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TO KEEP FIRE

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[!] To the supply lines of the Firewatch and its allies, letters are stowed among the rations, addressed to no particular man or woman. It bears the royal insignia of Aegrothond and its whole. Further contextual reading allows the reader to grasp the purpose of the letter – an address to the common man, to those at the front, and those who prepare for war.

 

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To You,

 

I write to inform you that the naval front gathers and proceeds as planned. I shall not elaborate on the details, but know that I am thankful. Without the help of you, this would not be so.

 

What is a city, my friend? Perhaps it is a flame, and a leader is its keeper. To tend to the flames is to offer light and hope to kith and kin. By the fire may a candle be rekindled, and the cold be warmed. Fire perhaps is one of our greatest gifts.

 

I write to you to tell you of the False Flame. These Inferi are forever doomed to a cycle of treachery. They live with meat-sweet hunger, craving all that they are denied, and readily betray each other for a grasp at power. All that they are is stolen from another, and so they can hold no power, and never truly create anything. They do not truly understand how to keep fire, for they cannot learn to keep anything - only take.

 

I have been to their realm, and I have fought against them before.

 

To the many, Aegrothond and its lands are known as a place of Sea Elves. Our mastery hails from the shipwright Eleron Sylvaeri - the last true High Prince of Malinor, and my ancestor. It is a legacy few grasp: the legacy of The Firstborn.

 

Now it is a legacy of far many more Elves. It is a great Flame, to which many lives seek respite, and it is known not as Aegrothond, nor as Siramenor. It is now and forever only Elvenesse - and much as the Flame, Elvenesse prevails.

 

Once I was a child of Light and Soulflame. Once I was a soldier, Praetor, Annilir, Prince - but in this moment now I am a keeper of fire. I have learned to forge the fallen star. I have uncovered the meaning of our soul’s flame, and the secret was never in its taking.

 

Ride to the shores of Almenor, to the Elven South, for the woodlands will welcome your steeds. Sail to the bay, for your vessels are welcome. Take up your blade and flint. Champion not the flame of the Beast, but the flame in your soul.

 

As for those who seek me - call me Flameborne.

 

-Before the Gods of Wood and Stone: Fëanor Sylvaeri

 

[!] A simpler notice, attached, but not addressed to any Descendant, distributed only to Korvassa. Judging by its contents, it is suited not to any prince or leader, but to any Inferi.

 

You who bear False Flame, I tell you now.

 

You know not the meaning of Fire, nor the Sword, yet you chase both. I know the secret of the Hammer, and I know the secret of the First Blade, and so I say that you are doomed to serpentine consumption: an ouroboros, the self devouring serpent, for you cannot understand anything but internal strife.

 

I know that many of you were once Descendants, and I say you cannot fool anyone. Wear as many trinkets as you like. Every single ‘prince’ which rises from your ranks is doomed to be usurped, for that is the logic by which you live. Not a single prince among you was original, and every single one is similarly doomed to be felled.

 

Send as many chained things as you wish. I will break them all.

 

Long live the Free. Long live the Descendants of Man.

 

Sea Prince of Caras Aegrothond, Prince of the Crown of Elvenesse.

Bearer of the Crown of Storms, Keeper of the Arm of Aeriel.

Descendant of the Firstborn Son of Malin.

Flameborne.

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The Rex smiles as he reads the missive, "We zhall send them back to tha veri hellz that day kaym from!" He says with a smile as he tightens the loose cargo on the Eternal Uzg's Flagship as he makes way to the coasts of Aegrothond.

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Tanyl Erwenys, Okar’ir of Elvenesse would stand upon the stony ramparts of the stalwart citadel.
His ocean blue gaze peering across the open expanse of the Korvassan strait, the gentle northward breeze rustling the ‘aheral’s messy blond hair as he seemed to ponder.


”Let them come, Caras Sylvadrim shall be the barrier which the foul horde of the Anathema break their back upon.
Elvenesse stands eternal, we have weathered storms greater than this. As this citadel has stood for ages, it will stand for ages more. 
Let this mark the beginning of the foul demons end, where we return to times where our every move was not surveyed by the dark enemy every present upon the horizon.”


He’d grunt, turning to the mali who stood ever present watch alongside him- Olorin Telemnar. The pair’s tired eyes would meet, a curt nod shared between the two.

At that Tanyl would turn, the man’s lithe body carrying him down the stairs of the mighty citadel and towards the road.
He’d withdraw a collection of letters from a small bag at his hip, the seal of Greater Elvenesse present upon it.


“The time is now lliran, heed our call.”


@Gilded

 

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The old paladin piled with missives, maps, and charts was delivered the latest news from the mainland. His thoughts wanders towards the mission Captain Alicjo was sent on, the thoughts of the crumbling Al-Faiz surfacing in his memory. 

