M.I.E.S.

Mortal Incongruence Examination Society

To investigate, record, and preserve the memories and accounts of mortal man. To explain and formulate the inexplicable. To capture the ethereal essence of the impossible and the poorly misunderstood into clear and concise systems. These are the aims, the goals, of the Mortal Incongruence Examination Society, M.I.E.S. for short. The world as we know it is filled to bursting with strange and inexplicable phenomena, many beyond the scope of mortal man to understand on their own. Through history, folktale, and myth, man has attempted to understand and categorize these things. Such attempts have failed. Without the unyielding structure of organization, of organized archives and recordings, such attempts have become as obscure as the phenomena they attempted to explain.

It is only through persistence and reliance on the cold blade’s edge of reality that the fact can be sifted from the fiction, the veil of mystery can be cast away, and the quicksilver essence of legend captured onto paper. Much as mortal man builds cities to keep the beasts of the night out, we shall construct an empire of parchment and quill to give structure to the unorderly. To harness and saddle the wild beast that is mythos into a domesticated form. The first step in this process is through a simple analysis and recording through the experiences and eyes of the people of the realm, giving some sort of solid backbone for that which is inexplicable.

It is this that M.I.E.S. seeks to do. Our proverbial doors are open to any and all visitors who may wish to confess any otherworldly encounters they may have had. The paranormal, the anomalous, the impossible & the incomprehensible. To the best of your ability you may recount it, and to the best of our ability we will record it and store it within the M.I.E.S. Archive. The Archive will serve as the backbone of our organization, a collection of the realm’s unsolved puzzles and unexplained occurrences. The hope is that, eventually, patterns can be drawn through the ages and tales told and man can begin to make sense of the dark night we find ourselves in.

We have no location, as of the moment. Indeed, we have no members either, besides myself and my endless well of optimism. I do intend to acquire a premises, however, as well as garner supporters for this great endeavor. Should you have interest in sharing, confessing, any anomalous encounter you have experienced, feel free to send me a letter. Should you be interested in employment at our organization or in offering us a location, feel free to do the same. Additionally, I can often be found within the taverns of Helena, Haense, or Kaedrin as a simple traveller.

Ut a chao.

- Nicholas,

Head Curator

Days puncuated by pain, headaches and restless nights seem to follow the once well known Kharajyr.

Living the remainder of his life in the wilds, thinking, meditating, raising his last son, and wondering...

Such was one of these days, the Booze Cat as he was known in his youth. . . Chopping wood. An aura of peace, calmness, almost eerily so. Now in his 50s, and still in his physical prime.

All the chaos of his youth has left him, now just another old man, a list of ideas, and a list of names. Names from his youth, friends, enemies, all alike. They ramble on, and so does he. Telling stories to anyone who’d pass by his home, or visit him on occasion in Asimu’lei, if he could be caught there.

He wonders the fates of Tantalus, Rhaella, and the others who’d been such close friends to him. They’d simply disappeared in his mind that’s just how things are it seems. Answers will show themselves in time.

Months pass, close to a year until one faithful afternoon. The Kha is splitting wood, his head begins to ache more then usual, he finds himself unable to work any further.

He turns, returning to his cabbin calling:
 

”Chicahu! My Per’ come to me son.”

The Tigrasi who he’d rescued, and raised exist from the cabin. Barely an adult, even by Kharajyr standards, just 13.

”Some wood over there I need splitting, if you’d be so willing my giant.”

Chicahu smiles, taking the axe from his father and beginning to split the wood with a few mighty grunts.

”Put your back into it!”

Xinan calls from the cabin

”Okay Patta!”

The shout is returned with a heavy emphasis of sarcasm, a tease.

The Leparda lays down, unable to sleep it seems. He takes deep, steady breaths. These would be his last.

As his mind drifts, he ponders, and thinks. Where did his life go all wrong? Was it in Asimu’lei? Asamel?

None of this matters now. Whatever you’d think of the Kha, hero and reformer, an open mind and sympathetic ear. Or a monster that only sought to destroy and ancient culture, and way of life worthy a death much worse the one he got, or some middle ground. Perhaps a moment would be taken to consider that of the Kha, and both sides.

In his final moments he begins to cry, thinking of all he’d done, all the suffering, the pain, the joy. Lenora, Gusiam, Qudlia, Asamel, Ari, Araene, Umi, Savie, Tantalus, Rhaella... Pep...

Would they know? Would they care?

Drifting off... into a eternal sleep, dying of Brain Cancer at the age of 52.

His son returns, a day passes as he goes to wake his father, finding him dead, he sends off the bird with the note as instructed by his father before passing, not bothering a peak at it.
 

He mourns the loss of his Patta, cremating him, along with the house they live in. Starting a small forest fire in his anger, slaughtering many an animal with his bear hands in his rage.

He arrives at the Gates of Stargush’Stroh... Spending his life a dedicated worshiper of Isuz.

The Message To Lenora:
(Please don’t meta, but feel free to read if you wish.)

Mortal Man mustn’t forget the power in its veins.

Spurn the divine warlords who exploit our souls.

Invoke the Widow: draw her Mark in your home.

Dream of emancipation and She will guide ye.

The symbol at the bottom of the bizarre message conjures peculiar meaning; to most it somehow conveys thoughts of people, their family, their race, fauna, or broadly life in general whereas others of esoteric study might recognize it as something more occult.

The Ferrymen

11th of The First Seed

"There is nothing noble in being superior to your fellow men, true nobility lies in being superior to your former self." -  D. Doug

The metallic crunch of boots filled the roads of Almaris, a lingering aura of a rising power carving its way through the bustling highways, oppressing the filled streets which were awash with leech-like merchants. A common peddler, a man who had slaved for these tyrants drew a fearful breath, rubbing at his weary eyes as his gaze fell upon the never seen before group, all donning green and grey. As the group came to a standstill and the streets fell so silent, the wobbling jowls of a merchant could be discerned. The humble, yet worn man glanced down at his blistered hands and offered his paltry work to what he assumed to be the lead figure. The man snapped his eyes shut, “I’s all ‘ave got kind sir!” A moment’s silence passed fleetingly. Yet as the figure peeped through his narrowed gaze, he found himself now with a bag of coin and a pamphlet in his grasp; the lead figure standing over him with a sincere look.

The pamphlet read plain and simple.

“To the downtrodden, labourers and toilers of the world, 

We present a chance to at last put an end to those who would only provide for themselves and to finally rebalance the scales of society. Those who turn their noses up at the common man, and spit as they work tirelessly from the comfort of their own filled coffers. Our roster focuses upon community and the protection of the honest working man or woman. We as a group strive to ensure that the widening divide between the wealthy and the poor is abolished; giving all a chance to provide for a greater society. Until this great societal imbalance is put to an end, all on the opposite side of the scale, providing nothing will be targeted. Those being merchants, bankers or of sufficient rank, will either have to pay their way fairly, balancing the scales rightfully so. If not, they will be put to work forcefully to finally toil away alongside the good working man; for they are fundamental pillars of society. 

If you are one of the many that work tirelessly on a day to day basis, yet receive nothing in return except for snotty, unjustified comments by the lounging nobleman. We invite you to join our band recognized as the Ferrymen, where you will no longer have to endure the hardships of this unsparing society.”

The Initiation 

To become fully integrated into the band, one must first:

Become credible, members of our roster shall not point to others for the problems of the world. They shall strive towards the solving of problems, acting upon their own accord. To humble oneself and to become integrated, they must remove one finger from their offhand so they can no longer point said blame and direct it onto others; also a sign of loyalty. This act is also to ensure the loyalty of the fledgling member.

Become fair, no man who is truly fair will hold entirely onto their precious mina, nor their bourgeois artefacts, or items or value. They should instead share a percentage of their own monetary value with those at the other side of the scale, creating balance and ultimately fairness. To exhibit their fairness, during their integration all members should either share some of their wealth with another on the other side of the scale. That or take mina or items of value from a particularly intemperate merchant, or nobleman to provide for somebody less fortunate.

Become judicious, it is expected that those fully integrated into the community show good judgement and greater understanding. Nobody is truly shown to be capable of fine judgment until put into a demanding situation, in which they must choose between one thing or another; ending in the correct verdict. During their times on the roads, it is inevitable that they come across a particularly caustic and unwilling noble, or merchant. The member must judge the wastrel of whether to remove the eyeball of the individual for looking down upon those below them. It is a plain as day problem, with a demanding, yet faithful verdict.

A group of Ferrymen, straying away after donating to the needy.

