[!]

Scattered around the port held by Murkwater, Lumbridge, and scattered elsewhere came yet another declaration.

THE ORACLE HAS SPOKEN

COMETH FORTH THE ERA OF THE UNHERALDED

Well, look at that, you made a small grouping of weakling vampires and acolytes run. You let those learning have a taste for blood, and you burnt down a shrine to a man long departed.  

You should be so very proud. 

Be proud of your feeble victory, after all, you’ve butchered what is the equivalent of children and toddlers. Fledglings upon a path of ascension and growth. You butcher lowly acolytes still learning, Draugar still mastering their craft, and simple vampires seeking understanding.

Yet what did we lose?

A structure, a banner, a portrait? All things that can be built upon, better and stronger than prior. I must say, I ultimately thank you for the killing of those weaklings, for you’ve provided something that can only be experienced through violence and true wickedness. 

A Desire to Grow

So, you seek conflict? Wonderful, your tactics are so wonderful indeed, for they are exactly the same tactics I would utilize. You strike when we are wandering, you combat us when we are focusing on other matters, and you torment the most humble of our covenant. 

So nothing stops us from doing the same. 

You should aim to tell us beforehand when you intend to strike, after all, these fights have proven so equal as of recent. It took five of you, with Thanium blades, to even compete with me and my simple servants. It truly makes me wonder. 

Do you rally out of righteousness? 

Or

Do you rally out of fear?

I’ll be seeing you soon no doubt, perhaps I’ll even supply your forces with some brews and weapons. After all, I never discriminate against potential clients and buyers. 

Hazk al'durngo grael, narn thur ithurzu sethorek

Hail the Black Sun, for its Light Guides

Within the wilds of the realm, near heartlands and haunted human lands, a shrine of bone and ruined stone rested. Acting as a place of communion for the lost, and curious. Rumors on the wind, from ghosts to ghouls, whispered an offer to the curious and crude. A hymn, acting as a gilded offer, for those who wished to refine their very crafts and skills. 

Wanderers far and wide all seek something

Some desire riches, more than they will use in their single lifetime

Some seek power, yet lack a vessel worthy of claiming such

While others seek knowledge, that which even the wise warn against. 

So, why not claim it all? Strike a deal, make a bargain, trade with the greatest traders of them all

After all, coin is just as valuable as a corpse.

*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 shuddered. 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

A Wildwynns Welcome

8th of the Grand Harvest, 178 SA

A Sole Grave Day

That was the allotted time I waited before I received word from the former Herald, who to the fellow artisans who tread upon our path of Umbrage, relinquished his holdings in Lumbridge and titles. The title of this enkindled path, now passed properly onto myself. 

To Malag the Reborn,  in particular. The former Herald of Umbrage, let me make it perfectly known to the world within this letter; that I bear respect to your choice in this matter. Should you ever seek scholarly insight, work of worth, or merely desire a duel of deals. Know that your presence is welcome within my halls of gold and umbral fire, and your wisdom on how to not repeat past mistakes, greeted with open arms.

With this new title, comes a new vested power, and a required task of myself to uphold. The task of unification. For as the start of this Renaissance began with Soul and Bone, so shall it continue to be such. Thus I cordially invite all who share this same path, to my dominion of Minas Mordren. Whether you seek to understand my ideals for the future, challenge the prospect of my claim, or merely satisfy the curiosity as to who I am. I welcome you all to my halls of gilded stone, and unhallowed flame.  

Radiant is the Black Sun, and Enlightening is the Grim Renaissance

Signed

 Reynard Delmar, Lord of Crows, Herald of Umbrage

13th of the First Seed, Year 178 SA

Dear Denizens of Aevos

As many of you have come to know, we of Murkwater are a folk who value coin and clear cut deal over religion. For greed bears its merits, it brings a common honor, and understanding of personal want and growth. Yet there are other paths, other ideals that share this model. 

Take for example, the Path of Umbrage. The Sacred way of the Old Dark, that for near half a century now, has come to be spread in a diminished setting. Its words not made manifest, its ideals of expansion and magical renaissance. Not made manifest, for its herald lays languishing. Idle as one can be, and without proper vision for the future.

The title of Herald of Umbrage, has been left destitute and lacking. Those who practice such, and those who learn from its teachings, left lost or worse. Doing nothing. It is why I, a wanderer who sees not through the lenses of zealotry, but through the gaze of an artisan. It is as an artisan, and wielder of the Darkened Art. That I take back that, which has been left in the hands of the Mystics. Whereby the title, Herald of Umbrage, returns to those who innovate and expand that very original art. 

It is with such, that I challenge you, Aranur. For the very title you bear, that which is the Herald of Umbrage. I give you a single Grave Week to respond to this challenge, otherwise I shall take this title, and use it to forge a more radiant future for my craft and kin. 

Let our Renaissance begin

Signed 

Reynard Pharamir Delmar, The Lord of Crows

9th of the Grand Harvest, 175 SA

[!]This letter would be sent to all members of the Murkwater Merchant Company, Allies,  in addition to the Duke of Brabant. 

Dear Members of Murkwater, Allies, and the Mortal Duke. 

It is with great pain that we come to tell you all, that  the former student, the Vicar - Franz Kossuth, or Tallinn Tordove. Has failed us, his  attempted plots have failed, he has wasted resources, aided our enemies through his own lack of foresight. In the result of his ire against the mortals, he has chosen to forgo the importance of our current goals. Our current aspirations, and expansion in domains that have long since been lost. 

Thus it is with, annoyance, that we take away the titles  bestowed upon him. His titles of the council; revoked, his permissions to plan conflict; revoked, his ownership over his own grouping; revoked. Dissolved into the holdings of the Murkwater Merchant Company. Should those that held business with such an entity wish to discuss, so shall it be done in person. There is no honor, in a deal not upheld.

To the Mortal Duke in particular; we will not revoke your plaything, for we believe you a worthy nemesis for the child known as the Vicar. You may keep your personal little battle, at the cost however, of a lessened interaction of our Company. The resources of Murkwater, departing from the Vicar, until he has proven himself worthy of holding such resources once more. 

Hazk al'durngo grael, narn thur ithurzu sethorek

Hail the Black Sun, for its Light Guides

Signed