A Princes fate

[Moping 542]

Spoiler

 

 

Published; Upon the 12th of Malin's welcome of the year 183 amidst the Second Age

 

“ilMaehr'sae Ilkun'ehya”

 

 

---

 

 

 

 

A chilling newsletter would pass across the land of Celia'nor, its contents roaming throughout the realm, bringing with it a wave of dread and sorrow. All denizens would come to know of a grave travesty that had befallen their beloved sovereign. In the shadows of the night, Prince Illthrak Ibarellan had been brutally thwarted in battle, sustaining devastating injuries that would ultimately seal his fate.

 

The prince's mother, Illyria Ibarellan, alongside the Parir officer Mathi, had courageously reclaimed 

his body following an assault they endured amidst a fierce battle with a pair of demonlike beings and a manticore. Illthrak's body, marked by charring injuries, told a tale of the hellish encounter. His consciousness barely clung to him as they hastily rushed him to the medical office, a trail of despair following their every step. The medics, skilled and swift, worked frantically to save him, but the trauma was too severe. The Prince, aware of his dire condition, found the strength to briefly awaken.

 

In that fleeting moment of clarity, surrounded by the diraar, medics, and his closest kin—his mother, Illyria Ibarellan, and his sister, Iryne Ibarellan—Prince Illthrak gathered his waning strength to issue a final decree. With the weight of his lineage and the future of Celia'nor upon his shoulders, he proclaimed his mother, the former Monarch, Her Highness Illyria Ibarellan, to reclaim the throne. She would serve as Celia'nor's sovereign until Iryne's destined time to ascend.

 

His voice, though weak, carried the authority and love he held for his people. The medics' frantic attempts to save him continued, but the prince knew his time was nigh. With what could be his last breath, one he would also penn for the public as well with his last seam of strength, he entrusted the future of Celia'nor to his family, hoping they would lead the starlit land to prosperity.

 

As the prince slipped into a deep, slumber-like coma, those present bore witness to his final act of sovereignty that to solidify, he had even penned as well whilst he could still muster the fleeting strength he bore. The diraar stood solemnly, the medics lowered their heads in reverence, and his family wept silent tears. The now former royarch of Celia'nor uttered no further words as he succumbed to his never-ending slumber.

 

This tragic event marked a profound shift for the future of Celia'nor. The denizens, united in grief and hope, awaited the dawn of a new era under the guidance of Illyria Ibarellan. Thus, under the somber veil of night, a new chapter began for the cherished starlit land of Celia'nor.

 

His writing read

I Illthrak Ibarellan hereby declare Illyria Ibarellan Regent and Royarch of Celia’nor until Iryne had been deemed fit to take the mantle of Princess and ascend to the throne of Celia’nor

 

✵

 

---

 

 

AY’PUERAN;

 

His Royal Majesty, The Prince of Fi'andria, Evarir of the North, Descendant of The Silver Phoenix, Enforcer of the Star’s Will, Prince of Celia'nor,  Illthrak Ibarellan of the Principality of Celia’nor

 

 

[ThatFunkyBunch 2818]

The Infernal Hit Squad departs as soon as they had struck. Leaving woe in their wake as always. 

[indiana105 5126]

Ivan VIII poured out a bit of his Carrion for the elven prince.

[ColonelKuehl1 560]

"A Coma then..." The Warlock Tezellion'uth looked toward the results of his efforts "Sleep well then." He states knowing of the nightmares he cursed upon his being "You will awaken to see everything you love taken from you." the Warlock returns to his ambitions still pleased by the labour of himself and the Odurex.

[XoxoMinnieXoxo 784]

Iryne Ibarellan, the heir and beloved sister of Illthrak mournfully wept as she exited the Celia'nor clinic as moments before shared her last words with her dearest brother before he succumbed to his devastating injuries, as she held onto the ring she recieved from Illthrak the prior day before. 

[Sailor 713]

Whilst the Ibarellan would further in mourn upon the disdainful events that occurred to her cherished son, she would raise a drink in his dutiful respect along the side of the remainder of her somberly family. Their prayers would thenforth be passed unto the stars regarding this travesty, for they had hoped they might guide them amidst this trying time.

