PURITY, IS LIKE A BUTTERFLY [PK]

[Ixli 1472]

 

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The Uradir Manifesto

To Be Published

Upon the Death of

Silir Uradir

 

---

 

Purity, is like a butterfly. It grows and manifests itself as time goes on, but it will always be fleeting. Only Larihei was perfect in the pure endeavors of the ‘thill, only she remains untainted. It is why we hold her to such a high standard in our society. No race, whether puritan or otherwise, would ever idolize a being that they can be like. No! Man and Elf will always look to limits impossible to achieve, as to guide and thrust ourselves forward with cunning ambition. This might leave the palpable inquiry of why high elves push to obtain purity, even when we inertly understand that purity will always be impossible to achieve. I will answer it curtly; purity is a means by which we give ourselves the ability to discern nobility from wickedness. There must always be the strive for perfection and purity, so that morals and the compasses that come with them remain intact. Even when we look down upon the humans inside the gates, or the wood elves that fail to bear shoes, or the peace forsaken urguanites, we do so with good intent.

 

You will all be curators of imperfection, of mistakes tainted with impurity. If you are reading this, then even a distant son of Kalenz fell into the natural cycle of oblivion, however viscous and undeserved it may have been. That, however, does not entail that you must abandon the path. In life or the cold embrace of death, I will never believe perfection is achievable. I am a cranky, unmarried, old elf. Or, was – heh. Many of you reading this will not be. Many of you will still hold aspirations soaked in commitment and beauty. Use those aspirations to build a world for your sons and daughters, the future of this blessed nation. The Silver State of Haelun’or will always survive, regardless of outside attempts to bring it down. We are targeted because we are the closest to that perceivable perfection; while those on the outside fall upon birth, our minds and bodies must be put under siege. Attacked into imperfection, so that the white walls of our minds and souls only crumble after onslaught, after onslaught, after onslaught. They work towards tearing us down as to ensure that they might see true purity before we do. But, they are trapped in that same cycle of mockery. Even if they succeed to tear us down, they will not find that perfection, because it is nonexistent. That disappointment will only leave room for the ‘thill to rise once more. It is only a matter of time. 

So, my brothers and sisters, sons and daughters, puritans: never forget the true nature of purity. Your attempts are inherently tainted, but they are always worth continuing. Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya, I proclaim. Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya.

 

---

 

Signed,

Silir Uradir

 

Regardless of our biology, we are ephemeral.

We will never be unfettered, for we should never yearn to be.

The endless hunt for purity is necessary. 

~Silir Uradir

 

[StormBreaker0520 192]

Storm Elibar’acal would read the missive, a gloomy frown upon his face “Maehr’sae hiylun’ehya, Silir. Your sacrifices and effort to the State will never be forgotten. Far in distance and thought we may have been, but never by heart. You were a wonderful leader, and an even better brother in arms. It will be hard to find one competent enough, or with the same brilliance as yourself. May your soul rest well in whatever afterlife exists.” He would then fold it up, placing it in his pocket, to carry with him as a constant reminder wherever he went 

[Ixli 1472]

“I, Silir Uradir, give the Uradir talonnii to Anethra Uradir. I implore the Okarir’san-ship to go to Muireal Uradir. I implore the Kharajyr to secede. I implore the Sohaer to punish the idiots within this chamber that I have named as impure.” He brought the long, sharp edge of his blade to his neck. In a swift motion, he slides it across his exposed skin, severing the cords and veins that ran through his throat. The elf fell to the ground, blood covering the floor of the citadel.

[Ankan 2875]

Sohaer Dimaethor Elervathar sat in his office, comforting himself with the LAST bottle of his Uradir Wine. He groaned and shifted in his seat, sore from the day of work. The posthumous letter hadn’t come to any surprise, yet.. this sort of letter? Dimaethor found himself at a loss of words, and the countless glasses of red that followed didn’t seem to make his mind any lighter.

 

”He was good. Maehr’sae hiylun’ehya.”

[squakhawk 14038]

Spoiler

Please listen along!

The wilting Uradir looked down from the stands to Silir, things seemed to move in slow. There was a constant ringing in her ears, that was increasingly loud, unable to discern most other sounds. She could not breathe, nor could she try. She watched as her cousin raised his blade in proclamation, the words coming and going throughout her mind as a distant dream. A voice appeared in her head, deep, and rugged. Distinctly masculine, though nearly as if two of this voice spoke at once.

”Ane? Are you there?”

