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THE SAKI-GAKI FLOWER FESTIVAL Issued from the Flower Capital of Sakuragakure Year of the Nezumin, 178 SA In honor of the coming Spring and the thawing of woeful times, Saki-Gaki is pleased to announce its first FLOWER FESTIVAL. With great reverence for Tamo-Tamo, the village shall provide an endless stream of Sake and Grub, courtesy of the Grub Bucket. The Village too shall be decorated colorfully with the hues of Sakura and Wisteria, as to honor the Lady, Chiyoko. Additionally, there shall be an assortment of activities for both locals and foreigners to partake in. 1. Kimono Sō: Ladies of Sakuragakure, and abroad, are invited to showcase their finest floral Kimonos; it is recommended that they reflect the colors of Spring. A panel of judges shall award the finest Kimono with 200 Mon. 2. Haiku-Taikai: The finest poets of Saki-Gaki, and the World, are invited to compete against one another with rounds of Haiku. Those who recite the most elegant words shall be awarded the title of “Haiku-Ō”, or King of Haikus. 2. Hana-Zumo: As is customary of the Village, a tournament of Sumo shall be held about the City Center. Each wrestler shall be given a flower to represent, and they who win it all shall have their flower planted about the city! It shall be our greatest hope that no wicked creature accosts this Springtime festival in some damnable display. As is the season, any who would attempt to trample upon life shall feel the wrath of the thawing Sun. It is also noted that visitors are expected to follow the laws of Koyo-Kuni, lest they face the wrath of the Samurai. NAMU MYOHŌ KANI KYO, UGOKOYAMA DANZEN the Oni Slayer, Jūshoku of Nichi-Jin Temple, Legendary Sanbushi, Yobushi of Machiman and Samurai of Koyo-Kuni.

The Nevaehlite goblin Gul'ash peered over the missive with a raised brow that soon settled into a frown. "Int-uhr-est-eeng. To mayke such choize een our nayme weethout blahing to dey rezt ub dey Vahle, ohr kall for agh mooht evun to propurli diskuss eet beefohre bring-eeng eet into dey world. Mi do nub ztand for such." The goblin took in a deep breath, calming herself before pondering the missive some time longer. "Dough if dey blah een eet am true deyn mi kan undurztand if doze ub uz dat wehnt do nub wish to go animohre. Mi should ub been deyr to mayke sure nub such theeng happuned... or bohre witnuss to eet agh mayke dey zayme choize az deym. guess mi weehl peep neckst tik."

Ardaric a Keeper of Xan frowns as he reads the missive, he'd fold it and keep it close for now. "I will do what I can to mend this. A rope cut in half, when tied together again only draws its ends closer. Unity or death.." Thusly, the Paladin set off to the Vale to speak of the present, and a future not yet set in stone..

Dyonne Alusa's eyes rove over the pamphlet Avyndriel gives her, a deep frown spreading across her face. "How dare this outsider speak for our people as a whole! And so publicly no less. I will need to sit down with Nenar about this little friend of hers and about making such sweeping decisions for Nevaehlen without consulting anyone at all." She looks up at the Sun Druid, her expression having calmed. "Please reach out to your contacts among the Order of Xan, and quickly. I would like to make some clarifications with them. Be his ire justified or not, they should know this letter comes from no desk of ours."

Ludmilla of Velec, Adrian rebel turned Deathmancer, bowed fore the bone throne. Her teacher was now King, and their port was now Kingdom.

A certain Oyashiman whose gaunted and horrific body dwelled away from civilization crept a smile. Wherever she was, she knew that her teacher, Minas-sama would ascend and show them all how they were mistaken. Alas, it was not her time to witness his unholy glory. Not yet.

Ashes spewed across the distant valleys and peaks of the Synod's lair. "And thus begins an era anew."

