Tarnished

[KidKrinkles 2043]

[A missive sent and scattered far and wide, plainly available to those who read it.]

 

---

 

 

It was often said that Numendil hosts ‘the greatest of Knights’: though I must admit, I hear little of Numenedain greatness the way I once did.

 

What sort of treachery is it that one might seek to reclaim a shield of hell’s metal and slaughter an entire city? To behead its King, his kin, their council, their keepers, and act no better than the pagans openly derided by your holier-than-thou hands?

I have long mocked the holy-knights for their old boasts of crusading valor — stampeding cavalry traipsing through halfling hills, torching empty towns in the name of some Aengul’s whim, and pretending themselves heroes. But what world permits a man to return home and sleep soundly after beheading those who opened their gates in peace? Who sought to make amends, and put their allies at ease?

For all their pagan rites, the Norns have shown me more virtue than any Canonist I’ve known: open palms where those who consider themselves ‘saintly’ wring their knobbish hands.

I count the hours as my friends go unaccounted for. Women, children, men, sorvians; and I wonder which of their blackened corpses now hang from the Ashwood Tree. I have said before: cruelty is a perversion of death. So I ask, what man among you believes his own soul lighter than the soot-stained dead he dangles like ornaments?

Tell me the truth: does the Empire pull Numendil’s leash so tight? Or does the White City simply require a hundred knights to slay a dozen Norns? Perhaps you wished for your better’s blessing, as you sought your prizes. 

If you seek potent materials, I suggest flaying your next victims where they stand, so as to fashion armor of hide stronger than steel. It would suit both your pragmatism, and your barbarism.

And when will you turn your blades upon the true evils that loom over Aevos? Only when they breach your pristine white walls? Your sacking has liberated Vjardengrad! Indeed, for you have stolen every soul, every scrap not nailed down, until even Orsathiael’s stormclouds part, seeing no worth in ghosts and stone, which he has in spades.

But, despite my contempt, I do not write to you to remind you of the wrath you and your masters wrought.

 

I write to warn others.  

 

I might hope the world might understand that Numenedain honor is paper thin these days, pierced by the reflection of a spear of coin, and trinkets, and shiny metals. I would speak to Imperial honor, but I know there is none.

Today is Norland. Tomorrow it is Hael’unor. Then Caurost. You cannot abide peace, but are too inept to pursue true evils. You cannot plant flags for glory: only knives within backs.

To the Tar: I recognize you now truly as Anorhil’s son. He was everything your grandmother called him: a guileful snake, and you are twice the mut that will stain your house so long as any who might bare witness breath, or any paper unfaded recollect. The Empire will wring you for each ichorous drop of use your vessel might hold: then discard you.

Might the carbarum you and your masters clutch for wilt like a flower in your pansy hands. Righteousness, hospitality, goodness: they are dead, and you have hung them from a pagan’s tree. 

While you might worry for the state of my own soul, I ponder now if those gallivanting have ever had one at all. 

 

I may die in pursuit of freeing myself, but should I succeed, I will come take your white flame.

 

Spoiler

ilu guys xo also how has no one made a post about this yet, wild

be back in a week!

edit: also someone good at heraldry pls message me I'll pay I don't wanna use the AI art ☠️

 

[lemonke 6014]

"VICTOOOOOOOOR, NOOO!" A sleeping necromancer screamed.

[Echo_42069 386]

Seros reads over the scattered note that crossed his path "Slaying innocent women and children is apart of your religion? What kind of god asks this of its followers hmm? I stand by Victor"

[drywall 198]

The girl's single green hue flitted aside toward her barred bedroom window, eyeing the little blue bird that had perched itself upon the ivory sill. She was silent aside from a sniffle and a small wheeze for a few minutes. Watching as it chirped to get her attention though remained ready to deliver something it held. With a certain weariness which dragged her down, something worse than gravity or grief, she pulled herself from the bed she'd cried in. 

Emberlyn crossed the room to that sole window, reaching through the bars to collect the missive which the bird had brought. Silently, still, did she unfurl it and read. With those words written and read, the guilt of having tried  to fix it and being unable to do more, caused more tears of blue and pink to streak down her cheeks. A murmured breath was had, a curse really, one that would reach those who deserved it. Soon.

The blue bird was waved away, and she returned to her weeping within the darkness of her room.

[Frostdrop1 1843]

A lonesome devil sat below, far below below prying eyes. He had lost, and lost. And even when he thought he could lose no more, there came loss. It was Victor who had broken the news on a chance encounter. The massacre at Norland. The continuance of Imperial Tyranny that would see no end. Of course, he had known it. They sought blood when they came for his homeland, and with no foreign blood to spill they would feast on their allies, and then themselves. The only friends this new dawn held was Hell itself, enough to make the waking world it, too.

 

Man was not cursed with living frailty; Man was bloodlust and vice incarnate.

 

Having saved his people once, twice then himself a third, the devil could only writhe thst he could not have been there by the Norlandic folk. Those who saved. Those who bore the ability to see beyond the Shadows that chained people. In some dreaded twist when the storm of isolation broke, it seemed only set to come back stronger.