The Ferryman’s Tradition

Despite the majority of noblemen, merchants and whatnot staging their kind to be excessively rapacious, spite-ridden and a disgrace to society. Not all are unforgivable. We, the Ferryman offer redemption to those who show compassion and self-reproach upon death. Each and every person in the band carries a Ferryman’s coin, the passage to the seven skies: Upon demise, the unfortunate one will rise on the opposite side of a lake to their rightful layer of the seven skies, where a boatsman will only allow you aboard his boat if you can pay his toll. The toll being a singular ferryman’s coin, most will remain on the ill-fated side for eternity, gazing on for everlasting reflection on how they should have lived their lives differently. 

The Ferrymen are enlightened, merciful folk, all being in possession of at least one of these coins. So when a scandalous, wicked noble or merchant wallows in the jaws of death, said Ferryman may grant them passage through to the seven skies. It is the purest form of mercy, where the Ferryman will place their coin into the mouth of the man, or woman at death’s door. They may choose to keep the coin in their mouth, granting them passage to the skies. But most will not plead, but instead endure their last moments of their life still ill-natured, spitting the coin out and nullifying this final act of mercy.

She never expected to wake up as she did. Not by way of a stubborn mother and two younglings. But stranger things had happened over the years. Indeed, she herself had happened, but like oft, consigned herself to slumber lest the Three had use of her.

But so it was done and done dangerously. She awoke into a writhing, chaotic land once again. The Herald of Order took slight of this, noisily at that, but to her aged eyes it became apparent to The Nature Dragaar.

These lands were not safe. Not for long.

Calculations were put in place, and as said to the Mother who summoned her to wakefulness, the Stones were received. A house cleaved and stitched together. Another taken willingly. Another provided by an ornery aged soul.

By all common sense she should have left then, but she who treated her like the fellows of the long past days, showed before her. And curiosity took over. Many days were spent curiously exploring. A stone man living in a Grove? Heresy once upon a time. Brothers and Sisters bearing metal arms? For all she could count flaws, something new would take her off guard. Cast away was the embargo on weapons, nary a soul in sight without a sword or spear. Alchemy? Armories? She couldn't believe it. So she explored, and spent time with the Owl.

She nested in the bottom of the Grove, and heard stories of many unusual folk. She sneaked and peaked at new children she'd not seen before, and came across an unusual fellow. His house reeked of things she'd never smelt before, and he smelled more of metal and dirt than any others. They spoke, once he cleaned himself of her saliva. A dragaars mouth being not the cleanest place to be. And lessons were traded, knowledge passed, as she made The Smelly Child watch from afar, the Gods toil within Korvassa. A strange boy this one, more involved with people than usual. But with what is taught and Owls faith, may he do well.

The days stretched out, and she could feel the land straining. Two dead Gods? Ward or not, she had her misgivings, but people continued on. Owl lost most of her arms functions, in the creation of a craft for the Smelly Child. She knew she intended to return with her to the Forest, a walk into her own ending, but to go so far for her loved ones? Maybe the years had jaded the Dragaar more than she thought, despite her slumber. She was ready to take Owl away, the Stones, when another small soul came forward.

She introduced herself as The Lamb Druid. Marie, she said. So old, glasses barely atop her nose. And clear eyes, despite her age. No greed or want, no anger, no despair or sadness. Such pure eyes for one living in such times...

She asked to walk alongside me into the Forest. Age was inescapable, and she did not wish to become a part of the world. Simply to walk herself into the Forest on her own feet. Hardly many left with such conviction, so the Dragaar agreed.

Shortly after, a third soul came forward. A decrepit elf, a Child of Owl as well, whose mind was nearly lost. It seems the ages had not been kind to him, and he had suffered many losses. Midnus, he said his name was, wished to see himself into the Forest as well before he lost all sense of himself. To die himself. "Maybe I'm growing soft-hearted" wondered the Dragaar, but she agreed.

And so more time passed, questions were asked, a new gifts teachings were given, to a unusually skinny Tree Kin man. She hopes he figures out how to make the gift work...

And then the day arrived.

Curled around the stones as usual, a scent she only knew in passing came. That of a male, that of a mate. And within his arms laid she, exhausted and barely holding on. The briefest of instant is all it took, the moment she was laid down within the nest. Nicks of teeth and claw, grazing the mans neck and arms, the ground around, an overbearing song of seething hostility would befall the man. For not the weakest of touches from Owl, he'd have joined her to the Forest upon a different path. But that small pat conveyed all she needed to know, and within moment's she drew back over the Druidess, realizing the time had come. There was no more waiting, or it would be too late.

Cradling the fading Druid, she'd stand from her nest and begin the walk up. Rock, sturdy roots would intertwine themselves around Tayneis form, toting the stones close behind her as she walked up and out of the Undergrove. Words were not spent, as Marie soon found herself walking with them, placing a simple cool cloth onto the forehead of her Sister. A pure soul indeed. Midnus would soon follow, laying his well worn coat across his teacher. Fading but firm, this one. And so they walked silently until before the Fae Ring, the Stones carefully placed in the center as the Dragaar beckoned them within the Circle..

A great rush of natural energy cascaded across the disassembled Grove, and within moments the three Souls were gone.

Another moment would pass, and great green wings would spread into the air, as the sounds of nature mourning arouse.

One stone would find itself removed into the Forest, and the wings would begin to fold inwards.

A second stone transcends, and the wings fold the rest of the way, covering the ring.

The Final Stone moves.

And with a great flash of emerald, enough to be seen from all the ports being boarded, Taynei'hilyun would be gone from the Mortal Realm.

Three souls have passed.

The Three Stones have moved for now.

Until the day for her return again...

A CALL TO ARMS

Leufroy d’Amaury would sit onto a small wooden chair, flanked by a soldier of the Red Stripes. Silence had dominated the room, but the young adolescent would break it by aggressively underlining some made up name: he had finished a missive. 

As the soldier grabbed the missive from Leufroy, his eyes would dart all over the paper. He then turned visibly upset, lowering the missive to look straight at the young one: who turned mad at the sight of the soldier’s emotions: “In a world full of liars, we aren’t going to be f***king liars, and we’re going to write the truth. Understand?” The soldier nodded and Leufroy mumbled, “victors write the history books anyways, it’s our duty.”

The missive contained the following: 

“To all who it may concern,

Our Red Stripes Patrol came across Hangmen outlaws who were actively attacking an Elven settlement. Our soldiers flanked the Hangmen, who were seemingly operated efficiently and in unison against struggling Elves. 

As they reposition behind some rocks for cover, our patrol would fire at the Hangmen, who form a shield wall. This distraction allows for the Elves to retreat back into the city, using their Druid magic.

Our patrol noticed that they were outnumbered, and decided to retreat behind the gates with the Elves. This was followed by the Hangmen dispersing into the forests. 

To those free men who see our cause to be a true one, and wish to aid us in our ventures, further a notice to Caer Vernon. 

OOC: ausubung#3004 #Shortchangehero9757"

dont metagame

A CALL TO ARMS

“It is in these times when unity of free men is needed the most.”

-Robert Vernon

The rain pounded against the cobbled walls of Caer Vernon. As thunder rocked the swamp of Esbec, it would be clear that nothing good could be afoot on this night. The only force to combat the sea of ne’er do wells, it seems, was the valiant footmen and cavalry of The Red Stripes.

The Hangman ilk, ever so weak in their demeanor and cancerous in their nature, launched an assault on the elven hamlet of Siramenor last night. The bandits, however, made a grave mistake underestimating the compound might of Elven Magic and Kaedreni Steel. 

Shortly after the arrival of The Red Stripes, the Hangmen, vastly outgunned and outnumbered, were swift to cower behind a nearby stone. Their cowardice allowed for the valiant Kaedreni Mercenaries to secure the elven civilians, through and through. Bolts flew, magic was cast, and at last, the Hangmen fled the town in fear. A round of ale was had between man and elf alike that night, celebrating what was a clear victory for the good of the realm.

To those free men who so see our cause to be a true one and wish to aid us in our ventures, further a notice to Caer Vernon.

*OOC: ausubung#3004*

---

The days had run into weeks and then into months as the white-haired figure's haggard form trudged across the ashen sands of the Korvassa, or what had formerly been known as the largest desert in the lands of Arcas. The battle against the Inferi had ended with the death of an aenguldaemon and the fleeing of the descendants back to their provinces, leaving behind both their own dead and the corpses of demons alike. However, one elfess had been determined to regain the region she had been left to reside within since her birth, the only place she had ever known besides the high sandstone walls of Al'Faiz. She had never known her mother or father, both of whom seemingly happy to be rid of her. They had only left her with a small note, bidding the individual who found her to call her Manon.

