount more to be certain.
An hour passed. Their bodies were damp with sweat, their cloaks dark with blood and ichor and many small wounds. They reached the outermost distance they could possibly be to do what they must, tired and already bedraggled. The fighting lessened, but ahead the plains glowed with the burning light of torches. The Horde poured from the Pass, through the burned out hull of the Gate city. As far as the eye could see, warriors for the Lord ranged onwards. Defeat was the only way this could go. Except
She turned to her companions. "We shall be martyrs, but the world will never know any of us
" she said sadly to her companions. They nodded; they knew well enough. "What will be, will be. The Great Lord put created us to protect His children, with our lives as necessary," Markas recited. Seska grimaced. "The Great Lord has been unseen and unheard for ages, children," she replied, a little sadly at the end. "Bind the power as I have taught you. We must weave it and be done with this as soon as possible - if you do it as I said, perhaps we need not die."
She didn't hear their reply. All of her attention went to controlling the Power. She could feel them add their weaves to hers, combine their power to hers
but it was distant, compared to the roar of power she now controlled. And continued to draw, until it caused pain, continued to draw until she could feel the blood flowing freely from her nose, from her ears. Pain became burning, like flame scorching her bones
but she continue to draw and weave, every extra thread, extra weave a new pain. She looked briefly to her companions; their faces were white with effort. And then an arrow from out amidst the pitched battle that raged around them again, and Markas gasped, stumbling back. The power he had drawn faded, and the extra burden almost brought her to his knees. Markas clutched at the shaft sticking from his chest, his eyes already glazing over in death. She could not spare time to mourn his death. She continued on.
The air began to shimmer. Closer now, closer and closer she came to her intent. Asherums' knees buckled. Blood poured down his face from his nose and mouth and ears, his eyes glazed in death. Too much power for one so young, yet she had to have known they could not help. Too weak. She could feel herself slipping too
there would not be much more time. Not much time at all.
With a great surge of effort that drained her flagging strength, she drew all of the power she could. Her vision blurred, her head ached. But with a sudden realization, she realized the weave complete.
The whole world seemed to explode with light, so suddenly that few had time to shield their eyes, though that would do little to help them. The roiling storm above boiled away, leaping and dancing to avoid touching the sudden sphere of liquid, white hot fire. Undead turned to ashes at its base, the Mounts were lost in a brightness akin to the sun.
Seska stared through blind eyes, feeling the fiery heat of her magic burn away the flesh that faced it. Such terrible agony, but it only persisted for a second. She was slipping, fading into the darkness. Everything grew dim
Seska shuddered. She stared at the ancient iron gates that should surely have been scoured from the face of the earth. They hung askew on hinges rusted or broken, not quite barring a twisting path she knew to be called the Pass, the only way into the once tainted valley. The road was uneven and pitted, in places with the appearance of sheets of glass. The road on the pass disappeared around the bend, and it may as well have been a million miles away. Something unseen prevented her from going through those gates. And the sorceress knew who, and more importantly what.
She turned her strange amethyst eyes on the woman who stood behind her, a tall woman with a coppery complexion, though in truth the Sidhe knew her complexion to be much more fair. Hard months campaigning, no doubt. Aeyliea was a beautiful woman, taller by a couple heads than Seska herself, with hair so light as to be nearly white or silver falling to her waist, tied into a rope by leather thongs. Cold, searing, intelligent eyes of cold blue stone regarded her thoughtfully, her narrow and soft looking face as unreadable as ever. The tip of her long bladed katana rested in the hard packed dirt of the road, one hand on hilt. Behind her, the ragged retinue that had tagged along all those long miles from home stood at their ease, all in an assortment of armors of leather, studded leather and plate; hauberk and haubergeon, scale and sometimes plainclothes. A more scarred and ragtag group of veterans would be hard to come by. And a more skilled lot was much less likely, as many came from the barbaric northlands that were permanently locked in snow and ice.
The Gate had been utterly destroyed, at least. The protection that the living land kept over the valley did not extend beyond the Mounts. Foundations of stone were all that remained of a once thronging, if twisted, city. She glanced up at the peaks above, crested in white all the year round. The sun glared off those tall white peaks, forcing her to shade her eyes. "So, we meet again, Aeyliea. And I see you brought your friends with you."