An Abyssal Ascension *The Events of this are not public, those there may properly respond to the events* Held within the frail digits of that Delmar, rested a blackened ivory elven skull. Aurum lined its crevices, as though it was light trying to break from the dismal dark. Implanted within the sockets, rested two fiery gems. Much akin to that old elfs aura, it instead was but a distant reminder of the potential that had been lost. “I slaughtered all of Mordrings finest Wraiths, and this is what he brought instead?” The words of that wielder of shadowed light hung heavy in his mind. A bubbling broiling thing, coming to befall the Lord of Minas Mordren. The cold waves of that ocean sea before him, acting as something to sober him from his lucid thoughts. “Did you feel the fear of your ancestors?” The words of that letter still ran red in his mind, that anger of his starting twist, malform and grow into something caustic. A fabled fury he seldom displayed, as he made his way back in through the ports. He knew what was to be done, what was to be gained, and what was to be lost. "PAMPO PERA! KING BENEATH, MORDRING! SHOULD MY WORDS REACH YOUR EARS, I BESEECH FOR MEETING!” It was a wicked thing, the empty silence that followed, not unlike that of what had occurred in the lands of the Abyss. His fury only bubbled over, for as the gates slowly rise, so too did his steps quicken. It was almost too quick, his steps almost causing him to stumble over the blackened steps. Another ragged breath taken in, as he felt the common aching of those old bones of his. “Damn It, Curse it all, this body of mine.” He would huff, though he knew very well why he remained in it, despite its deteriorating state. Just from his time in the abyss, he knew that his bones were slowly becoming weaker. He hated it, with every fiber of his being, he reviled the thought. Years of harsh conditions had led it to gain imperfections of its own. It had all become so much The Emissary of the King Beneath had come, and more so had learned of what was to occur. The summoning of that blade, the reveal of what the warrior of light wielded. It was all so peculiar and so enlightening. Yet it was also infuriating, time after time had they been lacking, their risks leading to little return. So he spoke, he told that great dark lord of his ideas, of where to expend his resources. All was discussed, and all was promised, until conversations were paused. A command given to the old Mortal Gravelord. “Follow Us” The merchant paused, surprised at the request, but not at all unwilling. The two of them, mortal and exalted undead, side by side through the frozen landscape. They made their way to the home of the Xionist sect of Ember. His steps slowly trending upwards into the upper loft of the church, being guided to the tower's ritualistic communing room. The communing artifact, laid upon a pillow of black satin, ready for him to grasp. So he grasped it He felt himself falling, departing and tumbling into a realm of darkness. His hands splayed across the pitch black sands, as he arrived upon the pillar of Aegisan stone. A great voice of death and decay, rumbling forth for all to hear, and most certainly that Delmar. "What brings you here” The adunic merchant slowly lifted upwards, struggling to stand, though he feigned strength towards those undying around him.His voice a thing of harsh and ashen tone, strained by wheezing breaths. He explained then, in baited breath the plight of their time in his realm. The slaughter of students and allies. He explained the proposition of pooling his power into the few, rather than the many. He explained it all, how to funnel strength, to hone that which could grow through his facilitation. It was all so hopeful, the bastard royal hardly thought that he would listen, and perhaps offer a laugh. That was until that offer sprung forth from the King Beneath. “We cannot offer you boons of greater undeath, not in your current state Delmar.” The words hung heavy in the air, yet what came next, perhaps was what truly shocked that Mortal Gravelord. “If given the chance, would you claim your Birthright?” The undead chanted, the cries to claim his place amongst them made manifest. The conflict that bore in his mind, of taking that spot of ascension. Yet he knew the truth, of what was to be done, and what had to be done. He had to Ascend “Only by your hand shall I accept such a change. If Fate motes you to mold me anew, then Mote it Be!” The words had spoken, another travel planned, one much more swift. A trek back to a home of frozen oceans, and aurum walls. A home that he had built with his own two hands, of calloused flesh, and tanned skin. A realm he had built, as a dynasty for the undying. It was only right, he had cultivated the tree. It was only right he was allowed to enjoy the fetid fruit. It wasn’t until the moon showed high in the sky, and the halls of Lumbridge shook and shook. It wasn’t until the mountains shook, and the northern peaks trembled. With the fabric of space torn itself apart, he felt that breach of mortal might make itself manifest. He felt the call, the realization of what he was to do. Lost in his own thoughts, the voice of the Lich Wight spoke to him from across those long pews. “Do you, Reynard Delmar, hold any last words?” That dastardly dealer of the damned, scryer of the beyond and cuthroat merchant. He had long feared the change, long sought out ways to prolong it. Yet in such actions, he had drawn closer to his own death day. The pain of his being, had long entered his being. The accelerated age and constant toil in faux mortality, making him all but a mockery to mortal life. His gaze of two golden coins, turned back one last time to gaze upon those who watched him take the first steps. Each gaining an inkling, an understanding of what was to be. They all looked, bated breath about them. Each face, an inspiring soul for that long living mortal. His gaze slowly turned to look upon the Lich-Wight. A smile, grand and welcoming, gracing the undead. “Why waste my time on last words, when the first are what to come?” The Gravelords hand was lifted upwards, a blade of blighted steel seen, a dagger presented before the mad merchant. His two golden eyes looked upon it, a shaky breath given. Shaky breath, it was a wonder to truly think, the last breath that filled his long aged death. “So Mote it be” The Emissary gathered the reagents, the flickering tones of occult light shining before the grouping of Mystics, Necromancers, and various undead. They all hung upon the actions of that adunian, that withered old merchant. Where perhaps fear, or anguish, should have escaped the merchant of Mali’dun people. Instead, a single smug phrase was returned in kind. “So Mote it Be!” It was the stench of iron that filled the air. The lingering moments of a pained existence, as the memories of his life as a living man flashed before his eyes. He saw that of his once partner, the woman that had shown a chance for a new life. He recounted his son, the child that would perhaps lead to his clan's downfall, or continued grace. Yet none grew more fervent, then the faces of his enemies. The ones that had scorned him, the ones that had made their bed with the likes of the Light. They all showed upon his mind, and each held a place for what was to be. A merchant, a royal, a bastard. Killed was that mortal soul Yet risen, a figure of auric lifeforce, and blackened bone. A spirit of bone, that was exalted in soul A Lord of Blackened Sun & Eternal Sight A Gravelord crowned with the name Kryndomere OOC Note

