W_A_R

Perhaps an unaligned independent perspective. I was not witness to the original OOC attack, or across the circumstances. OOC attacks should never occur and should have consequences. Nevertheless I was on NG Discord when Mochi's approached NG afterwards. I believe Stewie's follow up apology is sincere and genuine, and there is a desire to move on. While I do not know JA (I may have in my earlier more active times) I hope he can be informed of NG's contrition and can either return or remember better times. 2c worth

I know of only one 'Sys' . I believe Page Sys has been around since the early days of CN (formerly of GATO and Old Guard). The are many tales to be told in that history, no doubt.

I will keep this short and sharp, without the verbiage we have been known for. The Order of the Black Rose remains. It perpetuates. While many of the Knights have passed on from this realm of Digiterra, or Planet Bob if you like, several remain to ensure that the values of the Black Rose continue. Our influence may have diminished in the eyes of many over the years, however we continue to be. In recent years few have chosen to become a member of the OBR. We are a taciturn bunch and generally keep to ourselves. Not to say we don't get out these days. We are just more comfortable in the Black Keep. To become a member of the Order has always been a challenging matter. It was those many years ago when I supplicated, after roles with GOLD and CON. To become a Page was a true test; to progress to Squire even more so; to be knighted, an achievement in its own. It is therefore my pleasure to be able to announce that the Order welcomes one who wishes to progess along the diamond path to Knighthood. Sysiphus Maximus of Pelabos has passed the rigours of supplication and has been annointed Page of the Order of the Black Rose. Congratulations Page Sys. In the name of Queen AterAtra and the Knight Protector of the Black Rose, Sir Winslow. I understand Page Sys has been known to frequent the halls of other alliances. Please extend your congratulations in due course. Sir W_A_R of Vijar Knight XXI

Checks for invitation

Did I miss this thread? You get to my my level of decomposition and things just do not seem to work as they once did. First time for venturing out from the Black Keep <cough, cough> crypt, where my tomb bears a very poorly carved relief of ... what is supposed to be the likeness of me.... Knight XXI of the Order of the Black Rose. Also, hello. Any good artisan masons wanting to join the Order?

I am W_A_R of Vijar. My now fetid corpse was neither corpse or rotting when I started in 31 August 2006 with BoSS. Subsequently of GOLD and CON, I am now in retirement as a Knight of the Order of the Black Rose. I miss many from those early, heady days. Also, I remember some of the posters in this thread.

Hello, Lady Dakota. A pleasure as always. I miss the CyberNations Tea Party. G'day Vlad. I came on with BoSS just as the amalgamations were mooted. I trust you have been keeping things on an even keel.

Yes. Yellow. A FANtastic team at the time. It appears that those that were, are no longer. Sad.

Vladdles was indeed a member of GOLD, as well as several others.

Greetings. Some may recognise my name. This old and often forgetful soul is known as W_A_R of Vijar and while being Knight XXI of the Order of the Black Rose, I have also had the pleasure of being a member of a sadly demised alliance in the Global Organization for Liberty and Defense (GOLD) and the Confederation of Orange Nations (CON). Hello, once again. My time on Cybernations has had its peaks and troughs, frenetic activity and hibernation, joyful moments and depths of despair. As one gets older, you also develop a tendency to reminisce about old times, and I am curious if there still remains those who were members of GOLD or CON, and I ask whether you fare well in the worlds, both this one and the other. Carrot Cake will be served shortly.

I had a warhorse once and 'Daffodil' was her name. She was some mare and an excellent ride in the most tense situations. I trust the ponies' tense situations are few and far between.