Aeyliea looked the other woman up and down. The Sidhe was short, perhaps four foot with silver hair cascading down her back to a likewise length as her own, but unlike her the Sidhe's face seemed eternally at peace, rarely betraying her thoughts or emotions. And her eyes, pale luminous purple that seemed to shift in shade every time the woman moved her head, seemed to glow with both an inner light. They were sharp, every bit as intelligent as her own with an even deeper knowledge of the world. Aeyliea had lived six or seven hundred years, perhaps, ever since the Dark One touched her life. She denied Him now as then, but His unwanted gift persisted. But compared to Seska, who had
a complex history that went beyond even her own memory of time, her knowledge was nothing. Aeyliea didn't mind much, however. The Sidhe might know magic beyond her wildest dreams, but when it came to playing with swords and the like, few were better at it than she. It was in the way she carried herself, that air of a noble and at the same time the confidence of someone well trained in the art of war. It was hard to be humble or bow a head or even come off uncertain when you could and had laid waste to entire countries as though they were nothing. She had been a warlady for hundreds of years, sung in song in some countries and cursed in others. But in all of her years she had never had experiences such as the ones of recent days. That strange apparition, and her inability to turn aside from the path that it had laid out for her. And she had tried to turn aside, but to no avail.
Aeyliea smirked. "More than you've brought with you, I'm sure. I suppose this adventure was your doing?" she inquired, her face twisting in anger slightly. She did not like being led on a string, not even if it was a friend doing it, not even if the purpose was good. She stared at Seska's face, blank and emotionless. She could practically hear the Sidhe's thoughts race, though.
"No. But it would appear that the Tower has a purpose for you as well." She said. She gestured at the gate, and shrugged. "Apparently I cannot enter yet. Can you?"
Aeyleia grinned, her anger gone, and walked by the Sidhe. Whatever force held the sorceress back had no effect on Aeyliea; she continued up the slope unchallenged. Grumbling something, Seska tried again. No resistence - she continued up the slope unmolested, ignoring the tramping of the hundreds of men behind her. She hurried to catch up with Aeyliea; it was unnerving how much ground the taller woman could cover with her longer strides, and angering that she herself had to hurry to keep up. She drew alongside the human, stepping in front of her. Her eyes fairly smoldered.
"We have to talk about this. Do you have any idea what this place is?" she queried, those fires not dying down in the least. Aeyliea stared at her for a long moment, and then shrugged.
"No. But I can take a guess. You don't suppose
He
is involved in this?" Her eyes appeared creased for a second, with worry or anger the Sidhe could not tell. But she did know of this place, more than most, perhaps all, that yet lived.
"No. And then again, yes. This is the place where the Lord centered His power for a very long time. I told you of
what happened here, long ago. It should not stand, but it does. It stands tall, and, with no one to guard it, He will come back to it. As much was said by the Tower to me
did it not speak to you also?"
Aeyliea didn't speak for a time. The Tower? Was this place Koriasai? Seska had related stories of that place many times, retelling the tales of the Order of the Undead Dragon, relating tales of the scouring of the world with the hosts of the Dark Ones' armies, her at their head and bound by His power. A binding that nearly killed her to break, and an influence that she sacrificed herself to rid the world of. That it hadn't rid the world of the Lord was bad enough, but in his rage at her attack he had cursed her. That curse had long since been broken, but the memory of what the Lord had done to her, and to the world, still lay heavily on the Sidhe's mind. The Lord had used her, granted her the power of this place that He Himself could not use, and she had burned the world with war and killing. It was not something she relished relating to Aeyliea.
But Aeyliea had other involvements with the Lord. The Lord had come and touched her life, proclaiming that she would lead His armies - a shadowy mirror of what Seska had been, and she DID shudder at that thought - offered her immortality and power beyond imagination. She had turned down His offer multiple times, had even struck at Him in blind rage. But He had been balked. Time and again balked, and all the while He still ranged the world, striving to bring about the completion of plans that neither of them knew.
But she knew all too well that He could not be allowed to take this place back again; if He did there would be renewed war and strife throughout the world, and killing, senseless killing, to bathe the world red. Whatever His final intentions, all of His work
all of His subtle manipulation and maneuvering always resulted in evil things - wars and famine and plague, madness and despair.
