Haseroth

pushing 30 insult is redundant. the game is 17 years old at this point so most of its players are pushing 30

werewolf paypalled me to come here and say he is a good guy pls be kind to him +1 to his app or w/e this post is

Cannot believe werew0lf would say mask is off mask if off im bat faith

@Twodiks@Smmer

In light of this special month, i wanted to share a fable which fit well within the context of this celebration. It is a fable written by Greg who is a Practiced Teacher whom i cherish dearly. Happy birthday to Greg who is now 41 years of age. The Oak and the River: A Fable for Men’s Mental Health Month I. The Weight of the Oak Eliot awoke before dawn, as he always did, to the sound of the wind sighing through the branches of the ancient oak outside his window. He lay still for a long moment, listening to the familiar creaks and groans of the old cottage as it settled around him, the thick beams overhead casting shadowy shapes across the worn wooden floor. For a brief instant, he felt as if the house itself were an extension of his own body—solid, dependable, yet marked by the passage of time. He rose quietly, so as not to disturb the silence. The mornings belonged to him alone, and he cherished the ritual of moving through them step by step: lighting the stove, grinding coffee beans, feeding the hens that clucked in the yard. Each task was a thread in the tapestry of his days, woven so tightly that to pull one free might unravel him entirely. Outside, the valley was wrapped in mist. The oak tree—its trunk wide enough to hide a bear, its branches arching over the entire yard—loomed like a guardian, its leaves trembling in the early breeze. Eliot paused beneath it, letting his fingers brush the rough bark. As a child, he’d imagined the tree could speak, that it knew the secret names of things. Now, he simply drew comfort from its presence—a silent witness to his life’s unfolding. Eliot’s days were filled with work. Sometimes it seemed as if the work was all there was, and he moved from chore to chore with a stoic determination that both impressed and baffled his neighbors. He repaired fences along the sheep pasture, oiling the wood so it wouldn’t rot. He stacked firewood until his arms ached, careful to keep the logs dry against the coming rains. He sharpened his tools by lamplight, the rhythmic scrape of stone against steel echoing through the cottage. The villagers admired Eliot’s strength. “He is steady as the oak,” they said, “and twice as patient.” When Old Vera’s roof caved in during a storm, Eliot was the first to arrive, hammer in hand, climbing nimbly to patch the broken shingles. When Tomas, the carpenter, broke his leg in the woods, Eliot delivered soup and firewood without being asked. He was the neighbor everyone counted on, the friend who never asked for anything in return. Yet, beneath the surface, Eliot felt a heaviness he could not name. It pressed against his chest at night, creeping in with the darkness and settling like a stone. Some mornings, he found it hard to rise at all; his body moved, but the lightness of living had drained from him, replaced by a quiet, aching emptiness. He told himself that this was simply the way of things. Life was hard, and men were meant to bear it in silence. His father had been the same—stoic, uncomplaining, his emotions buried deep beneath the soil. Eliot remembered, with a pang, the day his mother died. He’d been just a boy, clutching his father’s hand at the graveside, watching the old man’s jaw tighten as he forced back tears. “We must be strong for the others,” his father had whispered, as if the act of grieving were a luxury they could not afford. Eliot had learned the lesson well. When sorrow came, he turned inward, locking the pain away where no one could see. When loneliness gnawed at him, he busied himself with work, filling the silence with the sound of his own footsteps. He became a master at hiding the cracks in his heart, presenting to the world a mask of calm and competence. But the mask grew heavier with each passing year. One evening, after a long day mending fences, Eliot sat beneath the oak, his back pressed against the gnarled trunk. The sun dipped low, painting the valley in hues of gold and violet. He watched a pair of sparrows flit through the branches, their cheerful chirping mocking his somber mood. He tried to remember the last time he’d laughed—truly laughed, without restraint or self-consciousness. It had been years, he realized. Too many years. The wind picked up, rustling the leaves overhead. For a moment, Eliot closed his eyes and let the sounds wash over him—the wind, the distant river, the soft chorus of evening insects. He felt the ache in his bones, the exhaustion that never quite left him. He wondered if anyone else noticed, if anyone would care if he simply disappeared into the trees. In the village, people spoke of Eliot with respect, but rarely with affection. He was the reliable one, the helper, the strong man who never faltered. No one asked about his dreams, his fears, his secret hopes. No one saw the burden he carried, the silent struggle that gnawed at his spirit day after day. He wanted to tell someone—to confess the truth of his loneliness, his weariness—but the words caught in his throat. He imagined the disappointment on their faces, the awkward silences that would follow. Men did not speak of such things, he reminded himself. Weakness was a luxury he could not afford. And so, as darkness fell, Eliot rose and went inside. He bolted the door, banked the fire, and lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The old oak swayed in the wind outside, its branches brushing against the window like the fingers of a ghost. In the quiet, Eliot whispered a prayer he’d long forgotten: for comfort, for understanding, for the strength to keep going. But the silence answered him, as it always did, and he drifted into a restless sleep. II. The Storm Within The following weeks brought a relentless stretch of gray skies and biting winds. The valley, usually so alive with birdsong and laughter, grew quiet beneath the weight of the coming storm. Eliot moved through his days as if underwater—his limbs heavy, his mind clouded. He tried to focus on the work: there were fences to mend, animals to feed, and firewood to split before the worst of the weather arrived. But even the smallest tasks seemed to take twice as long. He dropped tools, mismeasured