”Yeah.”

”This seems unfair. What are you going to do?”

”I don’t know.”

”Well why not?”

”I’m afraid. Everything he has worked so hard to keep I will lose.”

”Do something about it, Ane.”

”I can’t.”

”You are always like this. Just decide.”

”I can’t.” she stuttered in her thoughts. 

”You’re disappointing. Stay that way, stay a failure as he wants you to be. Stay the person you’ve strided to not be, that you need so much help to not be. Stay a failure, stay an outcast, stay a device of other’s plots. You are nothing.”

Anethra continued to watch her cousin speak, as fleeting words of his speech pierced her mind like silver. Her eyes frantically stared and stayed with evermoving pupils. It breached her mind as the ringing grew louder and the voice devolved into static, blaringly loud as she watched blood spurt from the throat of her cousin, and onto the silvered floors of the throneroom. Her cousin fell to his knees, and collapsed onto his chest as the ichorous pool expanded around him, muddling his tarnished armour and torn red cloak. 

“SILIR!” she exclaimed, rushing toward him. The ringing and voice had left, the uproar of the crowd around her was what had filled her ears. She approached as he choked and sputtered, she could not see his face but she yearned to for the life of her. She tried desperately to pick him up as tears streaked down her face.

The act was over, nothing in the world mattered anymore. Anethra was no longer of a Talonii, no longer of an order- she was an Uradir. 

She attempted fervently to deliver him to the medical office which would not hold him, the time she had clutched his hand, the last of his strength and life was fading. Her mind screamed, as the voice was overwhelming her in multiple occasions and tones, utterly lost and confused, she could not tell what was real and what could not. Her magic faded, her blood emboldened into a fury. The bottle of emotions saved over decades was opened, and it would be let loose. 

Hell hath no fury. 

[Sorcerio 4712]

Olrin Maehr’tehral, upon reading the missive, would hold his head in shame. His hands would ball into fists, recalling what had transpired during the trial, the poor elf simply going to continuously murmur to himself. “It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault...”

[Vermy 1484]

Sulraell’s pale green eyes turned a sudden dark-red as the reflection of the pool of blood swept against his pupils like a wave. His left eyebrow rose until it met his hairline as he softly stuttered to himself  

“I d-did not wish f-for this unfortunate event to unfold l-like this.. By Larihei, I did n-not even ask f-for this terrible trial..”

 

He paused for a brief moment, voices fading into distant mumbles whilst solely Silir’s body seemed to remain in focus “L-Let this a be lesson t-to the citizenry o-of our blessed state. Today a-another victim has been claimed b-by the unruly Kha f-festering our city l-like insects... Leeches s-sucking on the p-pure blood flowing t-through our veins. They make unfortunate ‘thill f-fall into madness as did Mister U-Uradir today..” 

 

Sulraell’s sight slowly regained focus as he left the citadel, his sandals leaving a squeak to echo through the hall...

[Demented_Delila 1248]

Grief.

 

      This would be the only word that Dele could use to describe the way she felt. The heaviest weight yet added to her heart. Silir Uradir was gone. Not just on his travels, not on some journey. He was gone from her life, from her gaze, from the gazes of those around him.  She doesn’t pay any mind to the blood on her clothes now, or the way that her hands begin to shake when she tries to comb Anethra’s hair post washing of it to remove his blood. The blood of her brother, spilled by his own hand. It was all too much. She cursed herself for tending to a letter that could’ve waited. 

 

      It was that night she sat upon her bed with that bottle of Uradir Cherry Wine, drinking from it deeply, as she lit a bundle of Eternal Leaf. She could feel him scorning her for smoking but Larihei, she didn’t care now. A box, with two posthumous letters already inside, sits beside her as she reviews his letter. It would be tucked away safely when she finished reading it.

 

”Maehr’sae Hiylun’ehya, old friend. May an afterlife greet you with all the love you deserve... All the praise you did not recieve. They’ll do right by you there- I’m sure...

Tell Maleos I said hello, won’t you? Tell Gusten I’m sorry, and that we miss him down here.... Larihei- We’ve lost so much... You deserved so much better...”

 

   Sure there had been times in her life when Silir was like a pest that she quarreled with, but with his absence... She begins to regret all the times they quarreled. She tries to forget, finding him forgiven for these petty fights. She focused instead on the passage of time as it crept by in her room, oozing down the walls with the hours that tick by. She begins to laugh the deeper into the bottle she gets. She recalls his thinly veiled marriage proposal, once upon a time in a kitchen so long ago. She recalls his love of baked goods and his passion for words, his zealous love for the truth. 