"Why?" She said, finally. She knew the answer. It was obvious. She had balked the Lord three times and still lived. Perhaps the living land thought that she could keep His armies away. His and others.
"Why doesn't matter. You've seen it yourself. He sows dissention and chaos, reaps war and death and murder among the followers of Barnabas and Leto alike. He moves in the shadows of Angelique, though her Justice makes things more difficult for the time being within the Queens lands. But the Lord moves. The Lord always moves, always tries to manipulate the world to increase His own power. I have fought him long, as have you
but now Koriasai has risen again. And so long as it is there, He will seek to regain control of His once lost kingdom. He cannot have it, must not." The Sidhe had allowed emotion to show, at last. Of all the things she hated and reviled, most of all was the Lord, the Dark One. The creations He loved so very much - the undead, the vampire, and the Wolves. His personal race, the Mah'riel, borne of dark magic and interbreeding of species. But most of all, the Lord Himself. "The Tower has chosen you to lead the armies that will gather here. It has different designs for me ..." She sounded resigned to a fate she didn't particularly want. She turned, and began to stalk up the Pass in silence. Aeyliea followed after a short moment of thought, keeping her silence as well.
They crested the top of the Pass and stared in silently at the valley below. Easily fifteen miles long by ten miles wide with a glittering lake in the center, it was surrounded on all sides by sheer cliffs. And on the island in the middle of that lake, the Mere, stood the tower amid crumbling fortress walls. Even from this distance, the Sidhe could feel the pulsing power of this place. Unimagined power, deadly power in the wrong hands. The Sidhe stared at the expanse of green, brilliant green the color of living things. It was so different from the mire and murk, the eternal fog and stink of decay and fetid colors of rot that had adorned the place from wall to wall when last she saw it. The Tower had pushed the taint of the Lord out, restoring the balance of the land.
"There is work to be done. The dream showed what was needed
now we must restore this place. Restore it, and protect it from Him." She took a few steps towards the edge of the road, a stomach churning thousand foot drop from the edge to valley bottom. "We can trust few. There are always those hungry for power, and this place represents that quite well." Without waiting for a reply, the Sidhe in her blue dress began to descend into the ruins of Koriasai. Sighing, knowing that she was bound as surely to this place as her feet were to the ground by gravity, she followed. Behind came the barbaric hordes, trained and disciplined under the Lady Aeyliea
and with these scant numbers, they would begin their conquest of the usurpers that would come.
Now, the Sidhe and the humans' goals were one. They would hunt the Lord and all of his machinations, and destroy whatever they found. Or die trying.
GM: Warlady
AGM: High Lord/Lady
Squad Leader: Lord/Lady of the Land
Full Member: Knight
Member: Accepted
Newbie: Seeker
The Order has stood through the Ages. And will stand thrugh more to come.
"Welcome, Seeker." The man standing before you is dressed in the livery of the Order, breastplate polished until its gleam could hurt your eyes, a dark red cloak trimmed with gold hanging limp from his back. He wears leather leggings, and a sword belt and scabbard at his waist, the blade sheathed and completely ordinary looking. His is a hard face, worn by many battles. An angry red scar runs down his face, over his left eye and down his cheek to his chin. His hard, planed features do not show much warmth; that is reserved for the Accepted of the Tower, not for Seekers. Seekers could be spies.
"Welcome to the Gate of the Tower, Seeker. Here we shall determine if you are worthy to carry the Dragon Orders' colors, to ride under her banner. If you truly wish to become a Seeker of the Order, your old titles will have to be left behind you. Come with me; there are others." The man turned on his heel, and began to walk deeper into the fortress that guarded the Pass. The Old Gate still stood, but in the months since Warlady had resumed occupying the Valley, a stone wall had been built to encase the Gate. None could pass now without permission, else an extremely large army. Watching the retreating back of the nameless man, you follow.