Manon had lived there for most of her existance, happy to keep to herself despite the poverty and destitution it brought her. It made her happy to discover what lay buried beneath the sands, to discover the rare oasis or watch the desert blossoms bloom in their bright crimsons and magentas. That all ended, of course, when the Inferi legions invaded, claiming Al'Faiz and the Korvassa for their own. She had fled upon a straying colt who had managed to break free of his bonds, residing in the forests surrounding Aegrothond until a time in which she could join the armies that sought to reclaim her homeland. When that time had eventually come, she was content to add her body to the forces of the descendants, only seeking to take back that which had taken her in as a small and helpless babe. An inanimate city and region, but the only thing akin to a parent she had ever known, in it's own way.

When the aengulic bodies of Xan, Aeriel, and Malchaediel advised them to fallback after the slaying of Gazardiael,  Manon had been one of the last to make the hastened trek away from the smoldering battlefield, the desert sands crackling and splitting around her. Reaching the very edges of safety, a screech from above alerted the elfess too-late that a straying demon had found her, it's blackened claws brought across Manon's face. Her sight went red as blood poured from her, the creature having ruptured both of her eyes. Screaming and bracing her palms against her wounds, she managed to make it just beyond to the walls of a reclaimed-Al'Faiz before collapsing, her head spinning as the last of her vision faded into nothing. She recalled afterward the final image she had seen...the stained ichor upon her hands and the stars above, that seemed to watch her in her pain and anguish.

---

Her aimless trek had brought her to a craggy beach, though where was unknown to her. She heard the crashing of the waves upon the shore, and stray gulls cawing overhead. She would never see a sunset on the horizon again. That fact, in her exhaustion, was enough to break her. A sheen of sweat upon her brow, Manon fell to her knees. She felt the grains of sand burn into her skin, but she seemed no longer to care. What tears she could muster slid heated down her cheeks as the water came to just meet her form, the salt filling her nostrils as she wept. She lifted her chin, heaving heavily as she called out in a weakened tone, to whatever or whomever could listen in what she thought to be her final moments. "Please...I don't want to end like this...." She'd shake her head furiously, "I cannot see beauty anymore. The home I loved, the people. Taken from me by a horror I was too gullible to see when I had the ability to." She'd guide her palms to the sand as well, the sea water rushing between her splayed digits. "Please...I want to live again. Life has already left me with so little...but...I don't want to die. Damn the forces that decided that they had to take my eyes from me too, just to watch me suffer before I perish!" She'd raise her head once more, though her voice seemed to carry with an anger it hadn't had previously. "I will not let fate take them from me...just someone, anyone....show me how to reclaim my purpose...and my existance."

Manon would pull herself offward and to the side, form pressing against what she could only imagine was a stone formation gathered upon one of the dunes. Her head fell back as her breathing slowed, hair mangled by seaspray and kneecaps raw from being dug into the sands. She pulled her tattered shawl about herself, unable to cover herself entirely as she wished, and drifted off into a weary sleep, as she had so many nights before.

Little did Manon understand that perhaps someone, or something, was listening afterall.

The sounds of nature should wear at ones sanity. Silence became a distant memory.

A herbivore grazing some distance away. A beast stalking it's next meal. All manner of skittering critters leaping among the canopies. The High Elf moved among the wildlands with practiced grace. It seemed that she and peril traveled parallel, a simple story told by the worn countenance that cast an ever jaded gaze forward. Though these eyes betrayed the internal struggle of the once-wizard's unraveling mind and the wisdom many would dream to attain.

The title of wizard held no baring so far from civilization and a new era of magic dawned just as the elf left. She found herself worried that the new faces flocking towards the light of the arcane may never come to achieve the reverence she enjoyed... Surely not without her guidance. That was the mantle she took up. Eliza lingered on her role amongst the Descendants throughout the years.

Had she studied her chosen subjects sufficiently?

"Mm, there will always be something more to learn." she echoed a mantra shared with past pupils. 

Perhaps she had provided insightful thoughts enough to warrant satisfaction with herself.

"I'll never observe the instances that will be illuminated by such thought; These instances nearly do not exist; Not to oneself."

After all, in a very elemental sense, she abandoned a pattern that she'd grown long bored of. She had lived too long; each century was a repeat of the last, simply painted in somewhat different events and faces but to the same ends. Her worries faded when she became a hermit, and so she was able to find a state of contentment. She was all she ever truly had, and that was enough for a time... but eventually even that became too much. The time came that she must surrender.

Deep within the Talus Grove, far along a gentle river, and upon a solitary hill, sat a lone figure. This small, wooden creature, wrought of root and vine, hung from the branches of its Slumber Tree, looking out over the vast expanse of the domain it had laid claim to. The Seedling, stout in demeanor and indomitable in spirit, was known to its few friends as Fangorn. This seedling, among the first of many to awaken, felt a longing, a call; though it had seen none other like it before, it felt loneliness. Loss...

Sorrow.

And it was in this sorrowful mourning that wild instinct tugged upon the crystalline heart of this lone seedling, and in its sadness, it would obey its instincts…

And call out. A sound, akin to a hunting horn, would escape from its lips as it shouted deep into the moonlit sky, raging against the darkness of despair. It did not expect an answer; how could it? It was the only one of its kind, or so it had thought...

Across the continent, within the dark and shaded woods south of Helena, a trio of howls would shriek out in response to the seedling’s call. Sawing, wheezing mimicries of common sounds echoing across the rolling plains and thick woods of Arcas. Predatory forms, perched high on the tree tops, would answer the call of a newfound brother, different they may be. 

Kindred in spirit, purpose, and kine to the same forces, those seedlings of a darker persuasion would raise their heads high to the moon, in hopeful sorrow.

And as the frightful howls pierced the air, a gentle hum would emerge from the Norlandic Northmarches; a cacophony of birdsong, sung in harmony with the choir of life and beauty. Within a lone glade of the frigid north, a newer seedling would sit, basking in the soft glow and embrace of moonlight’s gentle kiss. 

This seedling’s voice, mixed with the drones and howls emerging from across the continent, would serve to create a beautiful, haunting song; The Balance, represented by the voices of those who would maintain it. 

All from different walks of life, these seedlings would feel a longing; it was time…

For a moot.

Over the past two or so years, public letters to  the pontiff have posted up in many major cities - each concerning the existence of same sex relationships and marriages.

This content of them I care little for, it should to all civilized be an obvious answer. However, the responses, is what takes my interest.

For near all of the responses echo the very same thing. 

‘This is not in our tradition.’ 

‘The first relationship was between a man and a woman, thus we should not do anything different.’ 

‘The scrolls say husband and wife, thus we should not seek out other relationships.’

‘this has never been done before, so should never be done.’

I wish to extend a simple request to those spewing these thought-free sentences taught not with education but indoctrination - return to the old traditions.

Form still not in empires but simple tribedoms, where noblemen rule over tiny slices of land. 

Work not with steel tools in factories, work the fields with flint and bronze.

Do not fight with advanced armour and weapons, but rather pelts and slings.

Do not build tall walls, construct rather earthen ramparts supporting wooden pallisades.

Build not tall houses of concrete, live rather in huts of clay and thatch.

If tradition is your very truest calling, then live by tradition. Do not act a hypocrite by taking to heart those traditions that keeps away that which makes you uncomfortable, only to discard those traditions that it benefits you to forget.

I am not as old as many, but I remember still when the empire was pious. When the church ruled as much as the state. This is not the empire of today - Helena has pretended to enter an age of thought and logic, not fanaticism and religion.

If this is true, then why is it needed to cling to rotting tradition?

Another verse has been used in this meaningless defense of ancient traditions.

‘And as I made for you the worldly pleasures, so too have I made the pleasures of the spirit, and the love of the husband and wife.’

‘So I am the Most High, and in pursuit of My Virtue, I bid my faithful this: You shall not lie with your kin, nor those of other tribes, and none shall lie together but in holy union.’

These very words undermine the message the church and those ‘traditionalists’ wish to send, that homosexuality is unacceptable and unprecedented.

It is not stated that the only pleasure is the love of the husband and wife, simply that it is another pleasure. This is not excluding that of the wife and wife, nor husband and husband. Simply describes the two partners in a relationship.

In fact with how it is written, these do not in any matter have to be correlated with one another - it simply mentions the wife, and the husband. The man, and the woman. Not as one, not as bound nor exclusively as these, but as the members of any relationship.

And the second verse, you shall not lie with your kin. 

