Demented_Delila

[!]An additional notice with extra information is included by the Court Physician Signs for its presence include... Sudden and complete silence. The wind will stop as well. Fog, light intially but growing denser over time. temperature drop, your breath will become visible despite the temperature we are used to. the sound of something scratching bark off trees, undiscernable from any location in particular. It is all around you. heavy, ragged breathing that sounds almost like a person frantically running through the woods. It's not a person. Don't call out to it. It is recommended that any parties who encounter it flee the area. It is not a fight to be had without casualties. It already knows you're here. Be aware of the following... It has multiple limbs and blends into the tree. it is very large and its full body is seldom ever revealed. it is also capable of sinking into the tree and utilizing it as a form of cover. It likes to go for the head. Wear helmets always to prevent potential injury. It also goes for the legs, intending to grab and then drag victims into the trees or foliage, before consuming them. It is covered in yellow pustules that release a septic liquid with mild paralytic properties when exposed to open wounds.

"Well, maybe this'll do something about them. They're bloody braindead and they don't even respond when you try to speak to them. They just demand money..."

I absolutely get that; I know based on this and on the previous iteration, there are few magics you can actually cross with Templarism. The ones you can blend without crossing redlines are Misc Magics like Bardmancy or Housemagery.

I'd like to make one recommendation, rather then this being a three-slot magic, why not a two-slot magic? This current rewrite has about the same amount as say, Witch Doctor or Farseer, which are both two-slots each. If we had an extra feat or something we could obtain, similar to Paladin's Blessed Armaments, I could see it being a three-slot magic overall.

Dele Seregon had only just put a kettle for tea on when the missive arrived, which she takes in a quiet motion. Her eyes follow the courier as they leave, before she eyed the salt lines in the doorway. . . Out of habit, two handfuls of salt are sprinkled across the threshold. To keep the spiders away and out from her home. Their home, she thinks as she heard the light clattering of little metal toys from the stairwell. In a quiet, bitter rage, she throws the missive into the fire. There had been no failures to protect what God had given. There had only been impossible odds and slim chances. She thinks to Saoren's blood staining the snow in Norland, the body of the great worm shuddering in its death throes. . . Impossible odds and slim chances were all they had, beyond their many gifts. The Radiant Templar unfurls her tools as she sat by the stove, sharpening her blades and shining her plates as the tea brewed. . . The rain was pouring, a distant noise like drums and heartbeats.

Dele Seregon, Resident of the Barrowlands and Radiant Templar of Malchediael, was disappointed to find her name was not listed among the citations, either.

"Based," says the High Elf.

[!] Another letter is sent back. . .

A letter is penned and sent back, with haste. . .

Luisa Klaire held an arm out to the Barclay as he joined his kin in the Seven Skies, "I believe that you have made us very proud, liebchen. . . And now you have time to rest without rust."

She had only ever know him as Elias, and yet the words of Gloredhel's passing pressed into her heart like bricks. Bricks of stone, too heavy to swim with. The elfess quietly signs the Lorraine for her late grandson, cursing herself for not granting herself one last hug last she had seen him. "And so too does the sun rest."

Provided is a sample of stock currently only available at the Silver Star Trading Company on Sigismund Street XIV. For inquiries, send a letter via bird to Saoren Seregon. From the skilled hands of our resident Jewelry Smith!

Silver Star Trading Company Est. 115 S.A. [Located on Sigismund Street XIV, Karosgrad, Haense] The Silver Star Trading Company shoots for the stars to provide high quality goods you cannot find anywhere else. At this time, our merchandise includes stocks in . . . - Jewelry - Tea, Spirits, and Wine - Assorted Foodstuffs - Household Goods & Toys We also provide services in . . . - Alchemy - Custom Living Dolls

Based.

A High Elf reviews the foreign missive that had come to her door, brow raised as she concludes. "They put him on the throne. . . And it only brought them headache . . . Did they forget he used to skulk about asking for blood samples from the high elves? Or the other weird, outright 'spook' behavior. . .?" She spoke to nobody in particular, sliding out of her seat to crumple the letter, tossing it into the fire in her hearth.

"I guess if you're goofy enough, the humans'll let you hit anything," comments an elf as she goes back to the place where things actually make sense.

A high elf received the notice by way of a wayward bird as she arrived at the Eastfleet Harbor from the Barrow Marches. Her brows raises as a hand is brought up to lift her sunglasses, as if the shaded lenses had obscured her understanding of what she'd just read. She crumples the notice as she grabbed the collar of her borzoi to hoist him back into the cart. Just as soon as they arrived, she was ready to go back home. "These ******* are crazy, Vitya, truly, I tell you..." And they said the Owynists were the weird ones.