 

    She begins to weep, however, as guilt wracks into her. She feels guilty, feeling as if he had needed help the whole time they’d known each other. She didn’t know anymore. The candle burns late in her window that night and by the witching hour, she had fallen asleep in unease. The ease of sleep would not return to the troubled Laurir who had been there as he breathed his last breathe before her on the table. Horrid nightmares plague her with all the taunting thoughts of what could’ve been done. She has taunting nightmares of Anethra rotting away from her grief, just as she asked her to let her do. Yet she doesn’t wake... No, not tonight. There are terrible visions of maggots and worms, of gasping breathes and things that cannot be undone, things that cannot be unsaid

 

”...I’m sorry...”

 

Were the final, restless words spoken in her sleep before all was quiet.

 

A bottle of empty wine sits on the windowsill with a candle stump, long burned down. A flame gone out with little more then a whisper, just as Silir had done. A butterfly gone on the breeze.

 

 

 

[Rainbow 111]

     Mayan did not recollect the man well. As they had never spoken on decent terms. Loathing one another and being called impure despite her greatest efforts for the state. Though, in her idle stance- watching Ane helpless to comfort and Dele drown the Grief slowly in fine wine. Her gaze wavered just a bit- a warmth in her soul for the man she knew.

     "May you rest well, Silir.. may you rest well." The woman finally murmured, falling to sit by Dele in the quiet manor. 

 

[Ryloth 4321]

A tear or two manifests in the eyes of the High Aelkos at the reading of the missive, following the news of Silir Uradir’s suicide. ”Tragic. Dees eez nawt how eet should hawve gone..” He shakes his head, Haskir then submitting his own missive in Silir’s honor.

[Sparkkzy 25]

Anya sits in the quiet solitude of family’s manor as she looks over the writings of the freshly late Uradir. With a pensive frown she cautiously folds the parchment and returns it to rest on a side table. With methodical movement she rises and appears silhouetted in the nearby window. Her gaze casts beyond the garden that lay outside, beyond the walls that encapsulate her ‘thilln city. Its here that she staunchly stands, stoically considering the endeavors of her ancestors and those younger than her who already gather status and position within the State. 

 

”Will your blood count, Sillir?” she wonders aloud. Indeed, how much ‘thill blood can spill before change arises. How much blood is swept away with the guises of impurity and conspiracy. 

 

After some time with her grim thoughts she closes her eyes and twists her head with a small shaking motion. No, it wasn’t time to delve into those thoughts yet to cherish the good memories she did have of the elf.

 

“maehr’sae hiylun’eyha, Sillir.” she speaks with a final look out of the window, “May you rest now and may those left behind view your strife and dedication for the State with indulgence as any faults of your’s be consigned to oblivion, as you yourself are now.”

[Valaryon 513]

Valenar sat across from the mantle and the fire that burned beneath it. The Mali’aheral held the letter in his left hand and a glass of Visaj Red in the other – he’d begun to have forgotten how many times he’d read over the finely written words announcing the death of his friend. Valenar had not had many of his friends taken to the grave, despite being a Mali with friends across Arcas and all living very different lives, yet Silir Uradir’s death was one that Valenar genuinely did not expect.

 

“Who was Silir Uradir?” Valenar asked himself.

 

Valenar finished his fifth cup – and likely his sixth reading if the wine had served as any measurement of events, crumpled the letter in his hands and tossed it into the fire across from him.

 

”Silir Uradir, a Mali who feared none, many times did I watch you stare into the maws of the abyss and not once did you falter in your resolve. The battle of Talus Grove, the conflicts with Irrinor. Never did you waver. Silir Uradir, a Mali who commanded respect, all that knew your name knew that you did not hold the Uradir legacy lowly, the Sillumir followed you without question and without doubt – the citizenry never questioning a situation when you held the reins. Silir Uradir, a Mali who inspired those around him, you my dear llir had inspired me to reach the heights that I sit upon today. You led me and many others to glory in combat – and to prosperity at home, from war to diplomacy you gave your all in whatever you did. As long as Laraethryn blood flows through my veins, the name of Silir Uradir will not go disrespected. Sirame ito kae'leh, nae oroment, Silir Uradir.”

