Stop Watching

[sapphic_spidy 1089]

Another missive for the collection. 

"They called me paranoid. They called me paranoid."

 

In truth, he is, but that doesn't mean he wasn't right about some things.

None of the written words surprise him- he knew. But very rarely does anyone listen. 

 

They probably won't listen this time either. It's not the voice that matters- it's that no one wants to hear the words. But he has hope. There's a chance. No matter how slim it is, it's there.

[confusedjester 811]

After a squabble amongst women, did Romhilda, belatedly, get handed a missive!

 

"...Ohh... thats what they meant..." Romhilda grimaced!

[TaraJess 2848]

Peppermint. She kept a plant now, watered it, tending to it. The leaves were plucked and laid upon her tongue... so often now did she smell of peppermint. It was this little plant that kept her upon her feet, that kept her anchored. Still, even with all the peppermint leaves in the world, Aurelian heaved the contents of her stomach when she read that missive. Her growing bones grew now with fear engrained, it lined her tendons, it seared into her nerves. Even standing idle did the girl tremble. Shaking and the scent of peppermint. 

Even if the ink was Shakey, and damn near illegible, she sent that bird off anyway towards her brother. She refused to be the closest toy to grab anymore, and wished to be moved to the back of the line.

[Pegleg_Bob 1107]

 

Taking out a bottle, the Middenlander studies the label: a 1960 bottle of Renatian rum. He pours himself a tall glass but does not drink. He only stares into it, bile rising at the back of his tongue. He had lost so much for the Empire, no, his family had lost so much, yet all he ever heard now was that man, no, the living aspect of Godfrey, endlessly quoting Alexander the Second Iblessborn.

 

He closes his eyes and sees the elf dying in the cell. He opens them, then shuts them again, and now it is Hadrian, beating a child, not out of rage, but for sport. His jaw tightens.

 

He should be better than this. He must be better than this. He is of Horen’s line, God’s chosen. Was he truly blind? Had his entire life been a lie, taught only to serve and never to question? God, how could he have been so blind?

 

Now it was everything he had lost. The Empire he fought so hard for turned on him, killing his best friends. The ones who stood at his side when no one else would. He grabs the glass and hurls it at the wall. The contents burst outward, old rum spilling everywhere, seasoning the wallpaper.

 

He looks at it for a long moment, staring at the broken glass on the floor, before finally turning away and walking off.

 

[NoxIndigo 106]

In the snow-crested arms of a far-off feld, an aged healer turned inward for a winter's respite.

 

Though young of flesh, his eyes were of a grey age. He knew the mettle of man and the face of war, whose prey his very own hands had long labored to heal. Averse to the sword, he did all he could to mend where mend was due.

 

The hearth burned bright, crackling gainsaid the silent night beyond.

 

Yet he knew the illness was a mortal one; one which, however long he might toil, would forevermore beset what and whom he held dearest. So when, once more, the thrums of war clamored high, Amon--with other considerations--knew he could not stay to see it through.

 

The dusk horizon billowed with smoke, yet they were turned toward the dawn.

 

The missive found him at a port, earlier that day, where he had deigned to purchase supplies for their travels.

 

"We chose well to leave when we did..." He turned to Arianna, unfolding the worn parchment from his satchel. "If we returned, what even would be left?"

Edited January 3 by NoxIndigo

[KillerMaid 636]

Malna had seen the missive as she was in the capital, staring down at it like the words on the paper would jump out and talk to her at any moment. Her memories flicker like a candle every so often.

 

"It'll be fine! We've gone through wars like this?"

"What's the point of it when you aren't involved?"

"I can't just hurt my friends, no matter the side."

 

Malna knew nothing would be right, but what use would someone dead have? Everything would be fine, but she would mourn all the blood spilled at the end of the day.

[Werew0lf 24180]

The Emperor silently read the missive — he did not say much, for he had nothing to say. Beholden to his singular eye, Hadrian’s lips spread from each corner of his cheek. The imperial folded the parchment neatly and tucked it into his jacket; a reminder of his cruelty, perhaps, or another trophy to use as recollection. 