boards, and found himself staring out the window, lost in thought. The world outside blurred with rain. Sometimes, he caught his reflection in the murky glass—his face pale, his eyes sunken with exhaustion. One evening, thunder rumbled in the distance. Eliot stood on a ladder, patching a weak spot on the cottage roof. The wind tugged at his coat, and the first fat raindrops spattered his hands. He should have come down, but he pushed on, determined to finish before the storm broke. Above him, the clouds boiled, black and ominous. The ladder shifted beneath his weight. Eliot’s heart leapt into his throat. He reached for the edge of the roof, but his grip slipped, and in an instant, he was falling—arms flailing, the world spinning. He hit the ground with a jolt that sent pain shooting through his leg. For a moment, the breath was knocked from him, and he lay in the mud, staring up at the swirling sky. Rain pelted his face. The wind howled in the branches of the oak. Eliot’s leg throbbed, and when he tried to move, white-hot pain lanced through his thigh. He bit back a cry, grinding his teeth against the urge to call out. No one was near enough to hear him anyway. He dragged himself to the cottage, trailing mud across the floor. Inside, he peeled off his soaked clothes, every movement a fresh agony. His hands shook as he cleaned the wound with water from the kettle, wrapping it as best he could with strips torn from an old shirt. He refused to look too closely at the swelling, at the angry purple bruises blooming beneath his skin. The storm crashed overhead, rain drumming on the roof like the relentless beat of a drum. Eliot sat by the stove, cradling his leg, listening to the wind rattle the windows. He remembered stories from childhood—tales of men lost to storms, their cries swallowed by the night. He wondered if this was how it ended, not with a shout but with a whimper, alone and unseen. He tried to distract himself with work, but the pain made every step torture. He limped through his chores, his jaw clenched in stubborn silence. When the hens needed feeding, he hobbled out to the coop, teeth gritted against the cold. When the fire died down, he dragged himself to the woodshed, hauling logs one by one. The villagers noticed his limp. Old Vera, passing by on her way to the well, called out, “You all right, Eliot?” He forced a smile and waved her off. “Just a scrape,” he lied, his voice steady. Vera frowned but said nothing more. The others watched from a distance, unsure whether to offer help or keep their distance. Eliot’s reputation for self-reliance preceded him—he was the one who never asked, the one who always managed on his own. But the truth was, Eliot was unraveling. At night, the pain kept him awake, gnawing at his resolve. He tossed and turned in the cold sheets, haunted by memories of happier times—a kitchen full of laughter, a father’s strong arms lifting him high, a mother’s soft singing in the twilight. Those days felt impossibly far away. Sometimes, in the darkest hours, Eliot wept. The tears came quietly, slipping down his cheeks to soak the pillow. He cried for his loneliness, for the ache in his leg, for the years spent hiding his wounds from the world. He cried for the boy he used to be, full of dreams and wonder, long before the weight of expectation settled on his shoulders. Yet even in his pain, Eliot could not bring himself to ask for help. To admit his struggle felt like defeat—a betrayal of everything he’d been taught about strength and manhood. He remembered his father’s words: “A man stands on his own two feet. A man doesn’t burden others with his troubles.” The lesson was carved deep, deeper than any scar. The storm outside raged for days, flooding the riverbanks, tearing branches from the old oak. Eliot watched from his window as the world was swept clean, the valley transformed by wind and water. He wondered if there was a storm brewing inside him, too—one that had been gathering for years, waiting for the right moment to break. One afternoon, as the rain eased and the clouds parted, Eliot hobbled outside. The air was thick with the scent of wet earth and crushed leaves. He stood beneath the battered oak, leaning heavily on his walking stick. The tree had lost a great limb in the storm, and Eliot felt a pang of grief for its injury—as if the loss were his own. He reached out and ran his hand along the scarred trunk. “You’re still standing,” he whispered. The tree’s roots dug deep, anchoring it to the soil. Despite the damage, it endured. Eliot wondered if he could do the same. He gazed out over the valley, his breath clouding in the chill. He felt small against the vastness of the world—just a man, battered by storms, clinging to the earth for support. For the first time, he felt the limits of his strength, the fragility beneath his armor. As twilight fell, Eliot limped back inside. He sat by the fire, staring into the flames. The silence pressed in, heavy and unyielding. He longed for a voice, a hand on his shoulder, someone to tell him it was all right to rest. But the words would not come. He was alone, and the storm within him raged on. III. The River’s Whisper The storm had passed, but its mark remained. The valley wore a new face—muddy, battered, and bruised, as if it too had fought a battle and barely survived. The river that meandered through the lowlands, usually calm and clear, now ran high and fierce, carrying branches and debris from the mountains. Eliot found himself drawn to the river each morning, huddled in his coat, limping along the winding path that led from his cottage to the water’s edge. The walk was longer now, every step a negotiation with pain. He did not mind. The rhythm of his steps, the crunch of gravel underfoot, gave him a sense of purpose that had become rare. He remembered the river from his youth—a place of laughter and discovery. He and his friends would splash in the shallows, chasing minnows and skipping stones. His father would sit on the bank, whittling a stick or mending a net, always close but never hovering. Eliot used to think the river was endless, that it went on forever, carrying his secrets far away. Now, as he stood among the reeds, the river seemed to speak in a different tongue. Its voice was deeper, wiser, the roar of water over rocks like the low murmur of a storyteller. Eliot watched it swirl around fallen branches, carving new paths along the bank. He felt, for