A number of cold stone corridors pass you by. The man talks as he walks, though. "I may as well get some of the formalities done and over with, as most of the others have already been told. The Order seeks out the Dark One and His works. It is our intent to destroy His works, and Him as well if we can find Him." He stops, and looks over his shoulder at you. "You may have had questions about why the Sidhe looked you over before you were even allowed into the Gatehouse. She checked to ensure that you were not some part of the Dark Lords' plots, or a minion of his." He continued onwards, talking. "The Order has served
wrong purposes in the past, under the very man we seek to kill."
After that, he walks on in silence. Minutes draw out, long and tense. Finally he comes to a door of heavy oak, obviously imported from other realms, as most of the City outside was made of such things. He turned so that his back was at the door.
"Before we go on, I should make a point. Several, in fact."
"While you wear even so slight an honor as to be a Seeker, you will not make an ass of yourself in public. We do not like having our collective name stained by trouble makers, and such as they will be dealt with harshly."
"Speaking of your enemy, the name of his Realm, or even the location of it in public is also expressly prohibited. If you are trusted with such information, keep it to yourself. Wouldn't want to end up rotting in the dungeons for loose lips, eh?"
"Making mention of any odd phenomenon in public is also forbidden, as is needlessly wasting peoples' time with idle words."
"Claiming others works for your own, taking matters that belong in a bedroom into public, and other illicit behaviour is forbidden. It is also not permitted to make false accusations in public, nor true accusations in public. Such matters should be brought to the Warlady or the High Lords and Ladies."
"Giving directions to material that speaks out against the community of this land as a whole is prohibited."
The man clears his throat, turns to face the door with his rich cloak spiraling out from his back, and opens the door. Inside are perhaps a dozen others, each from a different walk of life. All of them appear hopeful, if untrained. The man walks into the room, standing before a large black slate board - in times of war, this would be a briefing room, you suppose - and stands before the rest of the Seekers. You find yourself a place among them, and sit in silence.
"You are Seekers, one and all. One and all, you will be tested and trained in the ways of war and magic, and will follow the Order in glory. But before you can rise to the rank of Accepted, before you can even earn the right to be called a Master or Mistress, you must learn of those you would follow." The man paces slowly in front of his pupils, eyeing each in turn. "My name is Aringail, a Lord of the Land. Perhaps one day you can rise to that exalted rank, perhaps even earn other title in service of the Warlady. But for now, let us settle for the basics."
He gestured to the board which was filled with writing in an elegant hand. "First, let us discuss the Codex of the Order. You will memorize it, for it concerns every aspect of life with the Ordo de Draconis."
"The Order does not concern itself with the petty difference between some of the Lords and Ladies, if they can be called that, of this war torn world of ours. Neither will we acknowledge or partake in their petty insults, accusations, or barbs. If you want to become anything with our Order, you must leave such petty worldly things behind. They mean nothing to us. Insults are but words; our spears however are forever. And you must stay strictly to your character. Going off in some way that is unnatural is a good way to be put to the hard question, and any such are typically stripped of title, if not hanged."
Aringail finally stops, eyeing them all one more time, before turned and striding to the end of the large table of pine, seating himself. "We are warriors, Seekers. We fight where others quail in terror. Whether the odds favor us or not, we fight until the last. The Lord is devious; we must remain vigilant. Even the great nations can find themselves suddenly enthralled by the Shadow, find their actions no longer their own as He twists their people and intentions to suit His needs. It is quite possible that He could take a direct interest in any of us, and therefore we must be extra vigilant."
You listen as he drones on about the manifold, humdrum formalities of the society of the Order. "It should be noted that the Order does not work within the influence of the Queen Angelique, nor the General Barnabas. Not even Leto has authority over us - we stand above all else. Our purpose is rooting out evil, not carrying our spears to war over foolish men and women whom think to make themselves deities, to build empires that will crumble away with time. We fight on the side of justice and righteousness, even if the just action seems skewed. And to the end of honor, we will defend that honor to our very deaths. It is expected that any, even lowly Seekers, shall willingly give their lives to the cause of the greater good, should they be called to it. None - not even the Warlady herself - are above this. It is easier to abandon the conquered lands outside the Valley than to ever let the hordes enter the Valley and cast the Tower down. It will be avoided at all costs."
