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Xarkly

Atlas Epilogue

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ATLAS:

EPILOGUE

Vaeyl.png

 

[Loop this track]

Spoiler

 

 

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From atop the enormous ravines shadowing the ruins of Deep Harbor, Vaeyl of Aegis watched the Descendant ships slide across the water.

 

Cutting through the thin ice, their sails swelled with a frigid wind as they gained speed and lurched forward. And then, within mere moments, they sailed further down the fjord, and out of sight.

 

Just like that, they were gone. The enemy the Vaeyl Order had grappled with for so long, the invaders of Atlas, were gone in the blink of an eye. Vaeyl did not cheer, however. He had thought it might be gentle relief, a subtle euphoria, that he would feel when he finally saw the Descendants depart Atlas for good, but now that he stood here, having just witnessed it … He did not feel anything.

 

“Is this how you felt?” he asked, his breath seeping from his helmet in the form of pale mist.

 

“Yes,” a voice behind him answered – a male’s voice, smooth and mild. “Victory is seldom sweet for kings and generals. The greater good is always fleeting.” A silence fell as Vaeyl simply watched the rippling water where the Descendant ships had been mere minutes ago. Eventually, the man behind Vaeyl asked, “Does this mean you understand why I had the Oathstone created now? Why I had you turned into the creatures you now are?”

 

Rage surged through Vaeyl as he balled his gauntlets into fist. He wanted to turn at the other man scream, bellow that he did not understand and never will, that he could never forgive … The anger inside him deflated with a deep sigh. “I do understand,” he managed through gritted teeth. “We needed a way to beat the Undead. We were a sacrifice for the greater good.” His helmet creaked as he lowered his gaze to the snow at his feet. “Just like Serris.”

 

“Quite so,” the other man murmured his agreement. “She knew her duty, though, and she played her part beautifully. I can’t imagine a better person to convince the Descendants that this civil war of yours was real, that the Red Vaeyl were truly an ultimate evil to rally against.”

 

“Yes,” Vaeyl said wistfully, and glanced across the ravines towards the west – towards Caer Baddyn, where the Red Vaeyl had made their final stand. “I … only wish she was still alive to see what she had won.”

 

“Decisions are always hardest for those who must live to see them through. Surely you know that by now, old friend?”

 

Finally, Vaeyl turned to the other man. Horen looked exactly as Vaeyl remembered: tall and lean-faced, his hair was iron-grey and threaded with streaks of white, though his neat beard had more of its original brown colour to it. His satin cloak, black and purple, was pinned by a silver dragon brooch on the breast of his vest of chainmail. A gloved hand rested on the dragon-pommel of his sheathed sword as he watched Vaeyl with dark, inquisitive eyes.

 

“I do,” he breathed softly. “Iblees curse me, I do.”

 

Horen only smiled. A sad, knowing smile. He stepped forward, snow crunching beneath his boots, as he joined Vaeyl at the edge of the ravine. He inhaled slowly through his nose, before he sighed, and settled his eyes on Deep Harbour below. The water had stopped rippling. “So, my old friend,” he began. “Time for a new chapter?”

 

Vaeyl nodded. Slowly, he reached up, and removed his helmet. It was refreshing, to let his dark, matted hair tangle in the chill wind. He turned the helmet over in his hands, and stared at the white eye painted across the visor. “Time for a new chapter.” The helmet dropped into the snow. With Vaeyl turned around, Horen was not there. Sucking in one last breath of frigid air, he began the long walk back to Lasthope.

 

He had come alone to see the Descendant’s depart, but he knew the rest of the Order would be waiting beyond the Wall. He was so lost in thought that it felt like only minutes until he found himself at the gates back into Atlas proper. Stepping through to the other side with heavy, lumbering footsteps, he found them all waiting inside the ruins of Lasthope: what was left of the Order. Even that sent a stab of regret lancing through Vaeyl; a thousand years ago, not even one percent of the Order’s forces could fit inside Lasthope’s great hall. Now, a scarce few hundred remained, making the hall seem lonely. As Vaeyl entered through the collapsed doorway, they all turned to stare at him expectantly. He was the only one of them without a helmet, of course, but for a moment he simply looked at each of them.

 

Then, he bent down, and picked up a fallen brick. He stacked it back on the wall from where it had fallen, before he looked back to the silent Knights.

 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” he asked them. “This castle is not going to rebuild itself.”

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Spoiler

 

 

100 YEARS LATER

 

“ … shipments of grain from New Kahaer by next winter, and … Lord-General?”

 

Vaeyl glanced up with a start. Across the table, a pale-faced woman, her silvery hair piled in ornate curls, was frowning at him. “Did you hear me, Lord-General?”

 

”I, ah, yes,” he lied, straightening up in his high-backed chair. “My apologies, Queen-Governor. I am sure King-Governor Faidas has no objection to increased grain shipments until we can send Stormsingers to fix the drought in New Endmoor?” He glanced down the table, past rows of King and Queen-Governors in silks and satin, to a dark-skinned man with a hooked nose in a cream coat.

 

“ … Very well, Lord-General,” Faidas muttered reluctantly. “So long as it is only for one winter, however. New Kahaer does not have enough grain to feed all Atlas.” Murmurs rippled across the table at that, and Vaeyl nearly laughed: he knew full well that New Kahaer had enough grain to feed Atlas twice over, but King-Governor Faidas had never let go of his province’s resources unless Vaeyl himself gave the direct order.

 

“We are all indebted to your generosity,” Vaeyl said with a respectful nod, before he looked to the silver-haired woman he had woken him from his day-dream. “The Queen-Governor Elsaea most especially, I am sure.”