”A city is a bastion. It does not gurantee posterity, but without it you are doomed to scatter to the four corners of the land. Let us work so that Aegrothond will not fall like Al-Faiz.” 

With that said, he would pen a response for the Sea Prince privately, sending it back on the same courier. 

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Somewhere in the desolate, myriad hills immediately northeast of Sylvaeri’s threatened Elvenesse domain, a great, unnaturally set flame illuminated the solemn night sky atop one of the higher peaks. There, with nary a word nor a gust of wind to be heard about the site for many leagues, a single Elf rested in reverence upon one knee, unusual eyes of shimmering blue closed firmly, and yet restfully, shielding his bright gaze from the blinding light of erupting fire which he faced. Tattoo clad with both sacred phoenix and script of an older world, the ‘ame whose mind and deeds were both perennially aflame held a sharp, ornately carved curved knife of elegant steel towards the lonely torchlight inferno. The biting blade’s edge slightly hot, Avius brought the weapon back and cut a light wound from a hand already covered in a scattering of similar inflictions, still not breaking his sacred silence. And as it had so many times before, the hand oozed blood which its owner surrendered into the fire without hesitation. 

 

His antique, solitary ritual complete, he who was called Phoenix stood to his feet, withdrew a blade of battle and peered down from his makeshift hilltop shrine to Elvenesse, the southern sea beyond, and whatever evils might emerge whence, azure eyes afire with vision of war.

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Within the Talus Grove, Nivndil receives the letter and passes it over to Archdruids Dwyn and Harold. Her usually peaceful countenance bears a notable warmth, remaining with her as she returns to unloading and reloading supplies onto a cart, “Fire to warm the hearth.. steel to put down the enemy..”

@FloralHedgehog @OhDeerLord

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Reserved

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A somber mood filled the narrow corridors of the Ilathdyn Seed Hall, the quiet murmuring of voices amongst those who were in their respective areas could be heard through the dimly-lit hallways. A Mali’Ame by the name of Eldrin had only read the missive moments earlier to those around him, only filling their minds with more questions than answers. However, one thing remained the same in the lot who gathered around the bottom floor; their reaction to the missive. Spears came off of the weapon racks, shields were being exchanged which bore the colors of the Ilathdyn, and the preparations for battle were being made. Kaaene however, trailed out of the bottom floors to make his way through the village. He paused as he reached his burrow near the village’s stone walls, the anxiety-stricken Miven grasping the missive within her small hands. She knew it was now the time for action, this day being on the edge of their minds for quite some time. After helping the elfess toward the seed hall, he turned his head slowly to meet the amber orbs of his mayilun. ”I fear this may only be the beginning.” He muttered, before leaving her there to find Eir’thall.

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IQCaWEdKFAm22O_xqmzGgv6M6tVq_FCirat8_DMcBf99uHkHmwWHGuxu84qS0gRyw1zS2c77MYxM_rHTC_BJnWt4vZQBrSD4wfwJz1aidrrzI1w91Oo0BuAxemjmjg9tlfNDa6g

 

Kalius Tresery sits somewhat slumped in front of the fire pit within Last Light Camp. His face is dirty and gaunt with small splatters of blood splashed across his face, deeply juxtaposed from his typical obsessive cleanliness. His lower thigh is wrapped in a bandage, soaked through with now dried blood. He runs his dirt caked hands through his hair, pushing the greasy strands back, fingertips hesitating slightly as he feels the hair on the sides of his head longer than he has felt in many, many years. Head resting softly on a closed fist, he reads over the letters sent out by the so called Princes. A fire lights in his eyes, but it is not an invigorating fire, burning brightly with the newfound hope of the Princes words. Rather it is a smoldering fire, fueled by anger and pity as it burns just beneath the surface. Anger at the incompetence and passive nature of the leaders of Aegrothond and Siramenor, and pity for those who they are meant to protect.

 

He finishes reading with a loud snort, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it into the roaring fire. 

 

”Fools, they’ve only doomed themselves. Fancy words will not save them now.”

 

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45 minutes ago, Sykogenic said:

IQCaWEdKFAm22O_xqmzGgv6M6tVq_FCirat8_DMcBf99uHkHmwWHGuxu84qS0gRyw1zS2c77MYxM_rHTC_BJnWt4vZQBrSD4wfwJz1aidrrzI1w91Oo0BuAxemjmjg9tlfNDa6g

 

Kalius Tresery sits somewhat slumped in front of the fire pit within Last Light Camp. His face is dirty and gaunt with small splatters of blood splashed across his face, deeply juxtaposed from his typical obsessive cleanliness. His lower thigh is wrapped in a bandage, soaked through with now dried blood. He runs his dirt caked hands through his hair, pushing the greasy strands back, fingertips hesitating slightly as he feels the hair on the sides of his head longer than he has felt in many, many years. Head resting softly on a closed fist, he reads over the letters sent out by the so called Princes. A fire lights in his eyes, but it is not an invigorating fire, burning brightly with the newfound hope of the Princes words. Rather it is a smoldering fire, fueled by anger and pity as it burns just beneath the surface. Anger at the incompetence and passive nature of the leaders of Aegrothond and Siramenor, and pity for those who they are meant to protect.