She could see through his eyes as those final, fateful words were spoken. She almost could not feel his touch, his fingers pressed to her forehead. Standards stood upright, scarlet banners fluttering in the wind, radiant silver stars spattered in blood. The world seemed to stretch on around her on a wartorn field- and there was the armored being, angelic radiance washing the world around him. She came back abruptly, every ounce of her being seemingly torn to shreds, then knitted back together all in an instant. Her lungs ceased to move, burning as she tried to breathe. A fire had been set in her chest and it was not one to be quelled by water. . . Her eyes well, not because she had begun to weep, but it truly felt as if she was dying in those moments. The world came back into view, the warmth of candles washing over her as she felt the cold radiating from the rain-struck windowpane. She was alive. Her heart was still beating and her lungs seemed to realize this at last. She could draw breath. His hand retracts from her face, watchful eyes filled with concern for the newly blessed. “...what was that? In the- all of those …” She trailed off, her words a whisper barely audible above the rain as it strikes the windowpane of the third floor bedroom. She could see the ever burning flames of the ashwood tree in the churchyard. An un-suffocating light, nare to be snuffed by the pouring rains of the Barrow Marches. “Malchediael fights a war, somewhere, I saw it myself when I received my blessing.” The memories of that night play over and over again in her head as she rests in the quiet home she had come to make. A mercy to have such silence, without the suffocating notion of nosey neighbors. Her eyes remained closed, her head pressed into her pillows as she sprawled across the bed. She listened to the rain, listening to its pattering against the roof, listening to it tap against the windowpane of her third floor bedroom. Her mind drifts, her hands folding over her stomach, fingers folded together. She considers the war and the history she was now brought into. The First War, the Golden Weapons, and Malchediael’s freedom. His freedom, his blessings. They were all a notion of what was yet to come. The skies had been shattered, Balian had burned- but all had not been lost. For the first time in many years, Dele felt peace- she’d forgotten the feeling, after all this time. Yet, she had come to relish it again over the past months. The Barrow Marches were no silver-gilt cage, begging her to feign ignorance and arrogance. The Barrow Marches, for all its isolation, was not a place isolated from other people. She did not dread the open barrows, or the creature that lived up on the hill. She held no fear and in such, she found peace. Still yet her mind wanders. Had each Templar seen the fight that Malchediael fought, seeming whole worlds away from them? Malchediael’s return was before many of their times, but Feanor had witnessed it. So too had her daughters. They had seen the aengul rally the heavens to their aid, blessing the unblessed so that they might drive back the Inferi scourge. Perhaps the Creator was merciful, afterall. There was reason to have hope for the sunrise in the morrow, when the sun had already begun to set on Almaris. Balian burned and Cloudbreaker fell… but the sun was still setting. Her eyes drift across the half finished mural that she had begun to adorn her ceiling with. A twilight sun, half adorned with golden streaks and the outline of silver stars. She’d not had a moment yet to finish it, but she’d finish it soon. And yet… she thinks of the field of red banners, of the radiant aengul clad in his plate. And yet she wonders if the Creator still had goodwill left for his creations. In time, perhaps, the answers would come to pass. Of a war not yet fought, of a thousand red banners tilted to the sky, of a father’s goodwill. Her eyes flutter close once more. Sleep came easier in the absence of fear as the elf came to rest once more beneath a half-painted sky and the rain that drummed against the roof overhead.

A high elf brought her hand to her throat as she sat up from her bed in a cold sweat, feeling as if she'd forgotten how to breathe. The world came back to her once more; the rain of the Barrow Marches still yet pours, pattering against her window pane. She rose from the bed as she moved towards the mirror, inspecting herself for injury or the vile sludge. Contented with the lack of either, she moves from her room to prepare a warm drink and to settle elsewhere in the home until her nerves settled. The waters had already begun to rise.

A mali'aheral pauses at the notice pinned up outside the Rozenfield Arena, lifting her sunglasses to review the note. She had been on a late night stroll with Vitya, her hound- but this was much more interesting... "Poor bastard, isn't he, Vitya? Conrad might just kill him- Ah... Young love. It makes fools do the stupidest shit, doesn't it, Vitya?" With the click of her lighter, the ember butt of her cigarette lighting up in the cool evening air. With that, she'd move on back on her walk with the sweater-clad borzoi.

A hooded figure pauses as they accept the letter from a courier, a gilded knife slitting the seal from the parchment. They seem to review it with deep interest before nodding and turning on the path, hobbling back the way they had just come. It seemed it was soon to be time for an old woman to set foot within the Silver City for the first time in many years...

Luisa Klaire Barclay pulled herself from the endless fields of red Reinmaren Roses that littered the expanses of the Seven Skies, a smile present on her sun warmed face. It was the end of an era for her family, that much was heralded by the arrival of her nephew. She does not speak as she took him into arm, for now resting her head to his. "You took your time, Bärchen, and Ich am glad you did. Your legacy will speak volumes of you long after they've forgotten your face and your name." For once, the old woman laughed, clapping her nephew on the back. He had been her son as much as her nephew, with how much of his youth she had partaken in. "Now- Come. There ist a drink and a meal waiting for you at our table, it ist gutt to have you home."

Luisa Klaire Barclay Born 1760 F.A. A Teenaged Luisa, on the banks of the Reinmaren portion of Lake Jan The Early Life A depiction of Luisa and Ruben during their courtship Adulthood A portrait of Luisa Klaire after arriving in Karosgrad The Passing of Luisa Klaire Barclay A portrait of an older Luisa. Died 54 S.A. Various letters would be sent out to Luisa’s remaining family. Ruben, Wilheim, Edmund, Adela, Stefan, To the Barclays,