The Order of the Golden
Beliefs
• The Order of the Golden Flame is the force of light against darkness.
• Every mortal soul must find the light. Inspire and guide others through virtuous behavior and the use of force is the last resort.
• Beware the deceptive whispers of those who court darkness.
At its core, the Order of the Golden Flame is a fanatical group that hunts and fights evil in all its forms. For the warriors of the Order, this means combating the many supernatural and mundane threats present in Dhah'ar, such as the undead, demons, the corrupt, assassins, thieves, drug dealers and and all those who do not follow the laws.. To the government forces, both secular and religious, the Order is a group of vigilantes and terrorists. And to the population, they are the last resort of the weak.
Purists classify evil into five categories
• Alien evil entities: Extraplanar beings such as demons and others.
• Supernatural evil entities: This includes the undead and lycanthropes, fundamentally creatures corrupted by malevolent forces.
• Innate evil entities: This includes "monsters" that target good sentient beings.
• Those who choose evil: Evil humanoids who have consciously chosen evil and must all be put to the sword.
• The evil within: These are those who are born with an "alignment" for evil. The order gives these a deadline. Those who do not change their alignment by the time of the Ceremony must be slaughtered.
History The Order of the Golden Flame was founded in the early years of Cystemis, the Father of the Gods, by the emergence of the "Templar" class in the Talay Empire. The influence of the Order spread over the centuries, but its heart remained in Talay. During the Class Wars, King Herveig XI recognized the Order. By the time King Herveig XI died after his long reign, the Order had already gained the fame and strength for which it is known today.
The most common representation of the faith is the image of a bronze shield with a flaming sword in the center inlaid with gold. Torches are also associated with the Order. Symbolically, torches represent the fire that purifies evil.
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The cool night air hung over the Order of the Golden Flame safehouse, seeping through the cracks in the windows and causing the flames dancing in the fireplace to flicker slightly. Around the massive wooden table, five hooded figures gathered, their faces obscured by shadows.
“Andrev,” Paskell said, his voice deep and gravelly, “she is a disheveled and always hungry woman, dressed heavily no matter the weather, with brown hair held back by a thin leather thong. Her amber eyes glow with joy most of the time. She believes the world must come together to rid itself of evil once and for all. “It is a threat that must be eliminated. It has been moving in the shadows, feeding on the ignorance of good people, and with each passing day, its influence grows stronger.”
"He's been meeting with his 'friends' in an old tavern on the outskirts of town," added Marc'harid, a middle-aged half-elf who wears a mix of clothes and, depending on the season, will wear even more layers of different clothes continuously. His hair is always cut short. His green eyes dart to random spaces in the air, always searching for something. He's a supremacist due to his elven ancestry, although he's not a pure elf, he's a coward and always attacks from the shadows. His eyes glow with an intensity that contrasted with the darkness of the room. "There, he plans his next steps, we fear he's preparing for something terrible." "The information we've received indicates that he's using magic on people, enchanting them," said Tréphina, her voice soft but full of unshakable authority. She wears a black collared shirt and a blue skirt. She accessorizes with a gray scarf around her waist and a diagonal strip on her blouse. She has blonde hair in a pixie cut. She's a woman with a huge range of feelings. She goes from being happy and joking with the occasional self-deprecation to crying, stating how she will be a better person from this day forward. She doesn’t mind the isolation, but she doesn’t hate company and tries to welcome it as best she can. “If it’s true, he needs to be neutralized as soon as possible. We can’t risk him using his powers to spread chaos and destruction.”
“We need to proceed with caution,” warned Ioena, the youngest of the group but no less shrewd, an imposing woman with a heavy frame, she wears custom-made plate armor adorned with beige lining and desert motifs. Her red hair is tied in a tight ponytail with a dried green ribbon in a bow knot. Her eyes are equally blue. Her teeth are yellow and misaligned. She misses her glory days with her family on the farm. She doesn’t care about her work, but she does miss the peace and a simpler life with less death and blood. "He is cunning and dangerous. One mistake could cost us dearly. We must be prepared for anything."
"I agree," said Morgan, the calmest of the group, but with an unwavering determination, a middle-aged man, he wears yellow robes with leather shoulder pads. Though he occasionally wears more armor. He prefers to carry a bow, but if one is unavailable he will use his scimitar, which he treats better than his women. His hair, though still brown, has prominent gray streaks. He is missing an eye, and his face is severely sunburned. His one remaining eye glows blue. He is almost overly polite to everyone, even when angry. He is a font of random tidbits of lore and the stories he has uncovered. "But we cannot allow him to remain free. He must be cleansed."
"We have a plan," Paskell announced, gesturing to a map that lay on the table. "We will wait for him to leave the tavern, after he has separated from his friends. We will purify him and take his remains to the Order's headquarters, where he will be sent to the great void for his crimes."
"We must act quickly," said Tréphina. "He cannot be left to grow stronger. His powers are growing by the day and he becomes more dangerous."
Stolen story; please report.
"We will enter the tavern and arrest him," said Ioena, her eyes shining with determination.
"No. Many people, his friends, can help, even though I doubt it, we must be prepared for anything. Best to catch him when he is alone." "He will not stand a chance," said Paskell, his voice firm. "The Order of the Golden Flame does not fail. We have defeated evil before, and we will do so again."
