The Crimson Cobblestones of Celia'nor(PK)

[Calise11 224]

The Fall of Doctor Sinner Gylldene, Beloved Physician of Norland
 

In the heart of the Realm's most unruly district, where blood paints the stones and darkness breeds like plague, a visiting soul from peaceful Norland found her tragic end. Celia'nor—a wound festering with crime and spawns of dark creatures—claims even those who merely pass through its shadowed streets.

The day began with debate in the square, voices raised over darkspawn accusations. Through this chaos shuffled an elderly lady of Norland, far from her northern home, moving at a pace only an African snail would envy. She never saw the arrow coming—half-blind, half-deaf, her world already dimmed by 107 years of life. They claimed she had evaded darkspawn testing, though even a cripple could have stayed her slow progress, her ten steps barely matching one of a younger man's stride.
______________________________________
 

The Diararr and nobility of their ranks bore witness to all. And acted in none. 
______________________________________

Her shoulder exploded with pain as bone-tipped arrow found its mark. The frail elder—seeking only ink for her medical records from Norland's healing halls—crumpled to her knees, blood pooling beneath her like spilt wine on Celia'nor thirsty stones. She weighed nothing more than dust and bone, barely 70 pounds of medicinal knowledge wrapped in mortal flesh when mercy came wearing a young woman's face and lifted her with the tenderness one might show a wounded dove.

Consciousness fled like water through cupped hands

 until a Shaman's magic pulled her back from the brink as she awoke in a clinic, her ancient heart ticking like worn clockwork. Yet her century-old frame betrayed her, buckling beneath pain's relentless assault. Far from the safety of her beloved Norland, she found herself at the mercy of Celia'nor savage justice.

as she emerged once more into waning daylight, freshly healed but forever marked. A kind soul's warning came too late—her attacker stood on the bridge. As trembling hands reached out for protection, fate played its final, cruel card. Already weakened from the previous attack she stood no chance of evading her next attacker.

______________________________________
 

Steel found her throat where the bone arrow had failed. Yet even then, her voice remained steady as woven silk:
 

"You remind me of my Finnian," she whispered, words drifting like autumn leaves. "You have the same hair as him."

Three brave women stood alongside the fray. Alas their avail to free her fell futile.

A spell was cast.

...

A knife slipped.

______________________________________

 

These would be her last words, spoken with a mother's tenderness that had survived a century of healing Norland's sick and wounded. As the blade pressed deeper, she closed her eyes in quiet acceptance. A single tear traced its path down time-worn cheeks, collecting at her chin in a singular bead.

 She did not attempt to evade. She waited patiently for her end. She had already escaped death calling once today. Her soul belonged to ether she was sure of it.
 

The knife moved swiftly. Decisively. Her body crumpled like a marionette severed from its strings, sprawling across the cobblestones of a city not her own. Her eyes, still glassy with unshed tears, stared skyward—unseeing at last, never to gaze upon Norland's familiar streets again.

Her eyes flit closed.


 

Doctor Sinner Gylldene, cherished physician of Norland for nine decades, passed from this world to the next, far from the land she had served so faithfully. Even in death, she saw humanity in her killer's eyes—her final gift to a city that deals only in darkness.
______________________________________

[RP  knowledge] A singular Missive is spread

Let the records show: A daughter of Norland falls upon Celia'nor crimson cobblestones, where even visiting healers find no sanctuary. Struck down in cold blood. Not once. But twice. Viewed for all to see, Nobility and Diararr alike. Peace be Sinner Gylldene. Unruly 
 

Spoiler

OOC: Please do not metagame this information!  
Sinner was my first persona on the server and with Norland. It has been a joy playing her and learning LOTC threw her character and her story. Il @ people once I figure out their personas IGNS

 

IMPORTANT : it has been brought to my attention some people are trying to use this post for OUT OF CHARACTER politics In the nicest way possible. Go touch grass people. I love the narrative that Celi'nor brings to the RP Community. The drama, the edge, the stories that unfold and are told. Do not attack them to feud your IRL intentions. Its just bad faith. If you have an issue with a player. Speak to staff. I am emotive writer. This persona meant a lot to me. and her death will generate what I like to call RP actions have RP consequences. But people it should be ROLEPLAY...My narrative is mine. Is it entirely biased YES IT IS?.. that's why its not ALL ROLEPLAY knowledge. What is RP knowledge is the facts. In the missive. Until today I was unaware of the OOC politics. I hold no ill intentions, purely as I have never been in that community, I can not judge something I do not know. It saddens me that a creative space once used for writers can now be used as a tool for OOC interests.

Edited November 13 by Calise11

[KidKrinkles 776]

It was moment's earlier that Victor did sit at his table and the old codger was gasping at him.

 

"VICTAH. VICTAH. WHAT IS THIS? DRAGON'S BREATH? AH'M UNDER ATTACK."

