There was once a man, and he had an idea. His name was Hans Schmiddtt, and one day, over a mug of something non-alcoholic, lightning struck. After he returned from the hospital, he informed those around him of a great and mighty idea, and the return of a name. The Flitzengibbits.
Silence was his answer, understandably.
After some research in the local library, he came up with absolutely nothing. In the process of putting a book back on a particularly high shelf, when by the luck of fates, the ladder tipped over and sent Hans sprawling. When he came to, there was a book on his face, and it held the answer he was looking for. There, between teupelo and tunnage, was the word.
Running back to his group, he found them more willing to call themselves that instead of Flitzengibbits. It was also easier to spell on a waiver. Things were working out, cruising along quite nicely, when trouble reared it's ugly head. Well, it was not ugly, but it was uninvited, and it ate all the Pringles.
We had to have leadership, and a code, and a heraldry, and a theme song, and all kinda of other things that were needed to make a group into a fighting company. Oh, and the ability to fight, but that was not a problem for the first Teutonics, so they did not let that slow them dowm. But the other stuff had to be handled, along with getting gas money out of the head that was drinking it as a chaser to it's JD. Let's face it, most Amtgardians don't have alot of cash handy to just feed trouble when it shows up.
In steps Sir Graylin, Knight accomplice, and everything fell in place. They got a theme song, some nifty tabards with a big black cross as a target on them to wear, something called a Codex, and a restraining order on trouble. And on the eighth day, Sir Graylin stood back, and was pleased. Then he made a bet, and vanished from the face of the earth.
The Lord Richard Foxtwychin stepped up to the bat, and proceeded to stemroll over everyone there, taking command and basically acting like a pretentious snot over everyone. Actually, he was doing a good job, but you know how that bad press can color a career. To this day, he swears he was nowhere near Golgotha at the time, but that is no matter.
The members' numbers increased, and there was bound to be trouble when that happened. People yelled favoritism and double dealing, and the whole Company has had to struggle to return to it's proper place in the lime light. With some judicious pruning, and a little torture, the Company is once again in fighting fit, ready to take it's place on the field of battle once more.
And if you believe this, you'll believe anything. Actually, I have to interrogate Baron Hans Schmiddtt and Lord Richard Foxtwychin to get the real story, but some of this was true. You get to guess which parts. Until then, enjoy the spurious history of the Teutonics.