 

He finishes reading with a loud snort, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it into the roaring fire. 

 

”Fools, they’ve only doomed themselves. Fancy words will not save them now.”

 

IQCaWEdKFAm22O_xqmzGgv6M6tVq_FCirat8_DMcBf99uHkHmwWHGuxu84qS0gRyw1zS2c77MYxM_rHTC_BJnWt4vZQBrSD4wfwJz1aidrrzI1w91Oo0BuAxemjmjg9tlfNDa6g

“Who are yeh an’ why did t’ey le’cheh ou’ o’ Sutica where yeh edgies belong?” comments Filibert Applefoot

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Within a deep grotto sat a few elves, all laughing and intoxicated. They seemed jovial, unlike the serious tone that had taken over Aegrothond and her surrounding allies. The warrior beasts remained in their cavern, their gear piled into a corner as they simply enjoyed the company of one another. For they were Druii who were used to conflict and the slaughter, ones who welcomed the coming days, not prepared for it with stern visages and worried minds. They all continued their festivities and hallucinations, as if it were their last time together. From this the Father Druids would heed the call, awaiting for the first poor beasts that sought to breach their shores, for those beasts knew not the creatures of whom they provoked.

Edited by _Sug

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1 hour ago, Sykogenic said:

IQCaWEdKFAm22O_xqmzGgv6M6tVq_FCirat8_DMcBf99uHkHmwWHGuxu84qS0gRyw1zS2c77MYxM_rHTC_BJnWt4vZQBrSD4wfwJz1aidrrzI1w91Oo0BuAxemjmjg9tlfNDa6g

 

Kalius Tresery sits somewhat slumped in front of the fire pit within Last Light Camp. His face is dirty and gaunt with small splatters of blood splashed across his face, deeply juxtaposed from his typical obsessive cleanliness. His lower thigh is wrapped in a bandage, soaked through with now dried blood. He runs his dirt caked hands through his hair, pushing the greasy strands back, fingertips hesitating slightly as he feels the hair on the sides of his head longer than he has felt in many, many years. Head resting softly on a closed fist, he reads over the letters sent out by the so called Princes. A fire lights in his eyes, but it is not an invigorating fire, burning brightly with the newfound hope of the Princes words. Rather it is a smoldering fire, fueled by anger and pity as it burns just beneath the surface. Anger at the incompetence and passive nature of the leaders of Aegrothond and Siramenor, and pity for those who they are meant to protect.

 

He finishes reading with a loud snort, crumpling the paper into a ball and tossing it into the roaring fire. 

 

”Fools, they’ve only doomed themselves. Fancy words will not save them now.”

 

IQCaWEdKFAm22O_xqmzGgv6M6tVq_FCirat8_DMcBf99uHkHmwWHGuxu84qS0gRyw1zS2c77MYxM_rHTC_BJnWt4vZQBrSD4wfwJz1aidrrzI1w91Oo0BuAxemjmjg9tlfNDa6g


“Fools they might be,” shared Kairn with Kalius. “But as they are elven fools, we shall help Jack keep their city from falling.” 

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Jiangu Vincrute sat in his monastery with multiple scrolls in front of him. Blue mist floated about him and the scrolls as he muttered “Demons are coming my friends.” He’d gently sigh as the scrolls sealed themselves. Soon after he stood and sent them out amongst his order and his friends.

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47 minutes ago, _Sug said:

Within a deep grotto sat a few elves, all laughing and intoxicated. They seemed jovial, unlike the serious tone that had taken over Aegrothond and her surrounding allies. The warrior beasts remained in their cavern, their gear piled into a corner as they simply enjoyed the company of one another. For they were Druii who were used to conflict and the slaughter, ones who welcomed the coming days, not prepared for it with stern visages and worried minds. They all continued their festivities and hallucinations, as if it were their last time together. From this the Father Druids would heed the call, awaiting for the first poor beasts that sought to breach their shores, for those beasts knew not the creatures of whom they provoked.

 

Hareven just takes weapon stock like a reasonable person on the precipice of war.

One of Peon imps listens in on the weird cave and leaves with more confidence than it previously held.

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