 

His hands splayed across an immaculate great-blade in his lap, left without purpose. It twinkles in perfection, gleaming with valour. It was left without inheritor that made their face actively known. Except he, perhaps: a Schwartz.

 

Deeply was a breath taken as he clasped and re-clasped the Sword of Mourning, for mourn he did. He bore the blade in the stead of the man that should. He would continue to live to the greatness that was set to him. He was no Schwartz in heart.

 

He was Reinhard Weiss.

----

Celica grasped the package her mother held out to her, soft and kind words offered as they departed the santuary of refugees. Isolated, the snowy drifted outside in gently blusts unto a howl whipped by he smited them away. A package was given, and it was glared at: it was here, in her pale hands. Hers, that lived. Guild swamped her heart and yet, too, it angered her in a way she failed to be angry before. It was wrath.

"I hope they tear themselves apart."

[Metamancy 1759]

A certain commoner read over the missive, her brow crinkling. 

She read it over and over again. She had not heard of the attack on Norland; surely she was missing something.

And yet, the more she read, the more concerned she grew.

 

"What...?"

 

She read from the safety of her home in Alba, nestled cozily upon her mattress.

And yet, she no longer felt safe. 

[Nectorist 12869]

The young Philipp Keen comes across the missive at some point shortly after its circulation. Although he obviously disagrees with it, he doesn't throw it into the fire. Plenty of tinder was available in the woods nearby his estate, and a copy of the missive might be useful at some point in the future. He puts it in a folder in his desk.

 

"The conduct of the Tar, sanctioned by God and Emperor, is infallible and must not be questioned. Within his station is vested the Imperium, His Imperial Majesty's own sanctioning of these actions notwithstanding. As his realm is assailed from the forces of the dark, I have full trust that, after wise and prayerful contemplation, he did what was necessary against these pagans, they who are nearest to the dark and may yet serve its bidding. I have already pledged my aid to the Tar's vassals in the Petra, threatened by the Mountain. I can surely commit myself to a second front."

[Kirkigar 133]

Upon the ivory walls of the south, the lonely mali'thill sighs at the north, thinking and talking to himself. The wind from the salty sea and the quiet of the volcano enveloped him like a veil of peace. - "So many souls crossed through my way; begin a llir or begin a stranger; but I'm wondering if their light remains intact. Savage Valahs, how many of yours must die so you can start to preserve the miracle of life? Look into a mirror, and you may not be surprised if what you see turns down the gaze." - Then, he turns around and exclaims, maybe his voice will be heard by a citizen of Haelun'or - "Don't forget, lliran of mine, you must never forget what Maehr'sae Hiylun'ehya means. And when you contemplate the wild of the Valah, you all will understand what Larihei taught us" -

[Navigator 4260]

14 minutes ago, Nectorist said:

As his realm is assailed from the forces of the dark

"Wasn't the whole tussle created over a demonic shield?"

A princeling mused to himself, and shrugged.

"Let 'em kill themselves. Makes my job easier."

[IrradiatedGoose 305]

Kieran looked upon the missive as he sat near the fires within his home, he blinked once. Twice. Three times. His breath escaped him as he read, not a word was uttered to him about the events that transpired, only that something had occurred. And still it had been hidden from him. Norland was a second home to him, one that offered him warmth and safety, care and healing. A family of sort. Shock and sadness came over the man, the missive dropping from his hands. "Chivalric nation...." he repeated to himself. Something stirred within: anger, rage, disappointment. Over a petty shield they would spill blood. A petty feud they would slaughter. He began to lose sight of what a 'chivalric' nation stood for... 

[Flynnigan 267]

The young girl's face paled, her eyes tracing the missive over and over.

 

"This... can't be," Inti whispered.

 

Her hands tightened on the missive. The bright eyed girl, who looked up to the Knights of Numendil, who strived to be one to do the right thing--now stared at the horrors documented on the page. Was Njall alive? Her Norn friend? Aegon? Amerie? Tears pricked the girl's eyes, betrayal swelling in her heart. How could this come to happen? How could such a slaughter occur on behalf of the man whom had just named her 'The Maiden of Hope'.

 

She swallowed hard, shaking her head as she folded the missive with great care, putting it away into her bag. The young squire would have to speak with her Knight. Speak about if it was true. If he really did help massacare the Nords.

[Cheese 8874]

Esfir was no stranger to destruction, to death. She had witnessed it in her Kingdom; her birthland; her very own family. She had been called to Norland by her own Prince, but 11 years old, as a diplomatic escort. But when she arrived, she hardly had words. It was worse than the charred corpses of the King and High Keeper, of the woman and her unborn child, of the Queen who took her own life soon after.

 

It was Esfir’s own granddaughter, Linde, who was breathing but held no life.

 

“I do not want to be part of this world anymore, Hauchmamej. I don’t want to do it anymore, it’s too much,” The eleven year old croaked out hoarsely.

 

“Nie, nie— you are too young, too full of light and talent and love to leave this world,” Esfir rasped in turn, tears welling in her eyes.

 

”It’s okay, Hauchmamej. I love you, da?”

 

”No Linde, don’t say that. Please don’t say that.”