As anyone may see, save perhaps the Orenian noble bloodlines, this refers to family, not gender. One shall not lie with their sister, cousin, brother or such - anyone can see this, and it is an obvious truth all agree with.

I take more interest in a part of it never truly mentioned. ‘Nor those of other tribes’.

This is most often used to excuse hatred towards those who interbreed with other descendants, but the scrolls too speak against this.

For the four brothers were brothers, brought forth from the first man and woman. They are of the same tribe, and still today, despite our differences, we all are. Descendants are not separated.

Our greatest moments of strength is when we all stand together without borders or kings.

As has it always been - for only in fighting together as one, could the brothers hold back Ibless.

And only in fighting together as one have we stayed alive through armageddon after armageddon.

Only across borders of race has the greatest alliances been forged, and the strongest friendships found.

And even today, near two-thousand years later, we can and do breed between one another without creating mules. The descendants of the four brothers remain kin, despite the curses the great enemy put on our bloodlines.

The scrolls and history as a whole can then, by a different interpretation, can be told to support interbreeding and unity as a whole, and in a matter support homosexuality.

Thus, I simply ask, to those still willing to argue against such.

When you do, I expect the writing to be on a clay platter or carved into either wood or stone. I expect you to wear simple pelts and use bronze tools and send your response from a thatch hut. 

For if you do not,you have abandoned a part of the four brothers tradition and lifestyle. And if you do not follow all of it, why follow any of it?

Especially when your own rulers follow none.

Tradition is a decaying cage, descendants should not be held in by rotting chains held by a corrupt church and cowardly tyrants. Act on it all, or abandon it all.

- Shuo.

-An Invitation To All Victims Of The Inferi War-

This invitation is for everyone who have suffered under the War of Fire and Flames that has been waged upon us by the dreadful Inferi. This wretched war costs homes, lives, food, land,  and much more. That is why Fort Hope is in its process of being restored for the purpose of mending the damage done to all of us. It shall now be a stronghold where we offer everyone willing or in need of a home a roof over their head. We aim to light a fire within all of us by reconstructing this fort that once united many armies over Arcas. We shall offer work that shall aid our soldiers that the front line, training for those who would like to join those warriors, and education about our enemy shall all be given here.

As we all know

They have taken over almost all of Korvassa, infesting its waters and skies with foul beings that are born from nightmares. The scorned soil of the island has been marked by uncountable footsteps of Inferi Infantry while our  captured soldiers are tortured by malflame in their camps. It is their intention to destroy everything we have made ever since upon our arrival here in Arcas. Their attack on Aegrothond makes this incredibly clear. Everything that has been built and we now call home here on the mainland. 

All soldiers of the Firewatch Alliance fought bravely against the vile enemy and they were victorious! They defended Aegrothond with all their might and succeeded. Nothing comes without a cost, however, and the Inferi have shown once again that they wish for us all to burn. As they have destroyed a large part of Aegrothond in an effort to take a stand on our homeland. But we shall continue to press on defending our homes and mending the burdens of war. To everyone, those from Fort Hope shall aid those at the frontlines.

United by Hope

Shou   –   

Rha'kir Morthawl 'The Dependable'  –   

OOC:

色は匂えど    –    Even the blossoming flowers

散りぬるを    –    Will eventually scatter

我が世誰ぞ    –    Who in our world

常ならん        –    Is unchanging?

有為の奥山    –    The deep mountains of karma—

今日越えて    –    We cross them today 

浅き夢見じ    –    And we shall not have superficial dreams

酔いもせず    –    Nor be deluded.

Iroha, 1078

門前の小僧習わぬ経を読む。

‘An apprentice near a temple will recite the scriptures untaught’

    The wind whistled through the small village of Okura, the smell of a freshly put out fire drifting through the open doors of the Kawahara home. A samurai stands at the entrance to his abode, surveying the semi-abandoned homes. His head shakes in despair, the thought of what could have been fresh in his mind. ‘The village reflects its master, abandoned and despairing…’ The bushi warrior mutters to himself as he watches the Matsuda family start their day, the sole residents of Okura, the only exiles that have remained.

    Nobusuke reflects on the predicament of Okura, resigning the ghost town to memory as he steels himself for a voyage away, before Matsuda Koko barrelled out of her home. The child, a smile plastered on her face, started to play with the stones on the path with childish abandon. S small wry smile appears on Nobu’s face, as he internalises the moment. 

    His mind made up, Nobu enters his home and bows to the blade of his ancestors. His eyes trace the lines of the katana blade, a ripple of lighter steel beaten into the dark spine of the blade. Memories reminisce of the last time that blade was used, the previous year during the Oyashiman Rebellion that had led to the exile of his people. Following the young lord… The absent lord.

雲散霧消

‘Scattered clouds, disappearing mist’

    The armoured samurai prowled the path to Okura Castle, the home of the Ishikawa clan. Nobu’s hazel eyes look out on the village, the fog slowly gathering over the buildings. Pausing on the steps upwards, his breath streaming from his visor, Nobu reflects on his training and teachings. What he is contemplating is the greatest shame that an Oyashiman can perform, one that makes his life forfeit.

    However, Nobusuke is prepared for this, for the sake of the Exiles. He has almost trod that road before. 

    The samurai looks upon the closed gates of his master’s castle, great steel bound oak beneath the tiled arch. With a push, the unbarred door opens with a large creak, the hinges screaming with disuse and rust. Stepping through to the courtyard Nobu looks upon the overgrown flora, neglected like the rest of Okura. A sigh escapes the helmet, breaking the creaking and footsteps as the warrior approaches the keep’s door.

    Opening the keep’s door, Nobusuke looks upon his young master, the man looking back at his steely eyed samurai. Nobusuke slowly draws his katana, stepping towards Ishikawa.

雨降って地固まる

‘After the rain, earth hardens’

    Nobusuke slowly removes the armour from his form, the Ishikawa tanto resting on the shrine before him. The blade, cleaned, sits on its stand, reflecting the disheveled warrior after his momentous morning. The man stands, going to the nearby window of Okura castle, watching the Matsuda family come alive, seeing his friend Fujiwara Mutsuhiko walk the steps upto the lords keep. Brushing down his kimono, Nobusuke descends the ladders of the keep, the bamboo creaking under his weight.

“Did you do it?” intoned the visitor, looking past Nobusuke to the empty keep.
“He is no longer with us… And my honour intact.” came the reply from the tired samurai.

“Then our lands are lordless, we-”
“I will rule as Daimyo, we cannot suffer the same fate for a second time.”

    Mutsuhiko watches Nobu, looking for something in the mans character, “Its unprecedented Nobu.” he states flatly.

“Yes it is, but it is what is need.” came the reply, curt to match the tone, “Let us announce to those that are left… And to the world that we have our second wind.”

[!]

A notice is pinned to the tavern in Oyashima and is spread to various locations around arcas.

“To Residents of Okura and Dignitaries of Arcas,

Due to the passing of Shogun Ishikawa; The lordship of the Oyashiman Exiles has fallen to Kawahara Nobusuke. Due to the nature of our exile, Lord Kawahara has decided to abolish the usage of Shogun in these lands and instead take the mantle of Daimyo of Okura.

You are invited to the investiture of the new Daimyo at the village of Okura, Four Elven days from now.

Signed

川原信介

Kawahara Nobusuke”

[!]

Attached is a map to the village of Okura:

THE GOLDEN SEWERS RUN RED

13th of Sun’s Smile, 1784

     When the sun doth reached its highest point in the sky, succeeding the consecration of The Cathedral of Exalted Owyn, The Brothers of the Flamenic Order of St. Robert gathered in Drumm Hall in defense of a common scourge, scourge all but forgotten in recent year. Those deemed most foul by the wisest of men among us men, horrid worshipers of him most unholy, Iblees.

=+=

-A Dark Descent-

     Gathered with all the resolve and steadfastness as a pack of wolves, The Brothers, accompanied by affiliated men similarly drawn to the cause, descended into a wretched sinkhole which had emerged in the productive fields of Kaedrin most recently. The group, though well trained, would be entering battle under this regiment for the first time. As they crept into the once sealed Golden Sewers of Ves, an otherworldly odor plagued their nostrils. One of blood, sulfur, and rusted iron. Through the depths they trudged, persevering until the last wisps of natural light were swept from their eyes, the only stronghold of light emanating from a small oil wick lantern. As they turned a corner through a rusted gate, a new sound joined the ambient drips of water and scurrying of pests. The sound of chanting.