a moment, like one of those branches—tossed about by currents he could not control, unsure where he would finally rest. One morning, the sun broke through the clouds, and the river sparkled with unexpected beauty. Eliot sat on a flat stone, his leg stretched before him, and closed his eyes. He tried to let the world fall away—the worries, the pain, the endless list of chores waiting at home. As he sat, he heard a voice—not loud, not even clear at first, but persistent, like the gentle urging of the current against a stubborn stone. It was not a voice from outside but rather one from deep within, a voice he had ignored for so long that it startled him to hear it now. "Why do you shoulder your burdens alone?" it seemed to say, echoing in his mind. Eliot frowned, opening his eyes to the river’s swift flow. He watched a leaf spin in an eddy, caught in a dance between surrender and resistance. “Because I must,” he muttered under his breath. “No one can carry them for me.” The river’s reply was not in words but in the gentle tug and pull of the current. A memory rose, unbidden—a time when he was small and frightened, swept off his feet by the river’s sudden surge. His father had leapt into the water, strong arms lifting him to safety, holding him tight until his sobs subsided. "Even the strongest oak lets the rain nourish its roots," the voice persisted. "Even the river needs the mountain’s snow to flow." Eliot stared at his reflection, distorted by ripples. He saw not just the man he had become, but the boy he had been, the man he had tried so hard to emulate, and the long line of men before him—each silent, each bearing their wounds in solitude. He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart. It was a small miracle, he thought, that it still beat at all, after everything it had weathered. He closed his eyes again and let the river’s song fill him. He remembered how, in years past, he would come here to think, to dream, to be alone but not lonely. Now, even in solitude, he felt an ache—a longing for something more, a connection he could not name. As the days passed, Eliot made a ritual of his visits to the river. He brought a thermos of tea and a book, though he rarely read. Instead, he watched the water, listened to the birds, and let the voice inside grow louder. He saw others from the village, too—young mothers with baskets of laundry, fishermen casting their lines, children skipping stones. They greeted him with nods and brief words, but never lingered. Eliot wondered if they sensed his distance, or if they too carried burdens they could not share. One afternoon, as he sat lost in thought, a boy approached—a thin, freckled child with a shock of red hair. The boy hesitated, then sat beside Eliot on the stone. “Did you ever lose something in the river?” the boy asked, after a long silence. Eliot considered. “A few things. A fishing pole. A shoe. Once, my nerves.” The boy grinned. “Me too. My boat sank. I tried to get it, but…” He shrugged, looking at the water with a mix of awe and fear. Eliot nodded. “The river takes what it wants. Sometimes it gives back, though.” They sat together, watching the water. The boy fidgeted, then blurted, “My dad says men shouldn’t cry. But I cried when I lost my boat. Is that bad?” Eliot’s heart twisted. He looked at the boy—the uncertainty in his eyes, the way he chewed his lip, seeking reassurance. “No,” Eliot said softly. “It’s not bad. It means you cared about something. That’s what makes you strong, not weak.” The boy nodded, looking relieved. After a while, he wandered off, leaving Eliot alone with his thoughts. That night, Eliot lay awake, replaying the conversation. He realized that he had given advice he could not take for himself. He had told the boy it was all right to feel, all right to ask for comfort, yet he denied himself the same kindness. The river’s voice returned, gentler now: “You do not have to be alone in your sorrow. There is strength in reaching out. Even the river’s path is shaped by the land it touches.” Eliot sat up in bed, the words echoing in the silence. He wondered if it was time to let someone in, to trust that his burdens could be shared. The next morning, he went to the river early, the mist still rising from the water. He knelt at the edge, cupped his hands, and splashed his face with the cold, clear flow. It felt like a baptism—like a promise to himself that he would try, just once, to reach beyond the walls he had built. As he walked back to his cottage, Eliot felt lighter, as if the river had carried away a small part of his sorrow. The oak tree greeted him with its familiar strength, but now, Eliot saw the space beneath its branches as an invitation—not just for himself, but for others, too. He resolved, quietly, to take the next step. To let himself be seen, to admit his need, to welcome help if it came. The river had spoken, and for the first time in a long while, Eliot listened. IV. The Visit The following days were painted with the soft, tentative colors of early autumn. The air held a chill, but the sun’s rays still warmed Eliot’s face as he sat beneath the oak, thinking about the river’s wisdom and the words he’d spoken to the boy. The ache in his leg lingered, but it was no longer his only concern. Something inside him was stirring—a gentle but persistent need for connection, for relief from the isolation he had so long worn like a second skin. On a morning thick with fog, when the valley was muffled and mysterious, a knock came at Eliot’s door. He hesitated, surprised. He rarely had visitors, especially unannounced. He limped to the door, leaning heavily on his stick, and opened it to find Old Vera standing on his stoop. Vera was dressed in her usual practical layers, her gray hair pulled back in a loose bun, cheeks flushed from the walk. She held a basket in one hand and a determined expression on her weathered face. “Good morning, Eliot,” she said, her tone gentle but firm. “I’ve brought soup. And bread, too, if you have a mind for it.” Eliot blinked, momentarily at a loss. “Thank you, Vera, but you shouldn’t have gone through the trouble.” “Nonsense,” she replied, pushing past him into the kitchen. “You haven’t been yourself. I can see it in the way you walk, the look in your eyes. Sit down, now. Let me put this on the stove.” He obeyed, feeling oddly like a child again as she bustled about the small kitchen. The scent of her soup—rich with root vegetables