 

The Empire and Númendil had taken a great many things; Haense and Balian, Petra and Hyspia. Esfir believed they had stolen all of her children, and now, Norland and her very own granddaughter were slipping from her very eyes.

 

”I don’t give a f*ck if that shield was a blessing from Godan himself or forged by the hand of Iblees. Nothing is worth the slaughter that has commenced,” The heartbroken woman seethed with tired eyes and trembling hands as she held the Rorin’s missive to her chest. “May justice be served to the heathens and the murderers that caused this. And may that justice be the flames of hell.”

[xo31 3979]

A wizard of the arcane stood in a city he didn't visit often - a barren Norland. Once, the High Keeper would have put a bag on his head for being there.

 

"Iblees has returned in an interesting form."

[goh_Alexander 28]

Somewhere deep in the frigid woods, by a newly repaired family shack, the man with hair white as the snow around him finally gets the attention of a messenger bird with the missive after it’s searched far and wide. He gives it food, drink and heat before it departs for home. He takes and unfurls the message—

“WHAT?!”

 

— booms out, immediately sending all fowl and critters scattering away as it echoes across the snow covered wood.

[Sonybut7 530]

 

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THE FIREPLACE CRACKLES.

VICTOR’s voice carried through the room, rough with the weight of the words he read, but steady. AEGON sat opposite him, leg wrapped in thick wool, posture slackened from pain rather than ease. His blind eyes were turned not to the speaker, but to the hearth, where the fire cracked softly, eating through old pine. Even in blindness, he seemed to watch it.

 

The names came first to his mind upon hearing of the missive. The DEAD. Each one falling from VICTOR’s tongue like stones dropped into a frozen lake. AEGON did not flinch. But his hands, resting upon his knee, slowly curled into fists. Though quickly did that feeling get quenched, like a blade after forging.

Then the truth of it: “the gates opened in peace, and the blades unsheathed in reply.” And after the ropes were tied and the bodies burned, they marched. However, not to leave.

 

To finish.

 

To hunt.

 

To cleanse.

 

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AEGON’s shoulders didn’t move. But his fingers flexed, curling against the worn cloth of his trousers as if to grip something no longer there.

 

“...You said what needed to be said,” He murmured. His voice was low, but not uncertain. His expression did not change, save for a slight tightening around the jaw, like a man chewing glass just to feel something real. The HEARTH cracked again. The warmth of it painted him GOLD, but it made the hollows in his cheeks deeper, darker. “We offered peace, real peace, not as weakness, but as strength. And that peace got answered with ropes and blades.”

 

He runs a hand along the hilt of the blade at his hip, an ever present reminder of the one who gave it to him. Given to him with the sole purpose of defending the High Kingdom they sat in. An Heirloom by the great KONAN-THEGN, given in a defense he failed in. Now all that remained to it, was memory and vow.

 

“Haakon stood like a mountain. Dima like steel beside him. They weren’t perfect. The All-Father, and any other who call themself God, know none of us are. But they stood for something.” - “And what did Numendil stand for? A shield. A story. A lie.” He spat out, every word sharp. For the briefest flickering second, an EMBER-ORANGE light appeared around him, before fading in its entirety.

 

“Do you know the worst part Victor?” The blinded Nord asked, looking in the direction of VICTOR exactly. “They didn't need to come with that army. They didn’t need to take anything back. They wanted the hanging tree full. They wanted us to kneel.” - “But we don’t kneel. Not to tyrants. Not to any Empire. Not to men who call slaughter Divine.”

 

A pause. He touches the space where his left eye once was, the gesture unconscious.

 

“They will claim they brought Justice, that they acted in God’s will... But no God that is good would’ve walked alongside them through that city to massacre innocent women, children and elders.” - “They call us heretics. They spit on HIS FLAME. On every step we took trying to make something better of the world.” - “They didn’t just hang bodies. They tried to hang HOPE.”

 

A silence settled, but it wasn’t stillness. It was akin to a held breath. The kind that comes after a scream, when there’s nothing left in the lungs. Letting the FIRE crackle between them for a while. AEGON leaned forward, the motion stiff, his ribs catching with the pain of old wounds. He turned his face to the HEARTH again.

 

“You asked how their souls can sleep soundly?” The Northman said, letting his words hang for another brief moment, a beat taken. A shake of his head, followed by words unspoken. “I don’t know. But if they can... they’re not souls worth saving.” - “The world sees what it wants to see. Banners, titles, gleaming walls.” He tilts his head slightly, something like bitter humor crossing his face. “But I’ve seen inside their False Glory. I’ve heard it scream.”

 

“You spoke truth in what you wrote, VICTOR. So here’s mine.” He straightens, as much as his injuries allowed him to, as much as the pain of lost limbs clawed at him, the lack of sight ate away at his coil. The fire flickers across the old clawed scars down his throat.

 

“They didn’t break us. They can’t. Because what we carry, the REAL FLAME, it doesn't live in cities or crowns or swords.” - “It lives in US. Still walking. Still breathing. Still here.”

 

“And when the time comes,  and it will Victor, they’ll see just how much FIRE the ASH can still hold.”

 

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