 

Elsaea took the hint, and mimicked the deep nod to Faidas. “New Endmoor thanks you sincerely, King-Governor.”

 

Before Faidas could draw out the ordeal, Vaeyl tapped his knuckles on the table. “Let us adjourn for now, my lords and ladies. I think a few minutes of fresh air would do us all some good.” 

 

The men and women seated at the table rose without delay, and exchanged quiet formalities before the council room emptied. Vaeyl was left alone sitting at the head of the table, except for a man who stood at the back wall behind him, clad all in black plate with a White Eye painted on his breast and helmet.

 

“You must prod me when I doze off like that, Taevynd,” he grumbled. His eyes drifted to the centre of the table, where an ornate map of Atlas was spread out, with calligraphed names to mark the great cities of Atlas. Most of them were the cities that the Descendants from Axios had left empty when they travelled to Arcas, only now they went by different names: to the north, the city that had once been called Carolustadt was now the flourishing trade-capital of New Sevenna; the lands abandoned by the Elves of Gladewynn had become New Endmoor; and the city that Vaeyl stood in at that very moment had once been called Markev, before it had been rechristened as New Yrodholm. 

 

“What am I to do, Lord-General?” Taevynd protested. “Lean over and poke you while a Queen-Governor is petitioning you? It would not be proper.”

 

“No,” Vaeyl agreed as he pushed to his feet. “I suppose it would not. Come, though, let’s walk. I am sick to death of this room.” Whenever a Sitting of the Governor-Royarchs was called, Vaeyl always dreaded spending days listening to their reports and petitions. That was a small price to pay for peace though: under the ultimate authority of the Vaeyl Order, none of Atlas’ provinces ever dreamed of war now. The sheer thought was foreign to them.

 

His mood softened a little as he pushed out of the council chambers with Taevynd, onto a balcony that overlooked the city below. New Yrodholm had tripled in size since the days it had been known as Markev. Tall townhouses spanned neat, paved streets, occassionally shadowed by a colourfully-slated tower of a noble’s manor. People thronged the streets, all in well-cut wool and some in silks, browsing between market stalls as the autumn sun bore down on them overhead. The sounds of traders crying their wares, horseshoes drumming against the street and a thousand voices talking washed over Vaeyl. To him, it was a dulcet sound. Even in the heart of the city, he could make out distant farms on the rising hilltops that ringed the city to the south.

 

It was a vision of peace: after fighting for countless centuries, he could recognize peace immediately. In truth, he was envious of the citizens, who had never known war in their life. He was even jealous of the recruits training in the courtyard below, sparring in plain black platemail – it was only when they were properly Knighted would they be allowed to paint the White Eye on their breast. Squinting, he glanced up at the sun.

 

”Thank you, Serris,” he whispered under his breath.

 

”Hm? Did you say something, Lord-General?” Taevynd asked at his side, and Vaeyl shook his head.

 

”No, nothing. Would you still the Governor-Royarchs that we shall resume in five minutes, Taevynd?”

 

“Of course, Lord-General.” Planting a fist over his heart, he turned and marched back into the council chambers to assemble the nobles.

 

Vaeyl was left on the balcony, still clad in his Order plate despite the warmth of the morning. He sucked in a breath through his nose, and simply smiled.

 

Overhead, from the highest spire of the palace in New Yrodholm, the black-white banner stirred as the wind picked up.

 

The White Eye billowed triumphantly in the wind.

 

 

The End.

 

 

 

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holy ****... the vaeyl event line is by far, the best event line ive seen on lotc. sad to see it end but good work on it. good post also

 

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Karl watches as the lands grew farther out of sight, his chest still wrapped in bandages. He shook his head "A means to an end" He muttered to himself as he went back inside the cabin to write is his journey down

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really good ending
somber but peaceful

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Fantastic read.

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As the descendants sailed away with it upon the ship it piloted, its being raged as it always had inside; but, somewhere, She would miss her friend, Vaeyl.

Edit: (OOC) I want to thank Xarkly for the best and most heartfelt eventline I’ve ever participated in. I thoroughly enjoyed every single second of it. 

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Now... now, this is truly EPIC.

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((I’m so confused. If the Vaeyl Order are not Descendents [or at least no longer Descendents], then what are they, and who are all those “people” that now inhabit Atlas? They’re not humans, but they are mortal since Vaeyl ponders how they’ve never known war, etc etc.

I know I joined LOTC mid/early-Atlas but boy oh boy did I miss a lot...

 

Will we ever know why they wanted the Desendents gone besides the nebulous “they could become undead” or something? Will we ever know the nature and origin of Vaeyl, his deceased female friend, and Horen? How were they so powerful, especially concerning the Ice Wall and the frigidness. Regardless, if all of Atlas was covered in ice/mists, then where did all those “people” come from? Why did it dissipate to allow it to be “warm” in the morning?

 

So many questionssss))

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Great event line! It’s not just about the writing and planning to do the stuff, but it’s the acts, creativity and specially dedication that can make something amazing. Most people that attempt something of this size would drop their will to do it in the first 3 or 5 events... very nice!

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Wait so is Horen god or what, how can he appear in the future and tell the truth like that. the plot is thickening 

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On 3/6/2019 at 7:22 AM, Chimp said:

Wait so is Horen god or what, how can he appear in the future and tell the truth like that. the plot is thickening 

 

the scene with horen is in vaeyls head, he's not actually alive. Its a theatrical portrayal of vaeyls thoughts and feelings

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