and herbs—filled the room, mingling with the faint aroma of woodsmoke. Vera ladled soup into two bowls and set one in front of Eliot. She took her own seat across from him, her gaze steady and kind. They ate in silence for a few moments, the only sound the clink of spoons against ceramic. Eliot found himself comforted by the simple act of sharing a meal, by the warmth of Vera’s presence. After a while, Vera set down her spoon. “You know, Eliot, there’s no shame in letting others help you. Even the strongest trees need the sun and rain. Even the river needs its banks to keep it safe.” Eliot looked at her, the words caught in his throat. He wanted to speak, to tell her how tired he was, how frightened he’d been since the fall, how alone he felt even in the midst of neighbors. But the old lessons were hard to unlearn—the lessons of silence, of stoicism, of bearing pain without complaint. “I… I’m just not used to it,” he managed, his voice rough. “I’ve always thought it was my job to manage on my own. My father—” He broke off, shaking his head. Vera reached across the table, her hand finding his. Her skin was cool and rough, but her touch was gentle. “Your father did what he knew,” she said softly. “But times change, Eliot. We don’t have to carry everything by ourselves. I’ve seen too many men grow old before their time, worn down by burdens they refused to share. Don’t let that be your story.” Eliot stared at their joined hands, feeling a lump rise in his throat. “I’m afraid,” he admitted, the words trembling on his lips. “Afraid that if I let go, even a little, everything will fall apart. That I’ll disappoint everyone. That I’ll be… less.” Vera squeezed his hand. “You won’t fall apart, Eliot. And you could never disappoint us. The people who care about you want to help. Let us.” For a long while, Eliot simply breathed, letting her words settle in his heart. The kitchen was quiet, filled with the golden light of morning and the steady warmth of the stove. He found himself telling Vera about the fall from the roof, about the pain that wouldn’t leave. He spoke of the sleepless nights, the heaviness in his chest, the loneliness that had become his silent companion. He confessed the fear he felt each day, the worry that he was growing weaker, that he was failing at life in ways he couldn’t admit. Vera listened, her eyes full of compassion. She did not interrupt, did not offer platitudes or easy answers. She simply sat with him, holding the space for his pain. When he finished, his shoulders felt lighter, as though he’d set down a heavy load he’d carried for years. “Thank you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. Vera smiled, her eyes shining. “That’s what friends are for, Eliot. We share the light, but we also share the dark. Promise me you’ll let others in, even when it’s hard.” He nodded, wiping his eyes. “I promise.” They sat together for a long while, sipping soup and sharing quiet. Outside, the oak and the river stood as silent witnesses—the old tree sturdy and patient, the river flowing ever onward, carrying away the sorrows of the valley. When Vera finally left, Eliot watched her walk down the path, her figure slowly swallowed by the morning mist. He felt changed, somehow—less alone, more connected to the world he’d kept at arm’s length for so long. That evening, as he sat beneath the oak, Eliot thought about the years he’d spent in silence, the walls he’d built around his heart. He realized that every man in the village, every neighbor and friend, carried their own invisible burdens. Perhaps, he thought, true strength was not in bearing them alone, but in allowing others to help carry the load. He resolved to keep his promise to Vera, to open his door and his heart to those who reached out. It would not be easy. The old habits of hiding and enduring would not vanish overnight. But for the first time, Eliot believed he could change. He watched the sun dip behind the hills, painting the sky in hues of rose and gold. In the fading light, the oak’s shadow stretched across the grass, wide enough to shelter not just one man, but many. Eliot smiled, feeling a sense of hope he had not known in years. V. Asking The air grew colder as autumn deepened, laying a crisp blanket of frost over the valley each morning. Eliot’s leg still ached, but the pain was now joined by something else—a quiet determination that had been missing for years. It was not a heroic feeling of strength, but rather a humble willingness to try, to reach out, to risk being seen. He remembered Vera’s promise: “We share the light, but we also share the dark.” Her words lingered, echoing through his thoughts each time he hesitated. One afternoon, Eliot stood at his window, watching the village square. The marketplace bustled with life—farmers selling squash and apples, children darting between stalls, neighbors sharing news and laughter. For so long, Eliot had watched from a distance, feeling like a shadow among the living. But today, he resolved, he would step into the square. He would ask for help. His heart thudded as he pulled on his coat and scarf. He practiced the words in his mind as he limped down the lane: Can you help me fix my roof? Each time, doubt tried to creep in, whispering that he should turn back, that he would be judged or pitied. He pressed on, the memory of Vera’s gentle touch steadying him. The walk to the village was slow. Every step jarred his sore leg, and he paused often, steadying himself with deep breaths, feeling the cold bite into his cheeks. The journey felt longer than usual, but he did not allow himself to retreat. As he approached the square, he saw Tomas, the carpenter, unloading a wagon of planks near the workshop. Tomas was a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and a booming laugh. In younger days, he and Eliot had worked side by side on many a neighbor’s project, but in recent years, the distance between them had grown—not out of anger, but out of the quiet drift that comes when men stop asking for each other’s company. Eliot hesitated, his courage wavering. But then Tomas looked up, saw him, and grinned. "Eliot! Haven’t seen you in a spell. How’s the leg?" Eliot swallowed, forcing himself to meet Tomas’s eyes. “Still sore. Truth is, I could use some help. My roof’s in a bad way since the storm. I tried to fix it myself, but…” He trailed off, suddenly conscious of how exposed he felt. Tomas’s face broke into a