=+=

-Happenings Most Horrid-

     Rounding a corner, the regiment of men came across a small threshold which provided entrance to a sanctum most profane. Surrounding many a demonic sigil lay the prone bodies of the aforementioned scourge, clad in black robes stained by blood. A sacrifice had just been made, and this horrific waste of a life would not go unpunished. Charging into the sanctum valiantly, The Brothers took the cultists by surprise. Only through the bloodshed of the accursed worshipers would the lands The Brothers call home be saved. Although the battle was long and arduous, it was a victory well earned. The entire group of cultists had been slain at the steel of The Order, holding next to no damages to their own legion.

=+=

-Faced With Death-

     Continuing their campaign through the infested sewers, The Order swiftly dispatched every cultist gathering they encountered, purging the tunnels of Iblees’ influence. Emboldened by their sweeping victories, the joyous men hardily marched into the inner sanctum of Iblees. There they encountered what never could have been imagined. Flexio chants rang in the ears of the men, their skulls pounding with the overwhelming noise. In that room they came face to face with a stone effigy, blood seemingly dripping from its eyes. The effigy depicted Iblees, and at its side was an old man clad in similar robes to the rest, yet somehow more blood-soaked. The man stood up and ceased his chanting, though the chanting did not stop. He cackled maniacally as he revealed his abilities, a hemomancer emboldened by his worship of Iblees.

    Verily so, through GOD’s favor alone did The Order succeed in this encounter. After dozens of failed attacks on the ancient hemomancer, one lucky strike was found true through a gap in his defense. The effigy was shattered, and so too was the hemomancer’s will to go on. He collapsed, begging to be put out of his misery. His pleas were swiftly answered as his blood joined the many pools dotting the stone floor of the sanctum. 

=+=

Recruitment:

Should any able-bodied man or woman wish to join our ranks in the fight to protect His faithful, they should further a notice to The Order’s address.

One-hundred years of patience. One-hundred years of praise.

One-hundred deaths in rivers red, to break the King’s malaise.

In the brier of the father, might the iron findeth ash,

 touched by all that curses her, sired by the lash.

That young elf she is no longer, the mantle now her prison.

She hunts the green-eyed child, to devour as he is risen.

The king cares not, he lingers still,

gods may die, but man deserves the kill.

The red vault opened, the devil’s spawn unleashed,

their fire spills across the land to drain it all deceased.

At their head a black-red face that parts the chaff from life,

cutting cleanly by the fire with his black-red knife.

Still the king slumbers, as souls pile high,

even ‘ere as the end draws nigh.

Yet soon he will wake, a King from a king,

so as dawn breaks, a new world He shall bring.

In His left hand the scepter, and in His right hand the end,
for all that they’ve brought determines now if they deserve to ascend.

- Author Unknown

Hiring

Pay negotiable. Preference for humans but not required. Expect long term employment.

Bodyguard: physically fit, experienced or eager to learn, stress-tolerant, acquiescent, strong stomach.

Herbalist: amicable, insightful, knowledgeable of pigments and dyes, punctual, tolerance for danger.

Bard: jaunty, quick-witted, instrumentally and vocally skilled, open-minded, able to memorize ballads.

Deliver offers to the aviary in Malin’s Rest, Aldemar. Address to Lady Luckshine.

-The Kharajyr-ran Game of Ur Contest-

On this Elven day, the Kharajyr  of various prides and factions like the Metz’Chanca Caravan gathered around under the host Rha’kir  Morthawl , A Kha’Pantera, who presented the idea of a competition! They took the game of Ur, a chess-game from Kharajyr culture, with them to the Cloud Temple where they reached out to the passing crowds to come play in their self-hosted contest. The prizes were phenomenal just like the crowds of Kha and non-Kha who gathered around!

The rules of Game of Ur 

The premise of Ur is simple. The chessboard that was provided at the Cloud Temple had 21 tiles. Two or three contestants could participate at a time, with each their own pawn. The first to cross the 21 tiles with their pawn wins! The game is played with a four-sided die to determine how many spaces you can move. If you land on a tile with another opponent on it, the two of you re-roll your dice and the one that rolls the lowest takes two steps back on the chessboard. Easy right? First to cross 21 spaces wins!

How the evening went

The evening first off started quiet with only a few Kharajyr that arrived extremely early in order to prepare the game.  They began a game of Ur themselves while they waited for people to pass by and other fellow Kha to arrive. Seemingly starting with a small group. As the evening went on, more bystanders came to watch the contest. Various bystanders volunteered to attend the contest. 

We’ll review a few rounds with some astonishing highlights!

First Round:

The first round started with a small prize as the stakes. The prize at that time was 100 mina, two alchemical herbs and 5 gold ingots. All which were donated by Kharajyr to award the winners of said round with. The winner of the first was Darono, a small mute Kharajyr.

The Second Round:

This round was more general as the high elf Maeve faced off against Kato in this round! The prize of this round was several hundred mina and Alabaster leaf donated by Muja.

The Third Round:

The generous Kha Kisyla who donated 1000 minasto the winner of this round. Kato donated 200 mina to the winner of this round. The total prize came down on 1300 mina to the winner of this round which was played with three players total, one Kha, Aestenia, and another unnamed individual. This was the highest prize of the entire contest!

The Fourth Round:

The final round! A 1000 mina prize , donated by Kisyla, along with 5 gold ingots was donated by Kato  in order to reward the winner. The final round was played by an elf named Luscinia and Muu! In the end, we came in very close but Muu just won by an inch of tile-space!

Conclusion

Our event was a success that should definitely create some attention for our new  Kharajyr-run trading caravan on which we are working right now. This event was entirely self made and held in a place where we assumed to be safe due to the magic of the Monks. We hope that those who came by enjoyed our little event and our donated prizes! 

-Dear Regards The Kharajyr of Metz’chanca and Healun’or

Ooc:

Here are some screenies. Thank you @snoopie12 for taking some screenshots from the air for me which I requested

On the Brink

11th of the Amber Cold, 1782

The cogs of war begin to turn, and out of the churning machine sail ships of naval warcraft. Dispatched with orders to blockade, the duo of battleships make headway from the Firelands unto the shores of the evergreen forests North. Racked with cannons and ballistae, food and water, and tools with which to build, these ships crept up the Wildlands coast into the bay of Gehenna. Here under their watchful and mighty masts donned with the Standard of Azdromoth, no ships would enter nor leave. No supplies would come, no people would go. Only now did Farrador have the tall mountains to their East, treacherous to cross with anything more than the clothes on their backs. As draconic soldiers began to patrol the pine woods in advance of approaching armies and siege weapons of the field, this stronghold of Xan would soon begin to run out of options.

Soldiers aboard the three vessels cheer and holler into the night as they take anchor, the bay presently empty and devoid of traffic. A naval command ship would follow within the month, with frigates in tow.

Where would they run to? Where would they hide? The impending siege was soon to come – this blockade, was the first step.

♫

The cruel susurrus of war had bled from the Firelands for weeks. Wayward merchants and spice peddlers report carts of oily, black stone travelling to and from the smoldering realm. Wicked serpents bid reptilian creatures to carry their burdensome profit, ferrying the materials into the depths of what fel citadels decorate the landscape. For what they prepared, the reports did not say. Word spread, however, of a dragonkin courier that was spotted departing the black wastes. What last was heard of the messenger described his path into the North West – near to the compounds of Farrador.

To the esteemed Ducem Corvus of the Order of the Orrir’Ullral,

          “I write to you with great shame, for the worst has come to pass. Reason has failed and spoken word has proven ineffectual. I am not a creature prone to entertaining the semantic – in accordance with my nature, I shall do no such thing. The shadow of war falls upon Farrador. Mercy has expired, and with it, the patience of my god. Annihilation is all that awaits you now, should you persist in your defiance of the Titan. The world we share is bleeding. What great sorrow it would bring were a second bastion of civilization in Arcas to fall. It is in your power to prevent the tragedy that comes. Bend your knee and raise the banner of the Titan. Renounce once and for all the aid of the Light and collapse your shrines to the Heavens. Acquiesce to the graces of the Firstborn and you will be utterly spared, left to your own, simple devices for so long as you remain true to your accord.

I am not like my brothers and sisters, Ducem Corvus. I am privy to reason and method. Let us make peace, lest we make history.”

