TO THE STARLIT CITADEL

[Unwillingly 18096]

This missive is public.

 

---

 

When I was a boy, my father recited tales of elven prodigy and prestige when I lay half-asleep in his arms. He spoke of a time where our people suffered not in a murky fissure of apathy, but thrived with the radiance of the burning sun above. His voice painted a time where elven blades were sharp enough to split the sky above, and cities glistened like lost jewels beneath the moon. I slumbered in my youth, but I was not yet a dreamer. 

 

Our wayward travels carried us east, along with my mother and siblings, where it was said a city of stars and steel stood tall on a mighty precipice. It was said to have been a sanctuary of glory for elvenkind, where our people would be promised an age of grandeur and triumph in the throes of ever-fracturing elven sovereigns: Celia'nor.

 

Indeed, my arrival came with fruitful promise from the Celian denizens who preached the way of steel and knowledge: ilMaehr’sae Ilkun’ehya.

 

Although I swiftly ascended the Celian echelon as both soldier and legislator, a mali of the blade and pen, I had not reaped the fruits of my work even well into my tenure. My efforts went without merit, and my calls for action were met with little more than pitiful, taciturn silence from our leaders. The congress I had been appointed to languished and stagnated despite my pleas to the Royarch to invoke the change I could not. When my blade rend swift through the flesh of Ibleesians and their incurable afflictions, I was met not with gratitude nor friendly eyes. I was questioned, scolded, and rebuked by those of the high council, while the spiking of Ibleesian heads were met with profound, deep-seated detestation by the denizens below them.

 

The Celia’diraar, an emblem of elven excellence and honor, withers under the weight of neglect, while our government idles on promises that ring hollow. Still, did I linger, enamored by the vision for an age of elves that my father’s tales so vividly recounted. But I would eventually realize my efforts were made in vain.

 

So, It is with a heavy heart that I announce my departure from Celia’nor and the resignation of all active posts, effective immediately. 

 

I write not with wrath towards my kin, but a nature of sadness that wounds the soul. I write with the ache of a thousand thorns and a heart that breaks for the plight of our people. I grieve for the noble elves whose spirits have dulled, dreams clouded by apathy, I mourn for the spires that once glistened with fiery hope, reduced to monuments of forgotten glory, and I reflect upon myself, the prodigal son who no longer slumbers. 

 

This is not my legacy.
 

Signed,

Galahad Nullivari

[helldiving 5793]

The tales of the father made sense no longer, and the very weaver of storied past prepared to join his eldest, for he was his legacy.

[squakhawk 14038]

A bureaucracy rivaling The Empire of Man, with the nature of Elves who are neither pressed for time or gloryseeking. And yet they gloryseek, they stagnate. Do they envy them, I wonder? For what they do not have in the urgency of a short life?

 

Who is to say but that it seems the elves will never succeed at this rate; with Haelun'or and now it's copycat state both in this mire of imitation. Ours was the age of elven supremacy; What is this? A false hope, I would suppose, that now the Mali'ame of Nevaehlen surpass the white peacock without a second glance back.

 

Perhaps we will end up like the Mali'ker, one failed state after another in a group that has lost it's identity. Not taken; but simply forgotten from ancestors who stagnate out of the conservative culture they hope to keep intact. An impressive feat, truly.

 

Anethra stated, evermore burdened with the weight of what she could not have; nor anyone, it seemed.

[sam33497 7356]

Silwyn Cerusil had journeyed far and wide, and seen the state of things. It happened that nowhere was perfect, and similar vices gripped everyone; it was truly unfortunate for that Galahad which had lofty visions to be restrained by the order of existing civilization. The young warrior wondered to himself whether Galahad would be able to make the change he wanted in the end - he certainly hoped so. His words to the son of Hurin in the coming days were simple:
 

"I will support you, wherever you go."

[Morigung-oog 5697]

An ancient Planeswalker and crowned regent of the Scions of Ebrietaes pondered from afar. Her banishment had been instated years ago, yet was  to no detriment of her own. Where once she dwelled among the most insufferable of mortals she now danced with ageless and parlayed with Gods. Her gaze, reminiscent of the deepest clutches of the void, yet twice as harsh still, drifted towards the chalice sat within her grasp, an elven skull fashioned into an object of her own convenience at the expense of one so innocent yet at no true cost of her own. A soft sip was taken from the contents, crimson in hue.. Yet not blood, no... For she had not yet nor would she ever truly cave to the savagery of mindless eternals. Only after a few smacks of those darkened lips and the taste of the full-bodied wine was savoured did she query from atop her throne to her subjects and equals, beings wrought of bone, and flesh, both living and otherwise, and amalgamations of stone and ectoplasm.

 

 

"One can't help but wonder, was it worth it?"

 

----------

 

Several days later, when the regal alter ego of the magus had caught up on some much needed beauty sleep, Valindra Nullivari, not Barrowlord Fornotos looked upon the missive with a bittersweet smile. Such had been expected and had been a long time coming, though no doubt the Starlit State would feel the sting of yet another loyal citizen forced out from inaction.

 

"Butter my buttocks and call me a biscuit, we are dropping like flies, no?"

 

The Nullivari mused with a faint snort of amusement. Little mind was yet paid to the civilians who had turned her away, yet a shard of worry had embedded deep within the 'aheral for her longtime friend who ruled and was sure to try to shoulder his peoples' burden and the prophet planeswalker who diligently worked as damage control.

 

 

@TheWhiteWolf@Vaasek@rathat@MeteorDragon

[hopey 364]

In the stagnant estate of the Py'lrie, Nefeli lumbered by the roaring flames of the polished fireplace. As her eyes reached the end of the missive, the parchment hardly lingered in her digits. Casting it into the hearth, the fire swallowed it whole with a hiss, causing a smog of particles to rise. In haste, she flees for the manor's gates, accompanied by a stolen dagger that her father once held. 

[JEEGK 1367]

Inside the dimly lit brewery, a man wrestled with a storm of indecision. Donnie stood in the shadows, eyes scanning the missive, his fingers threading through his hair in a gesture of deep contemplation. "Oh, Galahad," he murmured, voice tinged with both admiration and melancholy. "You have the strength to forge ahead and dream without limits. I can only wish you the greatest fortune in your future endeavors. Perhaps fate will allow our paths to cross once more."

 

With a sigh, he rose to his feet, feeling the weight of the moment. He walked slowly to the door’s sturdy support beam, each step echoing with resolve. At the entrance, he carefully pinned the missive, ensuring it would be seen by all who entered the speakeasy, a silent testament to the bond and hopes he harbored for his once fellow brother-in-arms.

[Venomous_Pup 2978]

Laerdya looked over the missive in a brief glance, years had she worked for Celia'nor, since before Ivarielle founded Celia'nor, she asked no praise, she asked no reward. She felt it selfish what she read. She found it lacked understanding, flame is fickle, it can burn brilliant bright, to lowly embers, in a state of flux. She took note of the name, an individual that had never approached her, and decides she'll investigate with the other councilors to see if they were approached about this sentiment.