"Then let us begin," Marc'harid concluded, his eyes fixed on the map. "Andrev's time has come to an end today."
The shadows moved in the room, and the inquisitors stood, ready to carry out their mission. The fight against evil was about to begin.
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The smell of rain and damp stone permeated the cold air of Lundine. Andrev, with his black hood covering his face, ran through the dark and labyrinthine streets of the imperial city, the sound of his footsteps echoing in the narrow alleys. The pursuit was relentless, the voices of the purists and their hunters echoed behind him, like hungry wolves searching for their prey.
"Stop! Little Seed of Evil! You will not escape!" The hoarse voice of the leader of the purists echoed through the streets, mixing with the sound of his heavy footsteps. Andrev, his heart pounding in his chest, increased his pace, his eyes searching for an exit.
"Why are you persecuting me?" She murmured to herself, her voice trembling. "What have I done to deserve this?"
He did not know the reason for the persecution. He lived a quiet life, practicing his magic discreetly, petty crimes in secret. But suddenly, the city became a hunting ground, people disappeared in the middle of the night and now he was one of them, the target.
"He's there! Don't let him escape!" A hunter's voice rang out, and Andrev felt a chill run down her spine. She knew she couldn't afford to hesitate.
"No!" He shouted, with a strength that surprised even herself. "I won't surrender!"
He turned sharply, his eyes shining with an unearthly intensity. With a quick gesture, she summoned a thick, opaque fog that spread across the streets, obscuring the vision of her pursuers.
"Where is he?" The voice of the leader of the purists rang out, full of anger and frustration. "He can't have disappeared like that!"
Andrev, using the fog as a shield, continued to run, his heightened senses picking up every noise, every movement. He knew he couldn't afford to miss.
"He's close! I can smell him!" A hunter's voice rang out, and Andrev felt a shiver of fear. He knew he couldn't hide forever. He took a deep breath, concentrating all his energy on a single point. With a quick gesture, she summoned a beam of pure energy, which tore through the mist and struck the ground, creating a smoking crater. Two incinerated bodies fell to the ground.
"Damn you!" The leader of the purists shouted, his eyes full of fury. "You will not escape!"
Andrev, tired and still in panic, disappeared into the mist, leaving behind the smell of sewage from the streets, burning flesh, and the confusion of his pursuers. He knew the chase would not end, but he would not let himself be captured. He was a survivor and would fight for his freedom until the end. He entered an abandoned building and crossed several rooms and corridors, gaining distance from his pursuers. As he crossed one of the building's corridors, he felt a deep pain in his stomach and with a thud he fell to the ground. From the shadows, one of the purists appeared in the blink of an eye. He looks at Andrev, lying on the ground while wiping the blade of his rondel with a cloth.
“A guardian, vigilant and strong, will prevent the bad seed from finding luck. With firm hands, he pulls it from the ground and prevents it from growing, from spreading its affliction.
The fertile soil, a cradle of life, will not be contaminated, hope will not die. The bad seed, in its contained rot, will find no place to grow, in the pure land of the righteous.” Says Marc'harid.
Andrev, feeling his life slipping away, thinks. What did I do wrong?
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The Order of the Golden Flame’s safe house, normally a haven of peace and strategy, was filled with a charged atmosphere. The scent of fresh blood hung in the air, mingling with the scent of medicinal herbs and the woodsy smell of the fireplace.
Paskell, Marc, and Tréphina gathered around a makeshift bed, where Ioena and Morgan, both dead, were being revived by a healer from the Order. Paskell’s expression was one of restrained fury, his eyes dark and piercing.
“He fought back,” Paskell said, his voice hoarse with anger. “He fought with a strength we didn’t expect. He used magic stronger than the scouts reported. A stupid mistake.”
“He almost killed us,” Marc’harid muttered, his voice thick with a fear he tried to hide. “I hate summoners.”
“He was prepared,” Tréphina said, her voice low and strained. "A normal person wouldn't memorize a destructive damage spell in a civilized city. But we managed to stop him from escaping." "He's dead," Paskell said, his voice unmistakably tinged with frustration. "But the price was high. Ioena and Morgan...they were killed, too." "I shouldn't have let my guard down," Ioena said, her voice weak but firm. "He tricked me with a mist spell." "He also caught me with the mist," Morgan said, his voice hoarse with pain. "We shouldn't have let him get his magic in, we should have given him space, a classic, basic mistake, never far from a magic user," Marc'harid said, his eyes fixed on Ioena and Morgan. "He was a danger, and now we're safe from the harm he could do." "That's all I can take comfort in," Paskell said, his voice firm. "We will deliver his soul to the void. And when we do, he will have no chance."
"Yes, his death will be final," Tréphina said, her voice thick with determination. "He will pay for what he has done."
"He will pay," Ioena said, her voice weak but filled with anger. "He will pay for hurting my friends."
"He will pay," Morgan said, her voice hoarse but firm. "He will pay for defying the Order of the Golden Flame."
The shadows moved in the room, and the inquisitors stood, their faces etched with fury and determination, staring at Andrev's body, waiting for the healer to revive their friends and then purge the rotten soul of the evil spawn.
Tréphina, her voice soft and low. “What was this one’s alignment, again?”
“Lawful Evil.” Paskell says as if spitting.