wide, genuine smile. “About time you asked, friend! I thought you’d never let me lend a hand. I’ll bring my tools round tomorrow morning. We’ll have it sorted before lunch, you’ll see.” Relief flooded Eliot’s chest, warm and bright. He managed a shaky laugh. “Thank you, Tomas. I… I appreciate it.” Tomas clapped him on the shoulder. “No need to thank me. That’s what neighbors are for.” Other voices joined in. Greta, who ran the bakery, overheard and called out, “I’ll send over some rolls and hot cider for you both!” Old Vera, passing with her basket, winked at Eliot and said, “See? Not so hard, was it?” News of Eliot’s request spread quickly, as it always did in small villages. By evening, he had offers of help from all corners: young Pete from the mill volunteered to carry shingles; the twins offered to sweep up the fallen branches; even Anna, who had just moved into the village, brought a basket of apples and asked if he needed anything else. Eliot was overwhelmed—not by the work, but by the kindness. He realized that he was not alone, had never truly been alone, though his pride and silence had made him feel that way. The village, it seemed, had been waiting for him to open the door, to let them in. The next morning, Tomas arrived with his toolbox and a cheerful whistle. Together, they climbed onto the roof, Tomas working with practiced ease while Eliot handed him nails and boards. They talked as they worked—about roofs and weather, about aches and pains, about the things men speak of when their hands are busy. For the first time in years, Eliot felt the old camaraderie return, an easy loyalty born of shared labor. Other villagers came and went, bringing food, offering jokes, sharing stories. Eliot laughed more in one day than he had in months. As the sun climbed higher, the roof took shape, sturdy and weather-tight. When they climbed down, Tomas clapped Eliot on the back. “See? Nothing to it when you’ve got friends.” That evening, Eliot sat beneath the repaired roof, a mug of cider warming his hands. He watched the sky darken through the branches of the oak. He thought about all the years he had spent hiding behind walls of pride and self-reliance, about the cost of silence, about the simple, powerful grace of asking. He realized now that asking for help was not a sign of weakness, but a sign of trust—a way of saying, “I believe you care enough to help me.” And in giving others the chance to help, he was giving them a gift, too: the chance to show their love, to be part of his life, to share not just the work, but the meaning of it all. Eliot resolved to carry this lesson forward. He would not let the old habits win, would not retreat into silence again. He would ask, and he would give, and he would let his friends and neighbors be part of his story. The stars came out, bright and cold above the valley. Eliot lifted his mug in a silent toast—to Tomas, to Vera, to every hand that had reached out, and to the quiet strength he had found in learning to ask. VI. The Oak’s Wisdom The first snow came early that year, drifting down in thick, lazy flakes that softened the outlines of the world and muffled the busy sounds of the village. Eliot stood at his window, watching the white settle on the oak’s broad limbs, dusting the cottage roof, blanketing the pasture. In the hush, he felt a sense of peace that he hadn’t known in years, a quiet satisfaction that went deeper than any physical comfort. As winter deepened, Eliot found life’s rhythms changed. The days became shorter, the evenings longer and more contemplative. The village slowed as folks retreated indoors, gathering around fires, sharing food and stories. Eliot’s cottage, once so silent, became a place of warmth and company. The repairs to his roof had opened more than just the structure itself—he found the doors of his heart, once rusted shut, now swinging wide to welcome others in. He started small. When Anna, the newest villager, mentioned her chimney was smoking badly, Eliot offered to look at it. He and Tomas spent an afternoon on her roof, laughing as they brushed away the stubborn soot. When Greta was bedridden with a fever, Eliot delivered firewood and soup, remembering how Vera’s kindness had steadied him. When Old Vera herself needed help digging out her front steps after a storm, Eliot was the first to arrive, shovel in hand. Something inside Eliot had shifted. He no longer saw asking for help—or offering it—as a transaction, a ledger to be balanced. It was simply what people did for one another, a circle of giving and receiving that bound the village together. One evening, after sharing a meal with Tomas and his family, Eliot lingered beneath the great oak. The moonlight silvered the snow, casting long shadows across the yard. He looked up at the tree, its branches heavy with ice, and felt the familiar awe rise within him. The oak had stood here for generations, its roots tangled deep in the earth, its canopy sheltering all beneath. Eliot remembered climbing it as a boy, daring and fearless, certain it would hold his weight. He remembered his father resting beneath it, his mother hanging a swing from its lowest limb, his own hands carving initials into its bark alongside childhood friends. Now, as a man, Eliot saw the oak’s wisdom in a new light. It had weathered countless storms, lost branches, endured drought and flood. Yet it never stood alone—it was fed by the sun, watered by the rain, sheltered by the soil. Its roots intertwined with those of other trees, creating a network of strength beneath the surface that no one ever saw. Eliot realized he, too, was part of something larger—an invisible web of connection and care. His strength had never come solely from within, but from the people and places that grounded him. The warmth of a neighbor’s fire, the laughter of friends, the gentle admonition of Vera’s hand on his own—all these things fed his spirit, just as the earth fed the oak. He thought of the men in the village, each with his own burdens, fears, and unspoken pain. He thought of the old ways that taught silence and solitude, and how those ways had left too many hearts cold and alone in winter. With the new year approaching, Eliot made a quiet vow beneath the oak’s laden branches. He would be honest—with himself and with others. He would speak when he was hurting and listen when others found the courage to do the same. He would help and be helped, knowing that both acts required