[Spellblades 749]

Aelyn had known the person known as 'Ark' since his youth, her duel with another sparking his desire to learn the Arcane arts

 

"This is unacceptable,"

He muttered angrily. after reading the missive more than four times to make sure he memorized every line

The dormant rage he held inside was festering like rot, but he held it back, not because he wanted to but because he had to. He grew up in the Empire but fled for one reason. He did not wish to live in a society like that. Aelyn remembered his childhood, when a guard called him words he did not yet understand, but he knew they were harmful. He was pushed over by a noble and took all the blame for the incident.

 

"What is the weight of a life to you, Emperor of Mankind?" he found himself asking the night sky before he took a long breath, deciding something.

"I will not let another Descendant be slaughtered for sport for as long as I draw breath, Helun-Velulaeya hon laht."

An oath ingrained itself in the Ker's mind as he stood and walked out the door.

[Eliseth 134]

Moonlight covered the features of the maehr as she folded the missive, a shuffling could be heard as her daughter laid next to her peacefully sleeping.

A moment passed, her hand meeting the small child's crimson hair that closely resembled her mothers. The hand toyed gently, as delicate as one could be at such an hour. "My little spider, I hope you may grow in a world where such troubles do not exist" spoken lower than a hum the soft melody escaped her lips.

The parchment she had taken from a local board, was then stashed away on her person.

She left the warm embrace of her other and child, equipping herself as she wandered into the night "Be a hunter, not a hero". 

[Riot 743]

Dorin read the missive in silence, jaw set hard enough to ache. He did not rage. He did not shout. He stood there with the weight of it settling into him the way bad stone settles into a wall—slow, heavy, and impossible to ignore once noticed.

 

There was nothing surprising in the cruelty described. Only confirmation. He had seen the edges of it before: orders given too easily, lives treated like chaff, death used as punctuation instead of consequence. What chilled him was not the Emperor’s nature, but how long so many had survived by watching. By standing close enough to hear the screams and still calling themselves clean.

 

The writer named themself a coward. Dorin did not agree. Cowardice was silence with comfort. This was confession without safety. It did not absolve the watching, but it cracked the stone—and cracks are how pressure finally breaks something open.

 

His thoughts lingered on the elves named, the girl in the cell, the knight’s head denied burial, the Princess made small and threatened for daring to grieve. Dorin’s hands trembled once, just once, before curling into fists. Then his mind turned to something more recent—something not written, but known.

 

Only days past, dwarves along the river had hauled a body from the water. One of their own. His beard was fouled with rot and spoiled food, packed into his armor and mouth like mockery. His throat had been cut clean. He was no warrior, no rebel—just a familiar face, a troublemaker known for pranks and sharp words, never for bloodshed. He had crossed into the Empire of Man laughing, and returned drifting, discarded like refuse.

 

That was not justice. That was a message.

 

Dorin felt the last of his doubt settle into certainty.

 

He did not offer forgiveness. That was not his to give. But he would not condemn the act of speaking either. Naming the crime mattered. Remembering the dead mattered.

 

Stone remembers weight. It remembers who leaned on it and who tried to crush it.

 

If the Emperor believes domination is inevitable, then he has forgotten something simple: mountains are not loud when they move, but they are patient—and they do not stop once they start.

 

Dorin Starbreaker turned away from the notice board with no further words given. Those who knew him well enough could see it in his posture.

 

Watching was over. It's time for the people to speak.

[sam33497 7356]

The contents of the missive could only be read by Maximilian Horen with a pensive mien. However, one thing was abundantly clear to the Prince. The River-Crosser of Vyllaenen shore from its sheath, revealing hues of brilliant azure. "A promise is a promise. Magus Ark, I will end you with this very blade." He swore.

[Animael 1500]

The Architect knew not the words spoken by the Prince. But she did know his temperament. His word that he would come for her if she did what she did. She was not a fighter like her predecessor. She wasn't fighting for a noble cause. Though she had spoken to Princess Livia, who now lived in hiding, but she had convinced herself she did that to save herself from her own guilt. She had healed many since leaving the Empire, replacing the limbs of those who had lost them in the war- their eyes, curing them of wounds with magic that she was not previously allowed to utilize under the uncaring eye of the Empire.

 

'The Prince will hunt me, and that is okay.' She muttered to herself. It was okay that his blade sought her neck. Because she knew two things... The first; she believed she deserved it, for not being wiser, for not choosing a hidden better option...

 

And the second...? 'I have no issue being a coward. Lanre didn't.'

@sam33497