What did he think he was doing? If he didn't know he certainly couldn't expect others to know or understand his motivations or actions. He squeezed his eyes closed so he could shut out his thoughts and just focus on getting on with the daily tasks at hand. Life proceeds along without too much contemplation on whether it should or shouldn't and so would he. His nap, as always, was unsatisfactory. Not nearly enough. Sleep could be an elusive and unpredictable treasure. Sometimes it came easy and comfortable, whereas other times the mind raced across all manner of things, all of them dancing away from any personal control. Being truly rested was rare indeed. He groaned as he threw the rumpled covers off and swiveled himself to the edge of his bed. His hands were stiff and he massaged deep into his knuckles to ease them. The shower beckoned and he lumbered towards it, absent-mindedly scratching his body with re-animated hands. Turning on the shower he again registered that the tap handle for the cold water rested on the edge of the bath. "I've gotta get to that" he muttered to himself as he immersed into the cascading water. He eased himself in and out of the shower according to his body's ability to cope with the steaming water. Rubbing his hand across his face he assessed whether he was in need of a shave. "Not today" he mumbled, wondering where the hell his skin's elasticity had mysteriously disappeared to. He briskly washed, rinsed, brushed teeth, turned off the tap then reached for his towel being mindful not to slip in the process. He absent-mindedly sniffed the towel, a broad green one, testing whether it was acceptable for its fundamental task, that being to dry his body. It was although it had seen fluffier days. Dave was acutely aware of the other practical uses for towels, but that wasn't a consideration for the moment. He tossed it over his head and rubbed his hair vigorously, then moved down to his neck, back, chest, arms, lower torso and finally legs. He was methodical in his approach, believing that it was the most efficient and effective way to go about such a mundane and everyday chore. He shook the towel and observed the body hair that now covered the tiled floor in the shower recess. "I'm bloody molting" he grumbled. Dave moved his left hand over to the back of his right shoulder to rub the scar where a large lump had once been. It was a habit of many years and not as objectionable as some that he might consider taking up. The lump had been benign but the surgeon had quipped that he didnt like the look of it when he excised it from the muscle. There was nothing quite like getting a professional opinion on a lump of flesh and fatty tissue that originated from your body. Dave guessed that it probably wouldnt have been a candidate for the cover of Lumpy Bitz magazine that might be found sitting at the bottom of a pile of a doctors professional reading. He rushed through the rest of his post showering rituals being aware that he needed to get himself ready for work. Dave scrounged in the washing basket looking for fresh work clothes. These basics were easy enough to locate. Denim shorts, bright yellow work polo emblazoned with the business logo and slogans. Boxer shorts, elastic band still holding up. Socks. It was always socks. Dave wasnt particularly fussed about getting a matching pair of work socks, more so finding a pair that didnt have holes to the side of the big toe. His steel capped work boots rubbed against his largest of foot digits and not only developed large calluses on each but wore out his socks quicker than he liked. He mentally noted that he needed to buy some more socks when he pulled out two serviceable ones; Blue and Black. That would have to do. Dressing quickly, Dave then picked up his boots from next to the hall stand and strode down the hallway to the kitchen. He sat down on the old vinyl cushioned kitchen chair, the seat patched with a strip of duct tape. He pulled on his left boot, grasping the lace-ends and tugged tight. Snap! Thatd be right he muttered, annoyed. The lace had been frayed for the last week but he hadnt yet got to the store to buy a replacement pair. Socks and laces now Dave inscribed into his mental shopping list. He would usually forget, resorting to walking each aisle in the supermarket in the desperate hope for a memory jogger. Dave adjusted the lace so he could just manage to do a single bow, his thick fingers struggling in the effort. It would have to do. He took greater care in tying his right boot. An alarm went off in his head. The coffee siren. He moved across to the kitchen bench, lifted the kettle and shook it. Satisfied that the level of content would meet his daily necessary caffeine fix he slapped the on switch. A banging at the door disturbed his consideration of breakfast. He returned up the hallway to the front door and opened it to find a cat half way up the screen door, claws gripping the fly-wire. Morning, Shithead Dave said in a cheery manner. The cat, more formally known as Cally, a calico cat, meowed loudly in reply; Feed me now! in the feline language. Dave clicked the finger lock on the screen door, opened it as the cat dropped to the doorstep and sauntered in as only a cat can. Dave close and locked the door, a precaution he usually took given the not so upmarket nature of his neighbourhood. He followed in the wake of Cally to the kitchen where he found some cat biscuits and shook a portion of the contents into a bowl. The cat pierced him with an annoyed expression. OK, OK. Ill get the milk. He opened the refrigerator door and pulled out the plastic two litre bottle of milk. Lowfat. Dave had a small chloresterol problem. He checked the expiry date, opened the lid, and took a cautious whiff. Satisfied, Dave poured a small amount of milk into a saucer and placed it next to the cats food bowl. Cally purred in appreciation, giving Daves leg a cursory rub with her head before dipping her face into the food bowl. Dave turned his attention from the cat to the kettle. It was close to boiling. He reached for his favourite mug and placed it on the laminate bench top. The colour, the 1970s favourite, burnt orange, no longer affected him as it did visitors to his home. The outdated colour scheme and fixtures were background visual noise, barely registering in his thoughts. He pulled at the cutlery drawer and finger poked through for a teaspoon. Selecting one, he plunged it into the sugar bowl and extracted a heaped amount of sweetner, then dumped it into the mug. He repeated the process with the instant coffee. Dave splashed just the right amount of milk in the mug, musing about the aberration of the milk and sugar after brigade. Horrible. By this time the kettle had auto-switched off and Dave topped up the mug with water, the smell of instant coffee wafting up. Ah! Breakfast! he thought. Back to choices. Toast or Toast. He would have toast. He sorted through the bagged loaf of bread looking to select a slice unaffected by mould. Choosing two likely candidates, Dave put them in the toaster on setting number 2. That setting under-toasted where setting 3 turned it into a charcoal brickette. Two and a half didnt work so Dave toasted the bread on 2 twice, monitoring the second turn to manually remove the toast before it caught fire. Dave opened the fridge and removed the margarine. Next he found the vegemite and crunchy peanut butter. One slice with the axle grease like vegemite, a favourite Australian breakfast spread, and the other with paste of peanut. He gave of a laugh. He remembered the high school name for the spreads. Penis Paste and Vaginamite. Very schoolboy humour. The toast soon popped up and he reset it and maintained his vigil for the toast perfection he craved. Soon Dave was sitting at the kitchen table sipping his coffee between bites of each of the pieces of toast, listening to the radio. This was the calm before the storm as he kept half an eye on the wall clock in the kitchen. It didnt matter how early in the day he got up, the time in the morning moved in a mysterious fashion resulting in Dave always rushing to get to work. The radio station broadcast the short grabs of news that provided Dave with just enough current affairs without having to resort to the television. Morning television had the same inane Morning Show programs, with the same inane morning show hosts, talking about the same inane issues of the day that catered for the same inane viewers. Dave didnt want to risk losing the little intelligence he possessed by watching the networks. Radio would be enough. He caught the end of the daily horoscope for his sign, it mentioning that change was in the air, something that Dave thought was highly unlikely. He was stuck in a rut and probably needed explosives to get himself free from the sucking monotony in the bottom. The chair legs squealed on the vinyl flooring as Dave pushed back out his slightly worn seat and gathered the plate and coffee mugs from the table. Begrudgingly he chose to rinse them at the sink and leave them out to dry in the dish rack. 'Nobody else to clean up after me so I best do it myself' he thought. Dave's internal alarm initiated an annoying scratching, insisting he get to work. He called Cally who was now casually preening herself in the distasteful manner that only a cat could. 'Don't lick me with that tongue' muttered Dave. Cally paused briefly to give him a quizzical 'Rowwr?' and when no promise of a tasty tidbit eventuated she returned to grooming. ​Cally paused briefly to give him a quizzical Rowwr? And when no promise of a tasty tidbit eventuated she returned to grooming. Dave took a couple of steps and scooped the cat into his arms, strode up to the hallstand, then fossicked in the bowl resting on its top. He gave a sigh as he finally plucked out his name badge / identification swipe and keys. ​He juggled his possessions to free a hand to open the front screen door, at which time the cat managed to free herself from his hold, leap to the verandah and hop a few metres out of his reach. Cally stole a quick glare of defiance for being put out, turned and sauntered off with her tail swishing in the air. Dave, cat-slave, had been dismissed. ​He closed the front door, keyed the deadlock the closed and locked the screen door, checking the handle to make sure. He paused and mentally checked that he had turned off the few electrical appliances he possessed. Closing his eyes to better remotely survey the house in his mind, he suddenly blinked and was satisfied. ​Dave spun on his heels and walked to his car parked on the grass verge of his home. Grass was probably not an accurate description of the narrow strip of land. Weed and dirt would have been a more apt description. ​The car, a faded burgundy early model Toyota Camry, was probably more comfortable on Daves verge than a classy limestone paved driveway. Dave did what little he needed to keep his personal mode of transport functioning. It didnt leak much oil, generally started first time and very rarely, broke down. ​Dave keyed open the boot to check that his work-belt and other necessities of employment were still there, along with the bric-a-brac of his mundane existence. Dave kept stuff in his car boot based on a it might come in handy approach. An old hammock for a picnic rug, a folding camp chair, a four litre container of water and the like. It rarely reached the handy stage. Dave was an unabashed boot hoarder. ​Unlike his boot, the interior of the car was clutter free. It started first time and Dave slipped his seat belt on and proceeded on his short commute to work. ​Work was as a forklift operator / replenishment team member for a large DIY hardware store. The company had dozens of megastores across the country, slowly snuffing out the existence of the long established local family hardware shops. Dave had concerns that he was a very minor cog in such a soulless enterprise, but he had to pay his bills. Working a night shift provided him the flexibility he needed for the moment. He had plans to do better, he just needed things to go his way for a change.