[Asutto 2452]

From the Shores of Gold, a once-retainer of the Ibarellan Prince spoke a solemn goodbye to commemorate her sleepy llir.

[Venomous_Pup 2978]

Laerdya felt herself short of breath after dwelling upon the news, many thoughts ran rampant through her mind, a terrible woe erodes at her, nothing could seem to go right, no matter how desperate her attempts.

 

 

[Morigung-oog 5697]

"It was almost too good to be true, a retirement without a hitch." Valindra Nullivari, Blade of the Royarch had pondered to herself initially after receiving word of a successor announced but weeks prior. So often had she and the Prince conversed of his reign, and his wishes against rising to the throne, the hopes of living out his days in peace dashed by a prophecy of doom. She had always assured him he would reach retirement and she would be the sword that struck down the Ibarellen's foretelling of his own demise. Even when she herself could not and would not set foot in elcihicelia, she would find a way to ensure his safety, though she often mourned... No matter how safe he was, how much he achieved, he always seemed struck down by some form of sorrow, or a want to simply do more. To him, it was not enough, it would never be enough.

 

Valindra felt much like a mentor to Illthrak, though often she found herself being taught by the royarch inversely. It was a humbling experience.

 

Word of his death would initially reach Valindra who stood in the depths of a library, a note handed to her by a spectral servant who was promptly and coldly dismissed.  The warped, star-speckled gaze of the 'aheral widened. So often had she walled herself off to emotions, an nigh impenetrable fortress within her mind she'd sought to erect, yet in that moment, it all came crashing down in a moment of uncharacteristic vulnerability. He had been a friend, though all of her shortcomings, failures, attacks and outbursts, he knew of secrets she daren't share with even her family and still, he accepted her, understood her loyalty and what she had initially forsaken to ensure she could support him. Tears laced with fel, ectoplasmic mists rolled down her cheeks, and from them, the likeness of a spectral hand came to clasp over her mouth, forbidding her from sobbing. A discussion shared within the depths of her soul sealed the encounter. The eyes Valindra, glossed over, shifting to that of a hollow, empty stare, even the stars iris within her irises seemed to dim.. For a moment, she appeared as naught but a husk, though that spectral hand previously commanding silence, shifted to rest upon her shoulder before merging with her form anew. 

 

"S l e e p, little spellblade.."

 

A voice echoed out in her mind, cold, deep and  yet a soothing stoicism amidst the barrage of emotions breaking down her very being. It commanded, and she obeyed. Sleep, she did and in that slumber did she find the peace of absence.

 

 

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Minutes later, Barrowlord Fornotos was seen floating around the Synod, deep in thought.. With one of their selves shackled and suppressed, they sought to repair the imbalance they'd self-imposed in the place of experiencing the anguish of loss.

 

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OOC

Spoiler

Not what I expected to log onto. I almost fried my laptop typing out this reaction but I HAD to. Illthrak was a good friend of V's and they had a number of both silly and serious encounters that honestly made RP somewhat tolerable. A sad end but a fitting one. 

 

Fr you've come so far as an rper, from Atheleon to NLing Celia'nor. OOC retirement from it well earned imo. I'm looking forward to your next character.

 

 

 

 

 

[Havsbris_ 565]

The ibarellan marched before the altar of the grand cathedral--stained in the blood of those who called her family, stained in the filth and gore of the unholy in such sacred ground. She paced the halls to stand before the altar, the blood of her nephew stained upon her hands as her tired, sullen gaze stared out--gold against gold as but the darkness of her scared stared back at her in the reflection of her mechanical palm. She had let it happen again, another she so swore to be safe under her watch, the lineage she promised upon her life to maintain. And at the hands of such cruel agents to have done the deed. Betrayal--anger--visceral hatred encompassed her as her mechanical fingers clenched hard together into a fist. Silent anger resonating over empty halls before her visage peered to the gore laid bare on the floor, droplets of vile blood having stained a portrait of her 'sister', Ivarielle the Great, the prophet. The Valkyrie stared at the painting as she spoke

 

"Sister--Dearest. Founder, mentor, guide yet so mysterious. I failed you before, I failed you today. You've given me family, and I have once more not protected it."