[DragoonCrow 346]

A BREEZE FLOWS THROUGH MALINOR 

[Samler 1565]

Seth watched the trial, silently judging Silir’s odd behavior during the trial, beliving it to be an attempt tp point out Elokarir’tir’leh unworthyness of the title and power residing within it. Then the verdict came, Seth wasn’t suprised. They simply did see past the act, the actions were illegal, a simple matter. Then Silir drew his blade, Seth calmly took the high ground of the spectator wings, knowing if the fighting moved up to him, he would have enough time to blast them down and call for help. After all, the Shadow Council still wanted him alive, for what purpose? He didn’t know. Does that mean Silir has lost his favor from the Shadow Council?

“Rhael! Seth! Need you at the clinic!” Dele shouted as Silir took his own life. Yes, he had lost his position to the Shadow Council. 

He called back. “Silir is slaying himself!” as the room were in shock.

As Dele and Rhaelanthur attended the dieing elf, he knew his duty were at the clinic, for whatever foolish soul has arrived and so he went, finding a dark elf named Rhys. Simply beated up by badly, he mostly needed time. Seth, unmoved by Silir’s odeal found some wramth in the rememrance of a beach as the dark elf used to live by one. 

On his way back home, a slight worry came to his mind. He knew with certanty that Silir Uradir were a student of Kalenz and related to the Shadow Council, yet he didn’t know of the one who took his place. He gathered the dosis af Javens he took everynight and went to yet another restful sleep without any nightmares to haunt the old elf.

[Johann 2498]

A shaken Uradir sat alone in the enveloping darkness of his chambers, a place he once found comfort in, its inaction now reminding him of the very same that he was guilty of. He was weary from the adversities of the day, and had finally found the much needed time to contemplate its frantic happenings in the ever-welcoming embrace of solidarity. 

 

It all seemed unreal to him.

 

Silir Uradir, a Mali he had for so long admired, had declared him an Uradir and died on the very same day. 

 

The thought alone recalled the trauma he had experienced in that very hall, a place of supposed exaltation now an reminder of unmistakable terror.

He remembered the regret that gnawed on his ego as he beheld Silir’s testimonies against the court, unable to aid Silir in his defense, every moment a call to action that he was unable to answer to. He remembered the ephemeral pride, then indignation that overcame him after being named an Uradir, ashamed at his inability to stand up for the patriarch of his Talonii. Out of all, Muireal remembered the terrible sight of Silir’s bleeding corpse, of how his life ebbed away, a butterfly slowly fluttering away from a wilting flower, all flesh is grass.

Muireal had not been able to act when he beheld Silir’s death, being rendered paralysed as his eyes fixated on the haunting sight, in a vague, incomprehensible amalgation of disbelief and despair. He sat idly, his pupils constricted, a prostration incapacitating his will to action, his ability to think. He watched the tragedy unfold, witnessing his sole relative rise to action and Mali frantically rushing to Silir’s aid in the nightmarish fever. 

 

Then, in the midst of the anguish that encompassed the room did he hear an undeniable remark of callousness from the epicenter of his resent. Outrage, was all he felt, disgusted by the condescension of the revered Alaion Miravaris, who watched the demise of Silir with reprehensible impassiveness. Muireal’s breaths grew frequent, yet heavier, nearing the brink of submitting to his impulse as he glared at the Okarir, his emotions marred in fury, fuelled by despair. 

 

Yet, his memories brought him, from the height of his anger, to the peak of his plight – he now looked upon the body of Silir Uradir in the clinic, alone, bereaved at the sight, and appalled by what had unwinded before him.

 

“Wh- What must I do now, Silir?” he mutters vaguely, his voice wavering at the weight of the situation.

”Am I to honour you? Mourn for you? Succeed you?”

Muireal then remembers of what Silir had said in his last words, a final appeal to the State, but now a dogma to him:

“I implore the Okarir’san-ship go to Muireal Uradir.”

The words brought about a certain peace to Muireal’s distraught mind, as though a flickering light of guidance had been lit to Muireal’s lost ship in his sea of emotions. It was also a spark to an inextinguishable flame that began to invigorate the ‘thill, an ember that ignited the convictions he harboured. This newfound determination compelled Muireal to break free from the stupor he was distraught in. The Mali opened his eyes which had restrained his perceptions to that of the past, now primed towards the future. Muireal smiled resolute, breaking the austere silence of the chamber.

“Then I shall mourn for your death, succeed your title, and honour you, Silir Uradir, in the name of my ambitions, and for the glory of our name.”

”Mark my words, it will be done.”