The sky is black with thunderheads and the earth gives off that hot, moist scent that only comes from the first rains on a parched and dusty landscape. The lands of Vijar prepares to receive the rare seasonal gift of rainfall. One's eyes could be excused for thinking that the trees and plants were quivering in anticipation, so slight the breeze before the storm. The figure of a cloaked man could be discerned against the looming backdrop of the sky. Still of erect bearing, the man's once muscled build had faded slightly and a paunch of inactivity hung uncomfortably around his waist. A parchment hung loosely from his gnarled left hand; a message carried to him from a far Kingdom. The missive told of the recent achievements of the Order of the Black Rose, a fellowship that the man knew well and held dear. The words spoke of the elevation of Page ManweDrago to that of Squire, an achievement of particular note given that he now had taken up the role of Commander of Blackwater. The former Commander, the much respected metal, had chosen to seek release from his responsibilities so that he could focus on other duties. The man pulled his cloak closer to him as heavy droplets of rain started to splatter on the dirt. He wished both ManweDrago and metal well. The message also told of the ascension of Squire Stella to Knighthood. Dear Stella, constantly working and making sure all within the Order and the Realm of the Rose were cared for. Her hands could wield a battle-axe with the same deftness as when she was creating delicate pastries and morsels for visitors to the Black Keep. Dame Stella; a title well deserved indeed. The parchment was now limp in the man's grip and the ink upon in began to run and smear under the assault of the increasingly heavy rain. Although nobody could see his face, a small smile of satisfaction crinkled his weathered visage, and his eyes shone just a little brighter in the knowledge that the Order was in good hands. He turned was walked slowly back to to his hearth and home.