humility and strength. The weeks went by, each marked by small but meaningful changes. Eliot joined the village gatherings more often, sharing stories by the fire. He noticed how others watched him, how his openness made space for their own. Tomas, usually reserved, confided his worries about the mill’s future. Young Pete, eager to impress, admitted he felt lost after his father’s death. Even the children, sensing a change, came to Eliot with their scraped knees and tangled kites, trusting that he would listen. Eliot took comfort in these moments. He realized that vulnerability was not a burden, but a gift—a way to invite others closer, to create bonds deeper than mere acquaintance. The oak, battered as it was by wind and ice, endured because it stood with others, because its roots were fed and supported by the earth. On the coldest night of the year, when the wind howled through the valley and the snow fell thick and fast, Eliot invited Vera, Tomas, Anna, and Greta to his cottage. They feasted on stew and bread, sang old songs, and shared their hopes for the coming spring. When the fire burned low and the hour grew late, they gathered by the window, watching the oak sway gently in the storm. “It’s a wonder it stands at all, some winters,” Tomas mused, his voice soft. Eliot smiled, feeling the truth settle in his bones. “It stands because it’s never truly alone. Not really. None of us are.” The others nodded, understanding. In the oak’s shadow, in the warmth of shared company, Eliot saw that wisdom was as old as the tree itself: to endure, to heal, to grow, we must learn to lean on one another. That night, as his friends departed and the cottage grew quiet, Eliot sat by the window, watching the snow drift down. He felt the weight of years lift from his shoulders, replaced by a gentler, deeper strength. The oak and the river, the village and its people—they were all part of him now, and he of them. He whispered a silent thank you to the night, to the wisdom of the oak, to the courage it took to ask and to receive. In the hush of winter, Eliot found peace. VII. The Healing Winter slowly loosened its grip, but not all at once. Some mornings Eliot awoke to a world glazed with frost, the fields glittering like glass beneath the pale sun. Yet here and there, hints of change appeared: the drip of meltwater from the eaves, the first urgent chirps of robins in the trees, the scent of earth rising from beneath the snow. Eliot felt those small signs stirring something hopeful within him—a sense that, perhaps, healing was possible after all. His leg grew stronger with the passing weeks. The pain, once sharp and insistent, faded to a dull ache, then to a memory. He found himself walking farther each day, sometimes venturing down the path to the river or out across the fields to check on his neighbors. His stoop, once piled with wood and tools left out of habit, became tidy again. He took pleasure in simple chores, in the rhythm of splitting logs, in the satisfaction of a well-swept hearth. Yet the true healing happened on the inside. Eliot discovered that, just as the oak’s roots drew strength from the hidden depths of the earth, his spirit was nourished by the connections he’d allowed himself to make. Each kind word, each shared meal, each moment of honest conversation became a thread in the fabric of his renewed life. He was not alone in this. The men of the village, who’d once greeted each other with nothing more than a nod, began to linger over conversations at the well, or by the fire in Greta’s bakery. They spoke of weather and work, but, gradually, their words grew braver. Tomas admitted to feeling overwhelmed by the demands of the mill, especially after the last flood. Young Pete confessed to sleepless nights filled with worry about his mother’s health. Even stoic Old Walter, whose silence was legendary, surprised everyone by sharing a story about his brother lost at sea and the grief he’d carried ever since. Each time a man spoke honestly of his struggles, Eliot felt the air in the room grow lighter, less burdened by the invisible weight they all had carried. And each time, he offered what he could: a listening ear, a steady hand, the reassurance that needing help was not a failing, but a fact of being human. The women of the village noticed the change, too. Anna, who had moved from a distant city, remarked one evening, “There’s a new warmth in this place. It’s as if the walls are thinner, and the light gets in more easily.” Greta, whose family had lived in the valley for generations, nodded in agreement. “It’s the men,” she said quietly, “finally letting us see them as they are.” Eliot continued to visit the river, finding comfort in its constant movement. Sometimes, he brought a book and read aloud to the water, savoring the sound of his own voice rising above the current. Other times, he simply sat, watching the play of light and shadow on the surface, letting his thoughts drift. He planted a sapling beside the old oak, a slender beech tree with silvery bark and delicate leaves. As he pressed the roots into the thawing earth, he spoke softly: “Grow strong, little one. And remember, you don’t have to stand alone.” It was a promise—to the tree, to himself, and to all the men who might come after him. Spring arrived with a rush of color and life. The village held its annual festival, a celebration of survival and renewal. Children ran laughing through the fields, women braided wildflowers into garlands, and the men constructed a maypole in the center of the square. Eliot was there, helping to raise the pole, his hands steady, his heart full. That evening, as music filled the air and lanterns bobbed on the breeze, Eliot found himself surrounded by friends. Tomas and Pete toasted him with mugs of cider; Anna pressed a bouquet of violets into his hand; Greta pulled him into a dance. Even Old Walter winked from his seat by the fire, a silent salute to a job well done. Later, as the festival quieted and the stars emerged, Eliot slipped away to sit beneath the oak. The new beech sapling trembled in the breeze, its leaves whispering secrets to the larger tree. Eliot placed a hand on the oak’s trunk, feeling the rough bark beneath his palm. He thought of all he had learned—the pain of silence, the relief of honesty, the courage it took to ask for help and the blessing it was to receive it. He realized that healing was not a single moment, not a destination, but