One of the Vale's Vigilants - their guiding elders - would perk a brow upon reading this missive, "I understand this is coming from those we have brought forth to aid in our defences against the Harrowers, but I do not understand how they are making these large statements without addressing the rest of us? I do not recall anyone seeking a moot among us elders, nor among the Vale as a whole?" The sunlit elfess would scratch her head, hoping these lack of communications wouldn't have dire consequences on the rest of her community unaffiliated with such events. She turned then to her luminous companion, offering the missive across @Candle

"No codex, no creed, only Xan. Hail the SUNLIT LORD!" Called some zealot near the hearth of his camp, still in recovery from the fight. "We will see if this new age brings stagnation, 'the sun rises and the sun sets'.."

Cathan stared at the sky where the comets had rained down. They said it had indicated the sun had not set. But he had seen the failures. He had seen the loss of life by failed knightly command structure. The sun had set on the dream of the Knights who defended the land. If Aurea could build another one, based on the common soldiery that would garrison the land & integrate within the common society - there would be yet another rising of the sun. The Daelish Commandant no longer believed in the Knights of Xan, however.

Thinking. . . Thinking. . . Affirmative. "Contract termination voiding confirmed by present authority holder. Countermeasure devising has been approved so long as action is not taken. Potential operatives are being devised. Ordnance are being devised. Strategies are being devised. Intelligence is being compiled for future contacts." "Preparing. All. Outcomes."

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Father Nerium was already practicing drawing the [Cataclysm] runes atop a miniature of the Paladin keep when an aide brought him this missive. He threw the diorama into the nearby fireplace, whining aloud, "Are they not cooked yet, Auntie??"