A slight trembling of the earth causes a flock of birds take wing from their languid roost amongst the shade trees of Vijar. Beneath a paticularly shady and stately eucalypt there is a disurbance to the soil. A clod of turf is turned and a rusted gauntlet thrusts free from its bonds of clay and sand. A low moaning starts as slowly but surely an armour-clad body claws and levers itself to the surface. Using a sword etched with the name 'Venom', now dull through the lack of use, Knight XXI of the Order of the Black Rose pushes himself to his feet, wobbling ever so slightly. *Sir W_A_R of Vijar rises once again to be surrounded by the clamour of Digiterran life. He shakes himself in a poorly conceived effort to rid his armour of the grainy residue accumulated from the past few months of his interment, only to stagger and then prop as a result. He goes to remove his helm only to find it is stuck fast. "That could be a good thing" he mutters, given his possible state of decomposition. Well this is a fine thing to see; the formalisation of a friendship between my beloved Black Rose Order and those of the Paradoxian Way. May we all prosper accordingly. My congratulations to all those who 'made this thing so'. If you kindly excuse me but my worms are suggesting that I should go back and lay down again. *W_A_R turns, staggers back to his resting place and trips head first back into the fertile soil of his Vijari homeland.

It was a Vijari day much like the one before it and most likely similar to the one to succeed it. The sun was warm, the sky clear except for a smattering of clouds, fluffy and white like young lambs. An old horse, a destrier known as Daffodil the Flatulent, nibbled at the lush grass, unencumbered with saddle or bridle and nearby a lone figure was sitting under a large river gum, a bound journal lay open in the man’s lap, a pencil rested in his left hand. His fingers were gnarled much like the branches of the tree he rested under, the woody limbs of the tree reached towards the sky as if trying to snare the clouds. The journal was full of handwriting and sketches, documenting the things the man had experienced in his life and he had seen a great deal. On the last page he slowly drew the scene before him, trying to capture the essence of not only what he saw, but what he felt. And he felt deeply about the land that he was drawing. He fussed a little with a portion of his sketch before he was content. He rubbed his eyes with his free hand and breathed deeply. The earthy scent of the warm ground mixed with the sharper smell of eucalyptus leaves filled his nostrils. The sounds of nature, life in all its innocent abundance, were a calming music to his ears. It was good to be home. He leaned back against the old river gum and closed his eyes. The solidness of the tree and smoothness of its bark were a comfort to him. He listened carefully and the rhythmic melody of waves washing the nearby beach came to him. A gentle and knowing smile played across his weathered features. He knew those sands so well. He spent much of his childhood on the beach, learning from Vijari fisherman and wondering what lay across the vast ocean. He stifled a laugh. Much of the world of Digiterra was no longer a mystery to him. There remained few mysteries of the world now, but life was fleeting and time marched on heedless of the desires of an old man. Many faces came unbeckoned into his mind. Some had passed from this world and others had much left to give. He smiled anew. He weighed up the things that he should have done against those he shouldn’t have. The scales tilted in his favour. He took up some fallen leaves and grass into his hand and squeezed to release a fragrance, a smell of home. A faint sigh escaped his lips and his face relaxed, untroubled. The crushed material tricked from his right hand as the pencil he had been sketching with slipped from his left. Perhaps tomorrow would be different after, for the man who was known as W_A_R of Vijar was home forever, at last.