a process—a journey of small steps, taken together. He remembered the river’s voice, the wisdom of the oak, the kindness of his neighbors. He understood now that strength was not the absence of need, but the willingness to admit it. And in doing so, to invite others into the circle of his life, to share the burden and the joy. As he looked up at the stars, Eliot whispered a prayer of thanks—to the tree, to the river, to the friends who had walked with him through the darkest days. He felt himself rooted, at last, in the soil of community, nourished by love and understanding. The healing would continue, he knew. There would be more storms, more seasons of cold and darkness. But now, when those times came, he would not face them alone. He would remember the lesson learned beneath the oak and by the river: that asking for help was not surrender, but the truest kind of strength. In the months and years that followed, Eliot lived by that wisdom, teaching it to others, passing it down like a precious heirloom. And as the beech tree grew beside the old oak, their roots tangled together, a living testament to the truth that no one need stand alone. Epilogue Years passed, and with them, the valley changed in ways both subtle and profound. Children grew into adults, old faces faded, and new families made their homes beneath the ever-watching limbs of the ancient oak. Seasons cycled—blossoms and birdsong gave way to the green hush of summer, then to the gold and crimson of autumn, and at last to the silent, silver hush of winter. Eliot, too, changed with the years. The lines on his face deepened, his hair silvered at the temples, and his step grew slower. But the spark in his eyes, once dimmed by sorrow, now glowed with a steady warmth. He was no longer the lone figure who watched the world from behind closed doors. He was a neighbor, a friend, a mentor, and, to some, a gentle father figure. To many, he was known simply as “the man under the oak”—a title he carried with quiet pride. Each spring, he would walk to the river, the young beech tree—now grown tall and graceful—at his side. Sometimes, he was joined by Tomas or Anna, by children who ran laughing at his heels, or by young men who sought his wisdom. He listened to their stories, answered questions, and—most importantly—reminded them that it was always all right to ask for help. The village had changed, too. Where once men met troubles with silence, now they gathered in the warmth of kitchens and the shade of porches, speaking honestly of their struggles and fears. When a man’s fields were flooded, neighbors arrived with shovels and seeds. When a child fell ill, families pooled their care and comfort. When grief or worry threatened to overwhelm, the men and women of the valley knew they could find solace not in solitude, but in each other. Eliot became a storyteller, weaving the lessons of his life into fables for the next generation. On long winter nights, he would sit by the fire, children clustered at his feet, their eyes wide with wonder as he spoke of the oak and the river, of storms weathered and burdens shared. He told them of the time he fell from the roof, and how, for too long, he believed no one could—or should—help him. He spoke of the river’s wisdom and the oak’s endurance, of Vera’s gentle insistence, and of the day he finally learned to ask. He ended each tale with the same gentle refrain: "Even the strongest need help sometimes. There is no shame in asking. In sharing our struggles, we find our strength." The children would nod, some understanding, others only sensing the truth in his words. The adults would exchange quiet, knowing glances, remembering their own storms, their own moments of reaching out. The oak and the beech, now standing together with their roots firmly entwined, became a symbol for the village. Under their shade, men and women gathered for festivals and farewells, for marriages and memorials, for the small, everyday moments that marked the passage of life. When a new baby was born, a sapling was planted beneath the trees—a living promise that no one in the valley would ever stand alone. Eliot’s own burdens grew lighter over time, not because his life was free from pain or loss, but because he no longer bore them in silence. When his joints ached in winter, he let others tend his fire. When sorrow visited—as it must—he spoke of it openly, and was met with kindness and understanding. He learned that his vulnerability did not diminish him; rather, it deepened his bonds with those around him. He watched the men of the village—sons and grandsons, neighbors and friends—grow into a new kind of strength. They built homes and barns together, sang songs by the river, and wept openly at the graves of those they loved. When the world pressed too hard, they leaned on each other, trusting that compassion was not a weakness, but the very root of their resilience. And so, when Eliot’s own time drew near, he was not afraid. He sat beneath the oak and the beech, the spring sun warm on his face, and felt the steady heartbeat of the village all around him. He had lived a full life, and, in the end, had learned the greatest lesson of all: that healing is not found in solitude, but in the courage to ask, the humility to receive, and the grace to give in return. The night he passed, the village gathered beneath the trees, lanterns flickering like stars, sharing stories and tears and laughter. They spoke of the man who had taught them, by example, that every heart needs a helping hand, and that there is no greater gift than to lift one another up. In the years that followed, the legend of Eliot and the oak and the river became part of the valley’s soul. Fathers told their sons, neighbors reminded each other, and every June, in honor of Men’s Mental Health Month, the village held a gathering beneath the trees. They shared their burdens, their hopes, their triumphs and failures, and reminded one another—young and old alike—that asking for help is not a sign of weakness, but the very root of human strength. And so, the story continued, carried by the wind through the valley, whispered by the river, and written in the rings of the oak and the beech. For as long as the trees stood and the river flowed, Eliot’s lesson lived on: “No one need carry life’s burdens alone. In asking for help, we find not only relief, but connection—and in connection, we find the courage to heal and to grow.”