 

He regarded the antics of a crazy one lightly. He kind of liked them, frankly. At the end of the day; she was a harmless old woman. The cigarette smoke gently wafting from his breath was enough to take her out. A delicate loon.
 

---

 

That was, at least, until the chaos occurred. The accusations were thrown around,

 

'She's a Xionist' and 'She's a Naztherak' and 'She's a Warlock'. A 'blessed knife' and warnings of fabrications. It was a headache. The Ranger-Knight was quiet, and still, until Warlock's thahnic poleaxe suddenly overheated and dissipated some potent spell. A man on the ledge. Victor and Sebastian left only for a moment, pursuing as the man fled on the rooftops to safety.

 

They returned to find Sinner on the ground. A hole in her arm. Medics were attending to her. It did break his heart to see her suffering. But he was at ease, seeing her in safe hands. He couldn't cause a diplomatic scene and attack her attacker; a Drakaar. So he and his protege left.

 

But Victor contented himself, knowing he'd see the batty old woman again.

 

Right?

[Saun_399 263]

MOTHER NO. MOTHER NOOOO

 

[PanicZealot 306]

A grieving husband sat alone, upon the bed they once shared, and asked the world, "Why her? Why could you not have taken me instead?" Vicnan Hawkins, a man of little emotion aside from rage now wept over the loss of his beloved wife. The woman who saved him from a life of vengeance and regret, the woman who raised his children, the woman for whom he lived to please. As he sat alone, now more then anything he wished to take revenge upon the nation whose hands were stained with her blood, but all he could do was weep. 

[RianNeverfield 149]

Carli took a moment to collect herself after reading the missive. Anger, hate and sorrow fighting for a place in her heart. A single sad "Souplady" was all she got out. She would go to her ship's cook and order that tonight, the crew shall eat tomato soup and mourn the loss of a fellow friend.

[EmiliainWonderland 1807]

Blanca Anarore sat within the walls of her home in Norland, a frown on her aged face. "She was one of the few I liked. She was unafraid to speak her truth, taught Nyx so much, taught me so much. I wish there was more I could've done for her, had been a better friend, had spoken to her more. It's far too late now. People die, so many people have already died. That is the way of the world, but you will be missed friend." She sat that missive down with a sigh, placing her hands together on the top of the table as she mourned in her own way.

[MercyAzalea 126]

Just now, PanicZealot said:

A grieving husband sat alone, upon the bed they once shared, and asked the world, "Why her? Why could you not have taken me instead?" Vicnan Hawkins, a man of little emotion aside from rage now wept over the loss of his beloved wife. The woman who saved him from a life of vengeance and regret, the woman who birthed raised his children, the woman for whom he lived for. More then anything he wanted to take revenge upon the nation whose hands were stained with her blood, but all he could do was weep. 

A hand raised to knock upon the door paused, a frown forcing its way upon her face. She pushed some strands of hair behind her ear, a moment of reminisce taken to the day she first met Sinner. Irena was mistaken as her daughter, and the kind elder combed through her hair and guided her to the clinic for her first lesson in medicine. There was a certain sting in knowing she'd always have to brush her own hair from now on. She took a breath before raising her hand to knock upon the door, three gentle raps. She did not open the door, instead speaking through it.

 

"Vicnan -- I've made some tea, would you like some? Glyndwr will be here soon with the children, if you'd like to meet them.. Just-- don't stay in there all alone, okay? I'm here. I always will be."

The once-Valkonen lingered at the door for a moment before stepping back, gently clasping her hand over her necklace as she muttered to herself.

 

"Ma, give me a sign.. I don't know how to help him. I'm worried.."

 

She owed it to that saint of a woman to keep her husband safe as she passed to another realm; the name Sinner held a meaning to her unlike that of tradition. To be Sinner was to be a Saint. She took a breath before she turned on her heel, calling out as she left;

 

"I'll be in the kitchen, Pa, when you're ready."

[sapphic_spidy 593]

Such a short public missive leaves much to the imagination. Much blame to be placed. A friend's wedding day, tainted by knowledge.

 

A healer struck down.

Is it the same as how it has happened once before? The shaman, stabbed for an alleged taunting? 

Did no one do anything?
Should he have been there?

 

Castien can't understand. She was so old. She was so... There was so much he had yet to learn from her. Who would kill her? Who would kill her?

 

It doesn't make sense, none of it makes sense. His real hand shakes. Something has to be done about this. Is Celia'nor trying to cover it up? He's already lost faith in them, how can it get much worse?

 

She was supposed to live through her lifespan. She was supposed to be the proof it was possible to not have to say goodbye so soon. She was supposed to be his teacher, his mentor, his friend.

 

He enjoyed being in her presence, even when it made him nervous, even when he was unsure. He enjoyed searching for her in Haense, helping her read letters, seeing himself listed as Blondie as opposed to his real name. It was so... her. She was unafraid to be herself. He admired that. He admired her. 

