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Tarnished Silver: A Lamentation


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Adreniel Elibar'acal recalls seeing this elf in Elvenesse. He scoffs and returns to sharpening his saber . 

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“A lingering, undead disgrace.” The soldier muttered as he read over the parchment, standing over the corpse of elvenesse’s head steward. “I see. Another loss for us.”

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1 minute ago, Werew0lf said:

“A lingering, undead disgrace.” The soldier muttered as he read over the parchment, standing over the corpse of elvenesse’s head steward. “I see. Another loss for us.”

 

Finnadh Uradir, a Weeping Blade, remarked simply as following to his comrade - the unnamed soldier.

 

"It is interesting that now they deem it fit to issue public letters without denouncing the Taliame'onn assassin and offering any form of answer as to how that actual brigand was allowed to assail the Sohaer without repercussions. Furthermore, it is interesting that an elf such as he who claims to  be leal and decent would betray his own country to join under the banner of a state whose whole existence has been marred by the indecent treatment of foreigners, xenophobia, and the rule of a tyrannical tanistry - the opposite of a democracy he claims to cherish. I have not met this erstwhile cousin of mine, but I am sure he will be returning to our homeland soon enough once he realizes that he is the tarnished silver he decries in this article.

"A humiliating written work that serves only to reinforce that the ties of brotherhood, easily forgone by himself, will always be cast aside by those such as he who flee the Motherland for other shores." 

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As the 'aheral pens the word failure, a typically boisterous Miven squeezes the mans shoulder with her symbolic ruby-inked digits.  Sun-basked eyes of the Caerme'onn trailed over the last of what Celiasil had to say up until he signs his name. That moment of silence was eery, especially the aura of pain and disappointment she could feel radiating from her partner. Yet, in the confines of their home Miven broke the silence, muttering, "They are ne your sillumiran, they are corrupted minds. May the Aspects guide them..."

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"Your ardour, for to desecrate a just name, is without acclaim, should I so say–"

 

Shrouded below a blanket of stars to the backdrop of dim fray an outwardly, about the picturesque horizon, for which had so but illuminated in thus having been woven to a cling so, the Silver State's own Ihieuhii'thilln, the Breath of Silver, fashioned respite in a drawing for tongue, the sodden keep to which had so haunted in psalm, and reckoned by pure distraught, the outers of his coalescence, and that a heart and soul of his. However were it without common spawn, especially about the kindred of that 'aheral's theatre for a countenance, devoid much of the expressive gesticulate the norm would so assume and set to their employ, it were indeed so, that for the wrought and blight that gathered, his ivory likeness, a taut at either an eye, shrewd in its pools of amber that so bequeathed yet pigment, in stark contrast to the malaise that reigned otherwise, for hereupon had his eyes drawn short slits by svelte to their curtailment, in ***** squint over. As had his vision reduced, for its similar stow, were the man's vacancy in pallid a contours to his disposition, and thus its vacuous quality.

For were his ire rooted to several a constants and under-earths –– he were irate, short measures from being seething with conflict, for the fact that were the legionnaires he sought claim to, some far lion days ahead, had been assumed but a tumour, to a vesicle that could not quite supported; he were irate, for and because of the fact that one whom traced his own ilk had thus humiliated so self, for the favour of propagating the superiority of a waylaid rival in blood; he were irate, for and because of the ersatz nature of his claims. And though were he anointed in the prospects of but abase a variety, and habits, Ihieuhii'thilln fathomed not the jaunting about, as did his unsound distress reverberate hither his jaded spirit. Tapered ends to either sabaton moored so themselves to the regency of cold soil, for as heed to the pivot that the sir made in his form, a march onwards and about.

 

"And you, Celiasilshall live to observe no theme resound that has not its superlative source in me, nor will any twist the humming about my despite. Justice is healing."

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Amaesil reads the statement with a slowly furrowing brow. At the end, he would ponder for a long while. From the elf's perch in the tea shop above the harbor, he can see the sectioned-off portion of the city. A body lies there: the body of a friend; the body of an innocent. Wrath grows in the heart of the young wood elf and his jaw tightens. His hands tremble and grip the parchment tighter. However, he stops. Amaesil looks to the letter and finds comfort in the words of his mentor. He would look around the room before wandering upstairs. There he finds parchment and charcoal. He would pen a short letter to Celiasil and send it off.

 

Celiasil —

 

You have trained me for over a decade. Your arrival in these lands placed me on a path of righteousness, goodness and purpose. Without your guidance, I would not be the elf of value that I am today. The gifts you have given me and the Woodland Realm can never be repayed in full, but I will be damned to the Nether before I tarnish what you have given me — what you gave to the Silver State and what they marred with their naivety.

 

I will not fail you as they have.

 

— Amaesil

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[!] A Mali'thill by the name of Lleinde Tillun'sae would pin their letter of response to several copies of this, sending it back out.

 

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Malding Bakoldem stepped out of the shadows..... the colored ferryman cranking his crossbow as he readies for further onslaught- having heard news of the loss that the prior raid-parties had constantly suffered. Wrath filling his veins, for he did not know how to write, or read- all that he knew was the word 'Elvenesse' and battle. "De time of war is among us" he muttered, underneath his bandana-esque facemask, which bore the colors of the ferrymen.

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Ayliana Maehr’tehral read over the letter, she pressed her lips together gently as she had a conflicted look on her face. She gazed up at the walls of Haelunor in which she resided, her silver hair resting on her shoulders as she shook her head gently as if ridding herself of thoughts. “I wish you the best Celia, I’ll never forget what a good llir you were to me, but I am home..” she mumbled to herself. “Elvenesse never was.” She folded the paper neatly, putting it in her pocket as she then sought out Rowan. 

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Othelu Orrar thinks, for the briefest of moments, about Celiasil's Wood Elven concubine. He frowns.

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