Name: Valentin van Aert Affiliation: Burgundy Relevant Titles or Aliases:

"All they can do now is fill my missive box with pointless spittle." Declared a veteran who readied to march in order to wipe out yet another balianite keep. "Bah no matter.. These missives make for good fuel." Added he as he tossed it into his fire, warming his hands in the process. How cozy!

"Let the dogs bark on, their streets will soon grow quiet." Canonius declared as he shattered a banner of balian atop the fort they had recently conquered. He gazes across the bay, towards the capital, longing to raze it to the ground!

War of two emperors.

can we please tax james2k 9x the average amount

nah it should be higher ngl. Like at least twice as high. Get nation leaders to tax mfs

Eh, i dont think someone is too new to offer insight on their experiences and what they have enjoyed or not. But i also think a lot of what has been complained about is entirely in roleplay and should just be dealt as thus. I will remind people that there was a time when being an elf in a human nation was considered really difficult. Because at any point, people could organize and just bash your skull in. I would advise everyone present to read about the crestfall massacre on the wiki. We are in an pretty decent time by comparison when it comes to racial relations. Obviously you are never going to not SEE or FEEL something in regards to it all, but at the end of the day its just roleplay innit.

I will make a serious post for once. But i honestly think this is just LOTC. You have to realize, loxy and co that me, tide1 and company were effectively on the run and in hiding but a year ago. We had lost everything and were an endangered species. Through a lot of effort and roleplay we managed to pull ourselves out from being literally nothing, to finally turning the tide of things around. Raguel DID help, i will not deny that. But by and large it was the willpower of a people who has won the day. A people who in-story had been nearly wiped out just before that. THis is the greatest turn around i have ever personally witnessed on this server and its amazing that i got to witness this. Even if you hate our guts you have to agree this is impressive. I personally had a lot of fun playing canonius, and to see this wretch go from plotting to enacting ultimate vengeance SUCCESFULLY is incredible. I also want to give props to other people who have provided a enjoyable experience through out. Both as opps or friends. People like @Xarkly@milksodaand @Orlanth Anyways. This is literally just one phase of the many dozen phased cycle of LOTC. The wheel will keep turning and eventually the evil veletzers will be morphed or overthrown before rising again 100 years later.

deal with it irp

It's not even about that specifically. The problem is that not even the victim were communicated with and spoken to in order to figure out what they wanted the solution to me. Xoxominnie has quit the server as i am being told. None of the covenant leaders were made aware any kind of investigations was ongoing. If any of you are reading this and were, please feel free to correct me. In shorts the act of voiding itself wasnt the issue. But rather the fact it was assumed to be the only viable and DESIRED solution for the victims.

Admins, please realize that voiding 5 months of rp is a silly solution especially when you have failed to communicate with anyone from either the covenant side nor the league side. Entire national developments were driven in large part by the celianor dissolution. I am also being told xoxo was not even informed this had been picked as the solution. I am wondering why things could not have simply been better communicated to avoid things spiraling out of control.

Question for the admin. How are people meant to react or act rather in terms of all the rp that has occured following the celianor developments?

"They were kind enough to list themselves out. This will make the purge much easier." Declared a hate driven veteran who stared at the list before scratching his chin. "Hm, so few were there though when last we went.. Surely they shall all be there the next?" A question posed unto none in particular as the old man now tore apart the missive, taking particular caution to save the list itself.

shake n bake or riot

where will oren be?

im having a ton of fun in this war ngl.

"Nothing must be left of this covenant! All to ashes!" Screamed the old man who gripped the missive, smiling with glee at the declaration!