 

Viewed for all to see.

 

Why did no one stop it? Why did no one help her?

 

With no other knowledge and no one else to blame, his hatred falls onto Celia'nor.

[Deer__ 1456]

A dim orange glow fell upon the missive as read by an individual of ginger hair. Ceryn to some Cerys to others. Eventually she came to cast it into a nearby pit of magma, lined in cinders and ash. She watched the parchment vaporize under the extreme heat, meanwhile she basked in it.

"They just keep digging deeper into the shit. Their end feels near, perhaps it's time to do something ourselves."

 

She had spoken untoward a figure nearby.

@Cat Evocation

 

[Cat Evocation 3695]

3 minutes ago, Deer__ said:

A dim orange glow fell upon the missive as read by an individual of ginger hair. Ceryn to some Cerys to others. Eventually she came to cast it into a nearby pit of magma, lined in cinders and ash. She watched the parchment vaporize under the extreme heat, meanwhile she basked in it.

"They just keep digging deeper into the shit. Their end feels near, perhaps it's time to do something ourselves."

 

She had spoken untoward a figure nearby.

@Cat Evocation

 

 

A taller figures expressions lit gently by the embers of the rising flames produced from the burning missive.

 

He ushered no words, a scowl on his rough expression. It was hate aimed at the evil left to fester in the north. Celia'nor.

[PrimnyaQuorum 1657]

A distant star watches, though not unto mortality below.

 

It ponders a history lived;

 

That they were not evil, when a Tear bore under their city,

 

That they were not evil, when the Demonic and Infernal consorted and grew at home within their kind,

 

That they were not evil when creatures untold bore into the minds of their kin, possessing them,

 

And that they were not evil when someone was butchered in their streets, and they were silent.

 

And so, it would not be evil when the streets were reclaimed by the dirt, and the bones of its defenders nourished them. 

[Nimbus_Strike 251]

"... Well."

A wayward 'Fenn of Norland would hear the news, softly sighing, before gently retrieving her Anorum trident and taking it towards the whetstone.

"It's time for me to sharpen my blades once more. Neh more dreams."

Edited November 13 by Nimbus_Strike

[Frisket 3174]

Ember sat amongst the elder lady In the morgue

 

Her efforts fruitless

 

Another gone in her midst

 

And once more she knew many would simply politicize this issue....

 

"What a waste of time..."

[simpleglitchbro 368]

Indigo's gaze settled upon the missive with a hollow expression. No breaths let out, nor tears to be shed. It seemed this old soul had nothing left to speak for him other than his words. "I have...remained, but cursed with watching them all...fade. Who will be next?" He ponders to himself, before lightly tossing the missive into a fireplace, allowing the words on the page to burn away to ash, floating into the skies with the memories in hopes they might reach her, wherever she has settled. "So long...old friend. You were one of the few to...understand how my mind worked. I will...miss that."

 

Váli was able to contain himself just long enough to reach privacy. The moment he is sure he is alone, away from prying eyes or ears, he slams a fist into the brickwork that is unfortunate enough to be nearest him. "Why does everyone have to be dying on me?" he asks himself as he grits his teeth "I had plans in store...she'll never get to see them. Or...to see her nieces and nephews grow up." he bites his tongue as he takes a deep breath in. "No. I must regain my focus. People die all the time, and she was getting old. Surely she was content her time had come. Aye, that must be it." he convinces himself as he walks off.

[Frostdrop1 1176]

Reinhard prowled the edge of the chaotic scene ahead, much curious as the the cause of such a mass of persons.

 

Within was the she-devil - scales gold, glimmering and yet enwreathed by cries of accusations and wails of protest.

 

Fair trial. Darkspawn. Test.

 

The Dark did not deserve defenders: that voice was his own. A remark oft heard amongst the confusion of similar dins. And, yet, wasn't it he who only the day prior spoke in low-toned whispers words of warning against her? Wasn't it he who turned to smile cordially at the deviless' approach, and echoed her own frustrations of terrible, terrible rumours? Wasn't it he that, when faced with idle hands, sought active ones elsewhere?

 

For her true nature, was this his motive? No. The young devil had much been crossed by the elder, and yet little did she know her own error. Little had he expected to bare witness to the consequences, and though only solemn features set about his countenance his heart was elated at the victory: justice made real.

 

----

 

A time later, the small missive came as a shock. Perhaps it shouldn't have been. He witnessed her shot, and did not set foot in aid for the crime of her interference. 

 

There, he allowed a bystander to be the sacrifice of his desire even before any knife met her neck. Unwittingly, he cast the die that sparked tensions.

 

Taking the missive, he pinched it between his fingers, creasing the edges with a harsh fixation. His restless mind had grown sleepless on reflection of his actions. Now, even moreso.