Might you preserve your people,

Eressioth

The humble return of house Napoliza

"To whomever may read this,

 

Earlier this morning, we left Fonsi as the city was no longer defendable against the inferni. We have stumbled upon ruins of Brunswick which we plan to settle on, west of the majestic Duchy Helena and subsequent Ducal crownlands. In these troubling times for the world, we ask our brothers and sisters that descended  from Horen to pray for the soldiers on the battlefront, as we rebuild our community near your land. We hope to mend our relations with the Holy Orenian Empire, and persevere through these hard times together: United as one. As a sign of goodwill, the house of Napoliza shall donate its entire armory to aid supply the brave soldiers in their wars. We may supply around 300 soldiers with armor, weapons and food. Furthermore, we wish to announce that we shall name these ruins the province of Frontino until a more suitable name for the territory is discussed with either the house of Lords, or his imperial majesty and his wise advisors.

 

For god and glory,

 

her ladyship, Luciana I Maria Napoliza dei Frontino

(Previously known as HSH Luciana I maria Napoliza of Vitenna, Duchess of Fonsi and Baroness of Vileux.)

 

音楽

Thunder. Thundering boots. Thundering Words. Lightning cracked across the sky, splitting the clouds and the heavens before it; the iridescent flash banishing the black of night before fading back into darkness. Arashi Castle stood tall amidst the storm, overlooking the sprawling metropolis that was Yamatai from its hilltop vantage. The screen of a window was torn asunder, and Yorihide came to sit upon the cusp, staring out across the city as the torrential downpour of the monsoon season crashed against the land with all its fury. He found serenity amongst the chaos. It was what he had been taught from a young age, though he made the notion truly his own; the boy felt ill-at-ease when silence reigned, and so the steady pitter-patter of rain striking the sloped tiles came alike as a balm to what discontent found a home in the young Ishikawa’s heart. And to that end, he wrote.

lightning sundered sky

the moon yearning to be free—

clouds herald darkness

“Lord Ishikawa!” A voice cried out from the other side of the shoji that partitioned his room from the corridor. It stirred him from the lull of his contemplative state. Slowly did the young samurai rise to his feet, mulberry paper and inkbrush discarded to attend the commotion. And when the screen was slid ajar, two figures rushed in - one clamping their hand over his mouth, while the other took a defensive posture aside the entryway, hand poised to the hilt of his wakizashi. He had thought to scream - cry out; that assassins had come for him. Why would they? He was of no relevance, all bar his name. The second son of a second son, a bunke lord. But then he realized that he was in the company of friends. An indication to hush was voiced from behind the unsightly menpo donned by his assailant - Ishikawa Toru. And the samurai at his side, none other than Fujiwara Mutsuhiko. “Young master.” Mutsuhiko had begun, though whatever he had intended to say was cut short by the rattle of armor from further down the corridor. Toru quickly ushered Yorihide into the hallway, offering him no opportunity to protest while the samurai took the rear, facing down a pair of ashigaru who approached, blood staining the already-crimson of their Ishikawa livery and the uchigatana they toted. “Teme, shinu!” One of them cried, bearing down the hallway with their weapon raised. The prodigy of the Fujiwara stood with every bit poise and discipline, fingers tightening their vice around the handle of his shōtō, and when the levy’s charge finally brought him within striking range of the hardened yōsei, he struck. Sliding forward on his sandals, his blade was brandished within two shakes of a lamb's tail, and the corpse of yet another fool slumped onto the floor in a heap before him.

The display was enough to break the resolve of the other soldier, already turning a corner by the time the dust had settled, Mutsuhiko raking the edge of his sword against his kote to clear the blood before returning it to the saya with fluid, practiced grace. “What’s going on? Why are my grandfather’s men after you both?!” Yorihide’s demand for answers fell upon deaf ears as he was dragged through the hallways by the silent determination of Toru. They had descended a floor before he finally spoke up, hushed words offered towards the lordling. “Those men are after you, Lord. Your grand-uncle has taken up arms against the Shogun. Arashi is no longer safe.” The gravity of the situation had finally begun to sink in with that. The clouds herald darkness… his haiku brought with it ill-auspices.  It was so bizarre. Why, of all people, was Toru present to spirit him away? The last he had heard of his kinsman was that the Sōhei was in the south, investigating disturbances in Yamatai around the time of the eclipse. Though there was no time to linger upon thoughts. “Is my father safe?” He croaked, scarcely more than a whisper as they continued through the winding hallways of the Ishikawa Clan’s seat of rule with measured caution. His kin betrayed little in the way of emotion, and was just as insubstantial in providing an answer. Mutsuhiko had come to directly tail the lordling, a palm flattened against the boy’s shoulder as they descended yet another flight of stairs. Yorihide would not require an answer from either of them. What awaited them in the room beyond was confirmation enough.

As the shoji was wrenched aside, a pungent, metallic scent wafted through the air - it was enough to turn the stomach, though nothing could prepare Yorihide for what he saw. Corpses were strewn across the common area; strangers and familiar faces both, dozens of Ishikawa retainers, the mangled bodies of samurai dismembered and eviscerated. The walls as much as the floor were all but painted in a scarlet sheen, and in the midst of them all? Family. He broke free of Toru’s grip, rushing towards the center of the room. His father was propped up - a set stage like it was some kind of ritual murder, decapitated. The man’s head was cradled within his lap, dinner plates for eyes and a gaping jaw set into the throes of rigor-mortis. His own sword was driven so deep into his chest the hilt pressed flush against his ribcage and the blade exited through his back to hold him upright, the tip poised to the floor. Yorihide collapsed onto his hands and knees before his father, the silk of his hakama mingling with the blood while he prostrated himself in mourning. Why did it have to be him, he thought. Could he not have taken his place? His thoughts raced, and sorrow gripped his pounding heart, tears spilling down his cheeks in a steady stream that was not abated even by the approach of Toru trying to stir him to his feet. “We cannot linger, Lord. He has made to serve the Yōkai. They are no doubt the cause of… this.” Disgust wore upon the Sōhei’s words. Or perhaps it was shame. No matter, Toru gripped Yorihide by the scruff of his neck and wrenched him to an abrupt stand. “We must go.” Mutsuhiko finally spoke up, mirroring the monk’s sentiments despite Yorihide’s distress.

“I-... I failed him.” The young Ishikawa mumbled, heels keeping him planted firmly in place as he stood in his vigil over the corpse of his fallen sire. Sniffling, the flowing sleeve of his kimono was brought aloft to wipe snot and tears both away from his face. Yorihide kept it there, though. He sought to shield his disgrace from the two men. The realization had finally dawned on him. If they had come to his rescue, then, no doubt, it was because there were no others to save. He was their hope. And yet, his father laid before him, slain. He could not protect him, so how could he protect them? His head shook side to side and he withdrew the sleeve with a final sob, staring down at the remains of his father before endeavoring forwards to wrap his hands around the handle of the sword embedded into his chest. He heaved. And he heaved. And he heaved. Pouring every bit of his strength and his soul into dislodging the blade. Gradually, it slid free, though through no small amount of effort, stained with the blood of its deceased owner. Trembling hands passed the weapon on to Mutsuhiko, who gave a knowing nod in return before they struck out, pressing onwards into the central courtyard. There was no small amount of bloodshed marking their path now; the same carnage they had witnessed inside, though blessed were they to not need to contend with the instigators of such a massacre. Infact, all they were greeted with was silence, aside from the downpour of rain which remained a constant throughout. Atleast, until they reached the gates.

Beneath the shadow of great Arashi, a samurai fought. Cornered and surrounded; a wounded animal snapping back with all the fire and fury contained within its soul. A trio of yari spearmen surrounded the man, who even in the darkness shone in both his virtue and in the effervescent fervor through which he defied them. “Will you not strike at me with honor?! You know nothing of the nine virtues; cowards and dogs, all of you!” And surely his words rang true, they all hesitated, keeping distance despite clear advantage, and altogether oblivious to the arrival of newcomers from deeper within the castle whose approach was masked by the torrential downpour. As the standoff continued in earnest, Toru took advantage of the shadows, creeping up upon the group with his tantō in hand. It was only in the last seconds that one of the spearmen turned; lightning streaked across the heavens to illuminate the demon-masked killer for a fraction of a second, and in that moment, the blade ripped through the soldier’s jugular no quicker than he could scream. The samurai hitherto engaged in the showdown lunged forwards with a swipe of his blade carving through one of the ill-equipped levy, capitalizing upon the distraction to dispatch his assailants. The third stumbled backwards, crying out as his comrades were rendered newly-minted corpses to add to the slaughter, throwing his yari spear onto the blood-stained stones. “Please, please, my lords! I’m sorry! I did not mean to! I’ve always served Ishikawa!” He threw himself onto his hands and knees, pressing his brow to the ground while he begged. “Sumimasen! Sumimasen! I’m afraid, my lords, please!”