 

She languished to the painting, her mechanical hand unbaling, as she rested against the monument, speaking

 

"What've I given to be worthy to you, I've not yet found."

 

She lowered her gaze, sitting in silence before she looked upon the final point in which the demon towered over her nephew, before she stood tall.

 

"But yet have I wavered my dedication. To your legacy, I will uphold. To your line, I will avenge in fashion only you would do--sister, dearest. Your children and theirs will have their peace."

 

She declared firmly, as she collected her sword from her hip--this fight would not be over, for at the ends of the earth she would find them.

 

The hunt was on.

Edited May 31, 2024 by Havsbris_

[NLThomas 1225]

A soft ticking of clockwork rings through the room. A pale elf at his desk working away at some sort of machinery. It was then a mechanical raven lands on his shoulder and gave him the missive. Quietly reading through it before softly mumbling a bit to himself. "Another star vanished." The Court alchemist raises to a stand then and donning his armor followed by a sigh. "Rest well Prince. The Ebrietaes is a harsh place but you will endure."

[femurlord 3751]

"As planned." News came to Gashadokuro as whispers from the shadows, lording unchallenged, atop a throne of bodies.

[luv 3469]

A black-robed woman with ivory skin and raven hair made her way through the very area where the final battle took place. Her presence was unsettling, a stark contrast to the devastation around her. The moonlight filtered through the shattered remnants of stained glass windows, casting eerie, fragmented patterns on the ground. Her dark robes seemed to absorb the light, creating an aura of shadow around her as she moved with an unsettling grace.

 

She entered the stained chapel, the last vestige of sanctuary now fallen to ruin. Her fingers, pale and delicate, trailed along the sides of the splintered pews, feeling the deep grooves and scratches etched into the wood by desperate hands. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and blood, mingling with the faint, lingering aroma of incense, a reminder of prayers that went unanswered.

 

As she walked, her voice began to rise in a soft, haunting melody. The song was ancient, its words lost to time but imbued with a sorrow and foreboding that transcended language. The notes echoed off the crumbling walls, filling the hollow space with an eerie resonance that sent shivers down the spine. Her song seemed to stir the very air, causing the remnants of the battle to shift and clatter as if in response to her lament.

 

Each step she took was deliberate, reverent, as though she walked upon hallowed ground. Her eyes, dark blue and penetrating, took in the scene with a mixture of sadness and something darker, a satisfaction that hinted at a deeper purpose.

 

Outside the chapel, the wind began to howl, a mournful wail that seemed to carry the voices of the dead. The trees, twisted and gnarled, swayed in a macabre dance, their branches reaching out like skeletal fingers. The fog thickened, rolling in waves across the ground, obscuring the path ahead and creating an otherworldly landscape where shadows seemed to move with a life of their own.

 

As her song continued, the temperature dropped, and a chill permeated the air. Frost began to creep along the edges of the pews, climbing up the walls and encasing the carpet in a crystalline sheen. The once sacred space now felt like the heart of an icy tomb, a place where the living dared not tread.

 

Her voice, now rising in a mournful crescendo, seemed to draw the very essence of despair from the surroundings, amplifying it until it was almost palpable. The darkness deepened, the shadows growing longer and more oppressive, as if responding to her call. There was a power in her song, an ancient magic that awakened the spirits of the fallen, their restless souls stirred by her mournful lament.

 

The black-robed woman paused before the end of the isle, her song fading into the silence. She raised her hands, and for a moment, the world held its breath. Her presence here was no mere accident; it was a harbinger of things to come, a dark omen that this place, once a battlefield, was now consecrated to something far more sinister. Her fingers, still lingering on the wood, seemed to draw strength from the ancient structure, connecting her to the past and the malevolent force that now claimed dominion over these haunted ruins.

 

In the distance, a lone wolf howled, its cry cutting through the stillness and echoing the sorrow and foreboding that hung heavy in the air. The woman’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling blue light as she turned and walked back into the shadows, the Prince’s mission complete. The chapel stood silent once more, but the memory of her presence lingered, a chilling reminder that the darkness had only just begun to spread.