He sits in silence for a time, then steeples his hands in front of his hard, scarred face, eyes gleaming. "It should also be noted that so long as you wear the honor of the Order, acting on your own will not be tolerated. Even the best intentions, unguided, could result in the deaths of many. Would you like the deaths of your comrades on your heart for the rest of your life? And rest assured that life would be short, for the gallows would have you. Only by the direct command of the Warlady will any action be taken outside of the day-to-day management of your personal lands, be they great or small. Some actions - reconnaissance and the like - are permissible, except when standing orders forbid it, but taking your armies anywhere without orders from the Warlady herself is punishable by death at the worst. Ah, well. You must be bored with this. Lets leave off and go to a different subject, shall we?"
Placing his hands in front of him, Aringail rises. "You are Seekers. Seekers are the lowest of the Order. You have no rights outside of being allowed into our lands, no right to a voice in the Council, no right to even claim a title. You are not allowed to enter the Valley or the Tower - even the serfs can enter the Tower freely at times and many reside within the Valley, but only Lords may come and go as they wish, and a Seeker is no Lord. Serfs perform the basic work of our land; yours is to defend it. Only through your oath of fealty to the Tower and to the Warlady will see you raised to the rank of Accepted."
"Accepted are a little better off than you Seekers, having been granted the right to wear the colors and to take up arms under one of the Lords. There are three Houses that, once Accepted, you may sign to join. The House of Savages is the warrior House, for those that wish to bring their skill with weapons to the Order. The House of Shadows is for information gathering and
other things. Those who wish to work unseen, to have their work remarked on infrequently, may join this House. Lastly, is the House of Arcanum. Those with an aptitude in the Art, as the High Lady Seska calls it, would do well to join her House. Though I should remark that the Lady Seska is a bit
peevish of those who are not of the Blood, as she also likes to call it. Regardless, there are few more talented and fewer teachers of the Art better."
"After you have gained a House, and after you have proven your worth, the Warlady might see fit to raise you to the rank of a Lord of the Land. Such as them have the right to the title 'Lord' or 'Lady', and may raise their own standard, their own army. Accepted may work within a House, but only Lords may have their own force of armed men, and only such as they may carry their own standard. Lords and Ladies are due respect, respect that you as Seekers and even as Accepted will not get. Any Lord or Lady may enter the Tower, though Lords and Ladies of the Land may only come when summoned by their superiors."
"If the Warlady sees that you are truly skilled, she may even raise you to High Lord or Lady. Such are venerated members of the Order, having shown extreme skill and finesse in their given House. Some High Lords and Ladies even head those Houses, as does the High Lady Seska. High Lords and High Ladies are permitted to enter the Valley whenever they wish, though even the High Lords and Ladies may not enter the Tower except upon summons there."
"There are other titles to be gained, but of rank there is only one other. The rank of the Warlady herself is not attainable by the likes of you or me; there is only one. The Lady Aeyliea, chosen of the Tower and defender of the Ordo de Draconis. Her word is law, and defiance of that word is treason. She has the power of veto over any decision reached, even if it is reached by the Council of High Lords. The decision to war, the decision to accept peace - these are her bailiwick alone. While High Lords and their ilk may grant titles and praise, only the Warlady can grant rank. Be assured that the High Lords and High Ladies will inform her of those worthy of rank. Who knows, she could even grant special titles to those whom truly shine in these dark times. And if she were to ever leave, the Order would flag and fail, disbanded until her return."
Once again he fell silent. A liveried servant appeared with a chipped clay pitcher and mug, pouring him a glass of water. Aringail had a very decided look of eternal sobriety about his face. "Of titles, since some of you will wish to know, there are many. For feats of war and sorcery, for feats of stealth, and even for feats of storytelling - the more titles one can gather, the more prestige one will have. It is of course unnecessary to seek such praise and accolade, however, if you are truly a member of the Order excellence shall always be your goal."
Finishing his drink, Aringail rises. "And now, I must bid you all good evening. Servants shall take you to your quarters, humble as they may seem. The Warlady has her methods of getting in touch with you, and as soon as her busy schedule allows for it she will speak to you each in turn. Your oath, that will be sworn to her and only her when she deems it time to do so. May the Creator favor you all." With that, he turned, red cloak fluttering with the wind of his passage, and the door clicking shut behind him. Minutes later, servants come, and lead you to your new home.