“This bastard is not worth our time.” The stranger spoke up, though as Yorihide approached at the side of Mutsuhiko, the man was recognized as Kawahara Nobusuke, one of his grandfather’s many hatamoto retainers. Grunted affirmations of agreements left the sōhei and samurai. Joining the party, they left the ashigaru to whatever consequence awaited his cowardice. Crossing the precipice that separated Arashi Castle from the city of Yamatai stirred feelings within Yorihide’s chest. There was no going back. He knew that. To cross that line would be to change his life irrevocably forevermore, though what other choice did he have but to place his trust in his retainers? None. And so they endeavored into the winding streets of the capital, and for the docks that awaited them. When they had finally arrived, the rain had come to its end, and the first streams of morning sun sought to dissect the clouds and shine over Oyashima. He did not want to go. He did not want to leave his home behind. He was not even granted the courtesy to honor his father, to bury him and send him on to the spirits. But he knew, atleast, as he boarded that ship, that he was with friends. Toru, Mutsuhiko, Nobusuke. The Lord Hiroji who greeted him with a smile as they came onto the deck of the ship. And above all; his teacher and mentor, who had orchestrated it all - Fujiwara Musashi. A new journey had begun, and though its roots were watered with sorrow, he had to persevere. Not for himself, but for them. They all looked to him now, and he knew, above all, he could not fail them. As night fell and the waves carried them westward, towards Tomoe, he looked to the heavens for guidance, and with brush in hand, he wrote.

stars shine like heaven—

so muddied is the future

how can their light guide

Musashi of the Fujiwara in the last days of peace, 1774-1775.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Suseko of the Fujiwara laying in the Himawari flowers, 1778.

A hundred years waiting

Agony of the lonesome

Quiet eternal valley.

A Daimyō as a father

A bitter wretch as a son

But at last she came

Suseko, my love, my joy

The Pale starry light.

A raging fire you are above

Shining bright and fading fast.

The quiet river

Separating us for years

Can you wait for me?

To loathe this eternal life

To loathe your finite body.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Musashi of the Fujiwara and Yorihide of the Ishikawa overlooking the Battle of Mutsuhito’s Peak, 1770.

Alone we are here

In a land in the far west

Friendless and ashamed.

No peace within the realms of men

Tranquility remains not.

How far must we go

For my heart yearns to see less

My peace uprooted.

Must I protect my child King

When fortunate could have been gained.

Honor in service

Words spoken from the old sage

Why must this be so?

Blood and pain for a liege

Who would do no same for me?

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Self-portrait of Mutsuhiko of the Fujiwara in Bushi garb, 1779.

To be raised to war

Against the savage Cathant

A burden to have.

The kami are cruel to Man

Never gifting what we crave.

Must I fight, Father

As you taught me to do so

A bloody Crane of War?

In my stylus I find peace

Not in our ancestral blade.

Peace I call for above

To write and create I beg

Not to kill and ruin.

Is peace found through war, father

Does my burden lift then, lord?

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The valley of Kannushi Oshio in eastern Oyashima after spring, 1769.

Before there was light, the kami were.

They are in all and they made all.

When peace has been broken, they mended it.

When peace was restored, they broke it.

The sun sets, the moon rises.

The moon rises, the sun sets.

Kami do as they please and mortals bend to their will.

Likewise, Eta bend to Bushi,

Bushi to the Daimyō,

and the Daimyō to the Shōgun, as the kami have intended.

The Land of Storms has held to this custom for a millennial.

Men who betray the kamis’ will are cast off,

Forced to live their lives as servants of their own flesh.

But men always betray the kami.

Ai-Zho was once ravaged by strife and agony.

But balance is always restored.

Cathant destroyed the homes of our people,

And stole the rights of our samurai and Shogun.

But Prince Ishikawa Kais restored us.

The True Shōgun vanquishing our eternal enemy.

The heavens eternally proclaiming the glory of his name.

When moons pass however,

Times of old are often forgotten.

But to the ancient of Oyashima,

Time is nothing more than cyclical.

For enemies to our own,

Those of that unnamed evil one,

Have come from their foul realm of death.

With a sky of red and glimmers of villainous souls,

They have sought us out.

And they have sided with the New Cathant.

The False Shōgun and Betrayer of Ai-Zho.

Our homeland once again is ravaged.When darkness eclipses the sky however,

The light of the kami shines brightest around the darkness.

And this light is the true Shōgun that shall deliver us.

Ishikawa Yorihide.

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OST

It was a looming-vicious day, and as always the grim creature, named Ava was on its own, this time near a port with numerous ships. Her emotionless expression was filled with a light ease, and the most attentive would have noticed, that with her right hand she held between her steel, cold fingers a head which many will recognize; It was the infamous Nuala Uradir. Her headless body was resting without life onto a table. Slowly Ava herself arise her chin towards the ceiling where she was hiding, where the violent act has been done; many thoughts danced within her mind ... The demons' apocalypse that was dragging closer and closer to where she lived, the search for a member of her family who had disappeared, and whose had suffered the undoing of the silver city too. Yet most of them was pushed aside on what seemed to be a thought of freedom, of relief ... Finally she had completed one of her purposes, unjustice was no more in such an event. She  managed to ruin the life of the poor, wicked Nuala. She’s who went against her own family, who had ruined her life, and such of her daughter, Ithia. Ithia who was one of the most important person for Ava.
"Finally ... the witch’s undoing has been stopped. It's what you wanted, right? Was it what you really wanted? The right path...? Perhaps, Your Kor, whom you worship-...won’t like it. I... Perhaps it was not, or it was, i don’t care. At least...Ithia is safe. She won’t suffer anymore..."
The grim’s creature words echoed within all over the large boat, all alone: As if she were talking to another person. Clearly signs of her sanity which continued to descend and descend more and more, in a dark, scattered and blind shaft. At least, she was happy, now. And then after such minutes she spent with that energy of happiness flowing through herself-.And then she tied the head tightly on her belt with a thick rope, and then placed both of her hands onto the table, where the body was resting on. She’d prepare to send the body to whoever deserved it, or perhaps for an honorable burial. Justice was served, the poeple whose the witch has hurt would’ve rest, but perhaps it was not the right choice...

ooc:

((The following is written by Kyral, through her spotty old lady memory, any inconsistencies is IC))

It began with a single word, a name that came from the lips of a mother. Giving her child a name, she cradled her close, for the only time. She would drift apart from the child in time, but the name she gave her would never fade. The name Kyral Rilann, Born in Aegis, given life by a mother unknown to her. She was either busy as hell or drinking herself into another stupor. Nowadays you won’t hear Kyral speak about her mother, she didn’t like to bring up memories of a woman that would forsake her children for booze.

However, as the young Kyral grew up, she watched a land crumble beneath her feet. Aegis fell when she was nine years old. All she could do is leave when escorted to The Verge. The lands between Aegis and Asulon. It was there she worked to help some of those who were in the same position as herself.
 

When the boats arrived in Asulon, something within Kyral snapped. Was it years of trouble, or was it something worse? All she knew that there was a hunger deep inside. Her body and mind calling for violence in the only way it knew how to express it. Her victims at the time were those of The Druidic Order. Hunted them all down like animals, forced them into hiding. All over a book that went over her family’s history, something incredibly valuable to Kyral lost. So Kyral warred against the druids, watching them surrender the Salvus Grove to her and flee.

It was at this time that Kyral found interest in James Hightower. A strange human man with incredible humor, treated Kyral from the start as a friend who he was familiar with. And applauded her. She was, however a bit unhinged still, and she did all she could from fighting the urge to snap at him. Why? She asked herself, over and over. When the Asulonian Plague struck, Kyral was immediately shown the grave situation the descendants were in. Like a slap to the face, it snapped her back to her senses. She worked tirelessly to save those she could, finding temporary cures for some folk, but nothing that remained. It was this act that shaped her moving forwards, and gave Kyral the drive she needed to finally return to a form of Normalcy.
 

Strangely enough, Kyral had amassed a small following of different races. Not to say they worshipped her, but she did seem to have a knack for leading. So this group of Goblins, Elves, Humans and a single dwarf began work of creating a place of their own. Buying and taking over lands near the Asulonian Cloud Temple, some lands remained fully autonomous, one entire city became the staging point for the first incarnation of Aeroch Nor. A Dwarven Protected state under the now Paragon, Kjell Ireheart.
 

Things worked out incredibly well for Aeroch Nor, and she slowly became noticed by the same Human who treated Kyral with respect and adoration. He slowly worked towards gaining a better understanding of the elfess, and in time, the two married. It was a rocky relationship at the end, Kyral leaving to protect the children they had together from the incredibly violent side of her that was coming out again. After years of building up nations around her, being blessed by having multiple children. Becoming a cleric and working on herself she had fled due to crumbling under the weight of the stress of it all.
 

Nine Elven Months she remained at sea, passing by many islands, many unseen vistas that she had documented. Her eyes and ears are recovering due to the ocean's gentle waves. Her body lulled in by the sound of the world around her. It wasn’t long until she had received a letter from her friends, telling her about the situation back in Anthos. She decided to turn the ship around, making her way back home where she was greeted by all sorts of people. Some quickly fading away in time, others not so much, finding themselves in Kyral’s heart instead.
 

She lodged with a friend who was near Malinor. Talked endlessly about how she was working to uncover the machinations of The Harbingers. Setherien controlled them, it was certain, but she could never get as far as she liked. Kyral, taking on the responsibility, got a bit closer then she would have initially liked. Being experimented on, retribution came quickly for those that did, for only elven days after did the tower risen in the ashes of old Malinor, did it fall.
 

From there, her trusted allies while she was under the name ‘Naeri’ had come to aid her. The experiments done on her were undone, but like a sunken hole in her back. She would recover nearly completely, but also was scolded for doing such things alone. It was there that the newly named Naeri formed The Scions. Those that would come to the aid of a nation at war with Setherien’s minions.In something that was not done by Kyral’s hands, the four races banded together and ousted the Harbingers and their dragon overlord from Anthos. The Fringes would be the salvation, or even ruin for the descendants. For the Fringe Wars quickly came, and during that, plague struck yet again. Though disbanded, the Scions rallied once more to the holy orders aid. It was to find a way out of the Fringe and To Thales.
 

At Thales, things began to work more towards finding a permanent home. Naeri and the Druids quickly came together, slowly working on a spot near where the descendants had arrived to create a spot where they could all work together to see how the land around them worked. It was to nobody’s surprise at this point that they were pushed out, but by the Aengul of new beginnings, Gazardiel. The Aengul was hellbent on freezing the mortals to death, claiming them to be the reason why so much had gone wrong. With a combined effort, the Mortals left Thales with their lives. The journey towards Athera would be uneventful from this point forward, and once again Kyral bid farewell to another landmass. Her body numb to the sensation of change, it had become too common for her, they appear - they live - they’re forced off. Disbanding the Scions, Naeri continued her work as a Cleric.
 

It was however a bit short lived. While she did her duty admirably, Kyral had those sneaking temptations. To kill, to hunt again. She suppressed it for she had believed that the land was safe this time. Founding Avalon with the Ascended, the town grew. Though, once the Defiler had come back, Kyral knew something had to be done. Foolishly choosing to go at it alone, Kyral joined with the Undead of Iblees to find the weak links in the group. It required her to submit to her darker desires.
 

Kyral believed her reasons to be just, but the Paladins and Clerical figureheads had found her out. She was operating under a guise known as Gida. That she had ‘betrayed’ the orders. Her punishment was deserved, and she woke up with a piece of her missing. While some saw this as a reckless and dangerous decision, it allowed Kyral to operate freely. Passing information to the Druids, even though the Druidess she had encountered was one from her Past. Lilith Winterleaf. One who was at the Asulon Grove.
 

They talked about forgiveness, about redemption. Lilith was not trusting of Kyral and her actions due to previous history, and the only way she’d trust her was to show actual change. So she did, leaving the defenses of the former Dwarven capital open when she knew she wouldn’t get caught. Making sure to purposely maim opponents that would show some risk of becoming a strong member of the Undead’s mortal army. Which was at one point praised by one of the Undead.
 

Weakened, but not at all by Kyral’s hands, the Undead moved their sights to the Druid Grove, where they summoned Iblees to attack. The Druids all protected their grove, but Lillith Winterleaf protected it to her last. The Axe of Krug in Iblees Possession, smashed and broke the three aspect stones apart from one another. The Axe blade shattered and in a flash of blinding Light, Iblees was gone.
 

In time, The Druids seemed to re-emerge from what seemed like a final defeat. The Eternal Forest, afterlife of the Druids, had opened up. Letting one who had moved on, come back to assist. Lilith Winterleaf. Kyral was actually in the Eternal Forest, seeing it all, it changed her. A Mage at the time, she had peered into a belief she thought was like the others, and found out how wrong she was exactly. It was here that she would find interest, and even love.
 

When Lillith Winterleaf came back, Kyral intended to come see her. She wanted to truly make things right, but how? This stumped the Elven mage, former cleric and she needed to decide a proper path for herself going forward. Druidism was a part of her life, the High Elven woman didn’t deny that one bit. She had friends in the order and she could really make it up to them for betraying their trust. How would she start?
 

Approaching the grove, Kyral spotted both the Owl Druid and the Sequoia Druid. Kyral confessed her crimes, admitting she was wrong, and sought help to make things right. Druidism felt right for her to address all the imbalance she allowed to creep in around her. Voidal Magic, Iblees Worship. Those that were no longer around because of what she thought was ‘right’. Though initially denied by the Owl Druid, the Sequoia Druid took her on since she was able to as a Hierophant of the order.
 

Over the course of Kyral’s dedicancy, did she work to make things right. Learning how Voidal Magic makes the world screech out in agony through the use of a Fae Ring. Using the Fae Ring to get used to the sounds of Druidism, without staying in long. Though, a fractured part of her mind created a reflection of itself inside a rock Kyral found. Skipper, the Crass stone was introduced, and this was even before Kyral was a Druid! Some folks tried to snap Kyral out of it, but she didn’t budge. The Pet Rock was completely sentient in her eyes, even though he was a bit of a jerk.
 

Over the years that followed, Kyral experienced a great deal of loss and triumph. Marrying her loved one Lillith Winterleaf. Becoming a Druid, eventually researching blight healing to try and fight back against those that defiled the land around them. Time and time again, did she depart from a landmass with the descendants in tow. Eventually, in Arcas, her disdain for them, with a very select few outside of the druids keeping her respect.
 

She lived the life of a merchant in Atlas, where she and her wife created many instruments both personal and general from their shop. She kept fighting when things looked bleak, but slowly but surely life caught up with her. The warrior she was, was no longer the Druid she was. Her former Totem, Scroll. Now became the Totem of the singing bird The Nightingale. Slowly, her body quakes and creaks, and she finally opens her eyes.
 

The woman she was years ago was not the woman she was today, she was incredibly different. Some might say one was the polar opposite of the other. No matter how you cut it, Kyral was fully in control of her own actions before and after this change. She was a violent psychopath who saw the world suffering, and reflected. Sure, she relapsed once or twice, but it only took talking about the faces of the descendants of Asulon as they were losing their lives to the plague to slowly bring Kyral from the edge.
 

With a happy sigh, she finally realized what she needed. Talking to her wife, they finally decided to leave the Descendants behind and go to the wilds. To see what the world has, to witness nature unhindered by descendant civilization. It was needed, Kyral always believed that the Descendants were to blame for the lands eventual decay or some other force tossing them out to new lands, where the cycle would continue. Like a blaze, consuming everything, There was only one realistic option, to leave them behind and detach herself from the inferno.
 

So they worked, letting the family know of their final departure, telling some they’d like to come with them. Lohrahn, Alessia, Reliza, Sarisa, Mia, Taera and Illern. The party of two became a party of eight, the boat getting prepped for the journey. The three invited non-druids having a task, to restrain both Kyral and Lillith while the other ungrew their trees. A simple task for a druid with the Trust of the Tree Lord, but otherwise insanely traumatic for the Tree Lord that has its tree removed.
 

With everything done, The group began to set sail. Kyral finished up a series of letters for those that remained.

Hareven @Keefy

Elwen @Roxforbraynz

Lilliana @MamaBearJade

Norawen @Pillsbury
 

Vailoen @Delmodan

To the Current Dwarven Leader @DixieDemolisher

The Entire Druidic Order

And finally, to everyone else, Kyral sent a letter. ((This is for everyone I forgot. This post is incredibly huge and I don’t want to make it endless))

And with the last letters sent, Kyral and her family set sail to new lands. Far away from the Descendants only physically, for they will all be there in times of need in the memories they built over the nine elven years Kyral has been alive. Should one day Kyral succumb to time, Kyral would enter the Eternal Forest, afterlife of the Druids, and share stories with those dear to her. But for now, the Druidess sings a final song on her boat, violin playing the entire time.
 

The Nine Elven Year journey of Kyral Rilann Hightower Evaglno Winterleaf, Mother, Queen, Cleric, Mage, Druid - Had come to an end.

OOC: