Cepheid

"Steel and fire, it's an easy solution to a rather annoying infestation." Valyris mused.

+1 Incredibly well-balanced and well-written piece, well done!

An aged creature of a bygone era read over the missive and a small smile tugged at the corners of her visage. She prepared her coinpurse and wares, for she had money to spend!

After a long period of mourning, a woman of the draconic stirred once from the depths of her cavern. Those golden ophidian hues of hers read over the most recent conflict brewing in the realm, to which the creature lifted an ornate blade from its display and donned her sheath with a shrill of the metal being tucked within it. "An oath is an oath - a pact to be fulfilled." She muttered in the candlelight, the scion of a dragon ready to defend a young crow in the north. It seemed that the Princess of Starlight was stepping out of her retirement from politics. @MunaZaldrizoti

On the Divine Gift Volume 1: An Interpretation of the First Aurelect The Divine Gift That which is within is like that which is without; that which is without is like that which is within. All things ariseth from One by the will of One, and so all things cometh from this subtle process. Fire shineth brightly upon its own vessel, as the heavenly sun’s light filleth up the moon. So cleavest thou sweetly the fire from her source, taking only the light that stretcheth between them. By this means thou mayest win the golden Asioth, and all deficiency shalt be taken from you. Herein is held the power beyond all power, that revealeth the subtle and hideth the known. By Asioth is every world created, for this is the golden gift of eternities. A waltz through the gilded path of flame, embers, pain, love, suffering, repentance, and the annals of eternity, which stretches far beyond the here and now. Fates so intrinsically aligned with progressing beyond what we know and who we are. Oaths of flame and starlight that bind one to duty through the sanctity of honor, it is the path that is chosen for redemption. The Divine Gift is about the purpose that drives the fire within. What is love without loss? What is light without dark? What is eternity without ephemerality? Every step taken through the dance of eternity is one that creates ripples in the fabric of the world. All things are related and intertwined together in their existence, no matter how far the roots stretch from their source. Everything that you are is a part of you, just as much as everything you are not is a part of you. Throughout the centuries of walking the mortal plane, it has often been demonstrated that the simplest of acts are frequently those that spur the most dire of consequences - both positive and negative. Whether it is the guidance of a lost child home, the call of a holmgang on an Imperial, a daemon-metal shield being taken, staying one’s blade against a squire on a quest; everything has a consequence, blood repaid in blood. It is a delicate matter to dance in the flame, within the golden light of enlightenment, to experience the golden gift of eternities. To experience eternity is to watch as those who do not experience it are eventually taken by the Lady of Death, yet it is also to watch as new life is formed from the dawn of creation. Each part completes the other in the cycles that make up this realm, and every soul takes part in the waltz through the cycles of eternity - every end a beginning. To see it in history, it is in the face of a tragedy so wretched that it rivaled the wickedness of Ibleesian forces that were wrought at the hands of men. Foul corruption and a blindness to the allure of power seeped into their hearts to commit an act of man against man. In the face of an insurmountable threat, those who suffered from the acts of the corrupted had stood united in their plight. Where there was anguish, the hope for peace bloomed within their hearts. A resolve to survive so profound could not exist without their suffering, the core and its periphery. On Asioth The words of the Teacher, Eresar sin Nathemas: The philosophers speak of equal opposites. But bringing these together, nothing results. First and second are neither equal nor opposite. Light is greater than darkness, but there is no light without darkness. There is no first without second. The source begets the river But without the river there is no source Who can say which is greater: that which is first, or that which is last? It is the order that begets them Here is the secret of Asioth: Greater loves lesser; core loves periphery. From the love Azdromoth had for descendents, he brought the creation of his children through the fires of worthy mortal souls. He gave the golden gift of eternity onto mortals so that these newly-born nephilim could enact his will of upholding the pacts made between man and god, to cull the dark and reap the light. The children of Azdromoth exist as a product of the in-between, being both core and periphery. Eternal are the dragonkin until they become ephemeral upon departing to the gardens of their Father. The Divine Gift of Asioth, the Golden Gift of Eternities, is the experience of understanding solace in all things, the importance of oneness, and what walks between the known and unknown. For what is the artist without the muse? What is the song without the subject? It is empty. One cannot exist without experiencing the other - without the experience of both light and dark, sun and moon, positive and negative, there is only emptiness. Nothing is able to fill one’s cup if one does not know what they would like to fill it with. For many of us, the road is a difficult one, but the path is always there for us to follow. Existing doubt and doubt of existence are one part of that road we must follow to become part of both the center and surroundings. For centuries, the fire that had kept me alive in the darkness that shrouded portions of my path was love; the light in which the Titan cast upon my soul to keep from turning to ash eternally. Light that shone to cast golden truths onto eras tainted in shadow. There is no darkness without the light. There is no death without life. There is no shadow without flame. There is no nightmare without the dream. No second without first No son without mother. No legacy without antecedent. Are you the second or the first? The answer is both.

The immortal Princess knew the price of getting close to those intertwined with their mortality. It was something that even as an elf, she knew all too well about the price of those who remain living, the price of departure from this realm. The people of Solgaard took her in when she needed a home the most and was cast out by her own people, and despite knowing that their time would eventually come, she remained. She watched as those newfound friends of hers began to have families of their own, as those children began to grow up, and as those children had children of their own. A silent vow to herself to repay kindness shown to her by those who gave when they did not have to give- to watch over the children of the North. Valyris roamed the frigid markets of Norland when she heard the news of Asmund, and she fell still. His death was a worthy one, no doubt, yet the loss of her alchemy student was not one she was expecting. Slowlynthe nephilim turned to the gates, and she stepped out to the main road to make her way from the main city to Solgaard. Her thoughts raced endlessly in her mind of Asmund Ingridsson, how fast he grew up, the once-boy she saw take the oaths to Mikjall, the one she promised to teach alchemy and never had enough time to give the proper attention to - the attention that a student deserved. Time, that was the true enemy of all things, the one thing she never had enough of, the one thing that could be taken so easily from the mortals she held dear, and left her with a feeling of emptiness. Without thinking, she had already taken to the skies. What was once in the skin of the mortal took to her true form of a dragon, and those gilded and rose-hued wings of hers glided high above in the snowstorm that threatened to take her while she mourned. For several days, those who looked to the sky could almost see the distant outline of a winged draconic creature that circled the coast of Solgaard. It was both a time of silent mourning for the she-drake and a time to take up the duty of warden. "Si fortroga ekess troth wux, Sihei di wer Myvillion, batobot thirkuic naeck."

From within her Solgaard tower, an ancient Princess cackled, perhaps more than she had in centuries. She thought to pen Dima to find out more of the details regarding the latest gossip, though resolved to seek her out instead. @Frawlic

THROUGH THE FLAME From favored to fallen, within the Archdrakaar’s embrace. “All is fated except the lives of the children of the gods.” ˖ ݁♬⋆.˚𝄞. In times of yore stained by ash and darkness, an unspoken deal was crafted between the Archdrakaar and an elf who went by the name of Caledor. It was unknown what they both sought out to strike a pact between them, only that it was forged through fire and blood. It turned the descendants of Caledor to serve the Titan in exchange for the unsung ambitions of his family. It was a desire for greatness that was only emboldened by the passion that flowed through his blood. Those of his lineage were brought to a coastal island far off from the lands of mortals and away from prying eyes. It was the early days of a small ‘aheral child’s life, dotted on by tutors and being told her destiny was far greater than she could ever imagine. Everything was predetermined and calculated for the little lamb Leandra. She often found herself wandering the halls of a forgotten library by either reading the books or running through rows of bookshelves, dreaming of dragons and flame. Purpose that her ancestors had set out for her, her soul tied to the fate of serving the Archdrakaar. As she grew, so did her vast love of the infinite, of dreams, of prophecy. She took to pen and paper to know all that she could know in order not to be left in the darkness of ash. Her studies were dedicated to that of the world and its endless history. Yet in knowing this, she trained not only her mind, but her strength. Darkness, betrayal, and corruption were all traits she learned early on that had taken hold in the world she lived in, and she only had herself to rely on. Knowledge of swords and sorcery that was passed on from generation to generation had ended up in her clutches. Draconic hymns that had been passed down were ingrained into her mind. Temple, training, library, repeat. It was a cycle that she quickly fell into during her youth that became a part of her very essence. Her favored cousin Keledan often assisted in her bouts of training, though mostly mentored her in her more studious endeavors when it came to the path of fire. Her life, though disciplined, was not devoid of dreams; the arts and music were considered as important as any other pursuit. Eventually, she had to seek those dreams of her own, to find what destiny had in store for the little Laraethryn. The young elf left the comforts of the only home she had ever known under a canopy of starlight by sea. The infinite expanse of starlight was studied, and each star that dotted across the sky had been mapped by her hand. It was a simple life at sea, passing on her decades of teaching to the wards of the Raevir she was traveling with on the high seas. She sought out the walls of the Silver City on the continent of Arcas, where she dedicated herself to scrolls upon scrolls of knowledge as if her soul was intertwined with each text she had read. Leandra's quest for knowledge and destiny continued, driven by the legacy of her ancestors and the fire that burned within her. Her establishment in the walls of Silver with her family did not last for long, and she was drawn to a new dawn. The creation of the city known as Aldemar under the Empire of Man. It was a haven for those like herself, those who followed the teachings of the Titan and the Children of Malin. Initially, it was a mere encampment that grew into a vast city as their numbers multiplied. To mark the beginning of the new era, she too underwent a new era that was scorched upon her flesh; a Herald of Azdromoth. Lost were the devout of him with no Father to guide- lost to three hundred years of silence. Until the call was heard in a desperate plea for guidance, not only for the new city upon an altar of molten rock and smoke, but for His return… “The time for your reign is near, Azdromoth. I am committed to making it happen, just as Caledor once aided you…” “What lamb be this that bends the knee?” “Leandra Laraethryn, Caledor’s great-granddaughter, a herald.” “Yes, It was ordained. Each footfall pressed into it’s place. Every word spoken in rhythm, you dance and I see you dancing.” “Are the rumors true? Are you truly to return to walk amongst us again? If so, what is it that you require of me? I am at your disposal, as my bloodline is sworn to be.” "The heavens bleed. The wheel turns. Pressure pushes the divines on, beat by beat marching forwards, dying upon the beach. With each stroke the sands are pulled, dragging upon the stones, polishing their faces smooth. Soon comes the dawn. Soon, I will summon the final hour." "I understand. What shall you have me do to bring about the final hour with ease? I have no doubt the dawn shall rise, it is fate that wills you to rise from the lesser divines, fate and the power from within you." “I have watched you since you were born. I wrote your name in my book as you came into this world. I have had an eye watching your entire life. See now, your name will fade with time, and shall return from whence it came. Blessed are the devout, 0 listener mine and now you are among them. Thy blood marches forth in celebration as the feast of sin is left uneaten. Surrender thy will, beautiful Leandra, and know the mercy of Azdromoth secure thy rest in mine martyria.” “My will is yours, Azdromoth.” It was the beginning of where her trials would take her on her path, through the firelands, she ventured forth to the martyria of the Archdrakaar. Alongside friend and ally, through elementals and pygmy dragons, they fought and shed blood side by side. They heard his voice, and through the smoke parting, they had finally witnessed him after three centuries of silence. The flock had been called back to him to serve his will being unfolded into reality. The assembly learned that his gifts were taken just as freely as they were given unto thee, and it was there they sacrificed another. Before their eyes, and from that bleeding heart, he had reemerged as dragonkin. Rebirth marked the beginning of what was to come for the nephilim and His children. Her life turned most fulfilled, tutored by the likes of Arthonath, Keledan, Serinath, Malren, and so many others in the ways of fire and flame. Most of her knowledge prevailed in the vast collection of books she had begun to procure, creating a library that rivaled that of high elves in centuries past. Her quest for knowledge was insatiable as she was led to realms beyond with those she trusted most. She ventured to hell and back in its most literal sense, fighting off daemons and darkspawn alike as she trekked through the world to not only prove herself worthy to everyone else, but to herself above all else. As her trials progressed, so did the development of the city that she loved so dearly. She teetered the line between friend of man and politician, host of grand revelry, and defender from that which lurked in the dark. Between fighting darkspawn, elaborate parties being hosted, collecting jewelry of every sort, and tending to the books, she brought the truth of dragons to those who were in the dark; their flock grew. Laughter and echoes of brotherhood thundered throughout the walls of the city in times of light. Her passions and drive for the future to be pushed forward were endless in its endeavors and was even acknowledged as such in a gathering of the favored of the Titan’s herald. Under the vast scrutiny of the Archdrakaar, her purpose was noted, a place of endless devotion within the faith was made for her… “Fair Leandra, golden lamb of Caledor. Thy devotions do not go unheard.” “And they shall continue evermore.” “Forlorn, compulsory, like a deep river or a dispute calmed by touch and remembrance. Like undine tears that don’t fall, but cascade. Formed formless. The measure of the simple and devastating things, like warm embrace, forgiven and love. Ephemeral.” “Bride of Dragons, forevermore sing. Your place among my court is waiting.” “I will happily serve such an honor.” Unyielding in what fate had pulled her to, mortality could not contain the lamb for long as she turned to wolf. Through the flames that burned through her very soul, she was reborn from flesh, bone, and ash. Ithirnaktar, the Keeper of Knowledge she was named upon being reborn from the pit of flames she had been devoured, only to be made whole upon her clawing from that fire. Her rebirth only furthered her resolve, and her passions were emboldened by that inner flame of hers. Within that city she held so dear, she constructed an Ivory Tower, the haven of her horde, and for her heralds to be educated in the ways of the world. It was a fulfilling life to live side by side, having a family of her own, a purpose to guide her every step forward in her path of fire, and to guide others in their ways through history and knowledge. Dutiful, she remained even further in her devotions, parting with the culmination of her horde to bestow those written texts onto the Archdrakaar. She tended to those books as if they were her lifeline to the world around her, cataloging every text there was within that Ivory Tower. It became a haven of knowledge, and through it, the flock grew; souls from all walks of life had traveled to learn from the texts. Establishing Keepers of such sacred knowledge that acted as wardens to that which they all held dear to them - Sorcery, Medicine, Anthropology, Artificery, and Science. A path to understanding the realm in totality and understanding realms beyond. Chronologizing the unknown into the known and duty through understanding were the core values upheld. They were guided by Azdromoth to what must be understood. Her path was to correct those that had strayed, those that were drawn to the dark found sanctity within that fair city. Those who influenced mortalkind in attempts to sway them to foul, wicked ways to be shackled to Iblees met their end facing a plume of flame and ash, burning away what foul wickedness had entrapped them. All across Arcas, she and the others trekked, demons slayed, dark mages slaughtered, wayward druids who had far too much influence over nature; none were left to the whims of fate to decide what would happen to them. Those that stood of ash and flame beside her were more than just warriors- it was a society. Art and music, fineries and gluttony, had steered the course of everyday life within the city she had loved so much. That was until the inferi had overtaken the southern states of the continent, despite them fighting side by side against Descendents, it was to no avail. The south of Korravassa had fallen to the hands of the infernal. It was time to prepare descendent-kind for what awaited in the war for devils and infernals alike to feast upon the spoils of mortality. The nephilim had a duty to defend those mortals from being feasted upon. On the eve of doom, Azdromoth made a pact with the high elves of Haelun’or to construct wards around the city to keep the infernal at bay. The Pact of the Titan it was called, and in return, the Titan’s children could roam freely inside the city. Ithirnaktar set out to ensure those high elves could defend themselves if all else came to it, several following to become heralds of the Keeper of Knowledge, including their very own Sohaer at the time. With the Inferi encroaching on Arcas, there was nothing to be done to avoid the invasion. She collected the books, artifacts, and everything else she needed kept safe, and sailed off back to the island she called home. Despite having everything, doing all that she could, there was an emptiness that yearned for more. The pact of her ancestors had not been fulfilled, too much left to the unknown of what could have been and what once was. The elves were without guidance, mortals beginning to blame nephilim for their own toils, the tides had shifted and turned through an impenetrable fog. All the books and knowledge she had collected across the realm could not account for experience, to actually understand what she knew. Underneath the expanse of starlight and the cosmos, she trekked to the coastal altar, lighting the incense as she had done countless times. She fell before the altar and prayed, as she had done all those decades ago “Father, I understand the pact, what must be done. Yet I am unsure of how to oblige my duties. Whatever you require of me, I will do.” “...” Ithirnaktar was met with silence for the first time in decades. She upheld her resolve, remaining there until she slept, fading into a fit of dreams and nightmares. It was a dragon's dream, life and creativity brought to the high elves, dragons soaring high above cities of white spires and towers. There was magic, the arcane, tragedy, and knowledge awaiting to be feasted upon. It was the high elves, yet something was off in this dream, as if a hole caved into her heart. Despite it being everything she had imagined for the ‘aheral, it still felt empty and lonesome. Her eyes shot open as the morning sun peeked over the horizon, and she gasped for air, clutching her chest. Upon awakening, she was different, her features aligned with her mother’s side of the family, and her innerflame was revoked. She was remade and awoken into a new form, Valyris Wynasul. She wandered confused, alone, and all the more horrified by what she had become. Memories echoed in her mind of her beloved, of her fellow nephilim, of both laughter and bickerings of the past. Memories of traversing hell, slaying creatures of the grim, and of prayer, the Black Ziggurat replayed as she wandered until she reached the island's shores. Within the calm stillness of the water, she observed her reflection, finally seeing herself for what she was; she had fallen to her knees in the sand. It was a new life, a new chance to pursue knowledge and protect those who would not accept her protection as a nephilim. That hunger which gnawed at her very existence for knowledge lingered at the core of her being, and her course was set to the center stage for knowledge in the elves - Haelun’or. It was within the home of the high elves that she sought solitude in her newfound mortality. The pursuit of the arcane and the arts was at the forefront of her mind. With her quickly rising through the ranks into the council of the Silver State, she was consumed in her new identity. Memories woven and memories lost, it was a river that ebbed and flowed between what was real and what was not. Who was she, truly? If not an artisan, weaving a new tapestry of a life for herself and knowledge. Ando Alur was the start of her downfall within her once-homeland, as much as she cried out, no one would listen to her echoes about its abnormality when there was such a small group that knew what truly went on in the depths. Her new identity was a tailor, an artist, what was woven through society as an appearance of frills and sparkles was another method of smoke and mirrors. It is no wonder that they did not listen to the ravings of a modiste - and so it fell. It crumbled around her; her duty to protect the high elves had already failed. Yet, there was much to gain in terms of knowledge left to be siphoned from the aftermath of a voidal tear on such a large scale. Not all was lost in this abyss that opened under her watch, an opportunity to learn from mistakes and to grow; an opportunity to understand. As the decades passed, she began to cement a reputation for her newfound self, an arcane artisan and an understanding of the voidal arts unlike she had ever known in times past. She had a newfound yearning for what had not been unraveled, not been created for the very ideas that sprang to life in her mind could be unfolded within her very clutches. Her new identity was not the end, but the beginning of a new era to create what was not possible for her before. She took this gift of new life and ability to learn and used it to travel, leaving the Silver State on occasion to pursue endeavors of being a merchant and learning her new trade and craft. She established an order of mages to protect the Orenian Empire from voidal threats that lurked in the shadows of street corners and slums that began to spread across the realm. She learned of mages, the otherworldly, life, and death in a new perspective as if refreshed by the sudden whimsy and knack for creation she uncovered for herself. Love was found in the most unlikely of places, above the trees in the Ebonwood during her time in the Empire. A fate that had been carved by an insatiable desire for endless trinkets and glamours that were made at the snap of a finger from an endless expanse of cosmos. That was until the call of war rang throughout the seas and the Torch of Larihei lit - civil war broke out among her people between an elf named Ivarielle and the loyalists. Valyris saw that it was tearing her people she adored apart, friends against friends, and she could not bear to pick a side in the chaos of the war. Until her younger half-brother had picked his side and she knew that she must follow her own creed, to protect her kin no matter what the cost. The fog of whimsy and mystic was lifted, and it was her duty again to follow where her fate bound her to and ensure the sanctity of the ‘aheral. She did not fully agree with the methods of the Silver Phoenix, yet she still followed when the war was lost to the encampment of refugees. It is in that moment she knew that it was not Haelun’or that her fate was bound to in that dream of stars and ivory towers - but the new Land of Stars, Celia’nor. That emptiness she felt before was the weight of duty, the weight of what she must do for her people, and the weight of her oaths. Time and time again throughout her lifetime, she had yearned for a home of ‘aheral outside of the Silver State, and now she would be there to guide it and mold it. It was a gilded dream that was shrouded in starlight and the glimmering hope of a future that was woven into the tapestry of fate. The little lamb was still inside of her, clinging to the hope that there was goodness in the realm despite all that she had seen unfold through the slipping sands. Celia’nor became the dream that she forged, through her work of art and culture, helping shape it to be what it should have been all along. She was pulled into politics as the first noble of Celia’nor, hosted plenty of galas and balls that rivaled any opulence seen by the elves previously. She’d come to learn that everything had a price. As she grew closer to the Monarch, she soon realized that not everything that shimmered was made from gold. She watched as the Princess slowly lost herself to the calls of the void and fell to the corruption that plagued the otherworldly. The more she was involved in the web of lies and deceit to hide from the public the dealings of politics and otherworldly, the more she became entrapped in it and unable to free herself from being a puppet on a gilded string. The more that Ivarielle descended into madness, the larger of a role she had to step into for the sake of the people. Valyris continued to host her grand festivities and be a patron for the arts and sciences as the land of elvendom became more prosperous in its unity. There was a delicate art of dancing between shadow and starlight, becoming all the more intertwined in the fate of Celia’nor and ensuring a place of sanctity for the elves and her people. She watched and watched as the elven princess had traversed further down the rabbit hole beyond the point of no return. Her liege was erratic and paranoid without cause, dangerous. All Valyris could do was stitch together the pieces that frayed around them to hold together their people. Until the disappearance - it was as if one day Ivarielle vanished into thin air, never to be seen again. She left the realm without much of a trace, other than erratic ramblings of something following her. Woven between the known and the unknown lay the path of the once-nephilim, continually changing with every move made and every question posed. She lost part of herself in that path of politics and guiding the culture of elvendom. She had to give up the love she found for the sake of stepping up to lead her people when monarchs were lost to the annals of time. Her coronation as Princess of Celia’nor was meant to mark the start of an Empyreal Era, one of prosperity and timelessness through endless creation and the progression of society through knowledge, steel, and the arts. She visualized a realm of everlasting grandeur filled with plenitudes in every form, dreams turned reality for the elves and nephilim alike. On what was thought to be a peaceful morning walk behind the palace through the towering redwoods early in her reign, the reflectance of metal flashing in the sunlight drew her in to find a trapdoor tucked in the base of a towering redwood. Curious, she melted the locks and made her way down the rickety ladder, only to find her nightmares actualized into reality. Despair wrapped around the heart of the Wynasul when a ripple in between reality and the void was revealed to be right below her home, right below the people she was sworn to protect, no matter the cost. The voidal tear was far too mature to be able to safely close, and there was no turning back. Within the foreboding chamber that beheld the living nightmare was a notebook at the center filled with the handwriting of her predecessor of notes on the tear, along with other oddities that made it into a living space. Her people could not know of it; it would cost her everything that was built. Smoke and mirrors, dreams and nightmares, starlight and shadow; it was a delicate thing to weave the guise of the people’s princess supporting notions of philosophy and ingenuity while safeguarding them from the otherworldly itself that was brought to them by the hands of who brought them together. Disturbers of balance and creatures of malevolence capitalized on the growth in the city, with dark mages beginning to fester in various corners of the realm to feast on the light of elvendom. When one iniquitous being was eradicated, another would show up in its place. It began an endless cycle of friend versus foe, oftentimes friends revealing themselves to be foes through the unraveling of corruption. Nephilim walked freely amongst elves, to live amongst civilization without fear of persecution. Celia’nor was a way to reintegrate her people to slowly become accepted by the common folk, and the start of that was through the invitation of her brother Azlihessan to a gala in Starpool, who was oblivious to who she truly was. Step by step, it was a final dance with who she found within the trees of Ebonwood. Blinded by his hatred for nephilim, the Vuln’muriel drew his thanium blade in a flash. There was a choice presented: love or duty; she chose duty every time. The elf-Princess stepped between the strike of Thanium and nephilim, with chaos erupted in his escape. His choices sealed his fate - a choice punishable only by death. Molded by the betrayal of those closest to her time and time again, she was not the same after. She realized she was truly on her own, with only herself to survive and a duty to uphold. Reigning over elvendom with hope for the goodness in people became snuffed out and suffocated by the reality of her situation. That hunger for edification of the realms that lurked deep within her had reawoken and was stirred by the understanding that she had to do what it took to survive, and remembering who she was. The game of smoke and mirrors began with the balancing act between the truth and deceit on the precipice of a dream turning into reality. The infestation of dark mages grew within the shadows of that city of starlight, lurking in the darkness of corners and alleys. Her duty was not only to rid the realm of them, but to understand them. With the wayward souls that would not come to heel, those who walked the path of the mystic came to aid. They taught Valyris in the old ways of Xionism in the path of Embers, to free souls from the clutches of Aeriel’s domain, and more than she thought possible to learn. She learned of the ways of manipulating one’s very soul, at the cost of her own. With the more unveiled through her unyielding hunger to learn, she became proficient at bringing those that lurked in the dark to heel. Political schemes and ensuring the sanctity of high society were woven in between each move with the otherworldly. The soundness of her mind fractured by the ability to watch the veil with the tear that loomed in wait just beyond her walls. Her people thrived at the cost of her own mind, yet she refused to break. Prosperity continued to blossom among her people, with growing exports, culture, and military prowess - it was endless. With this prosperity came the eyes of the realm set on her people, watching and awaiting a misstep. The presence of dark mages that lurked despite all that was done had drawn eyes watching her with suspicion. She could not let the wandering gaze of those outside their walls bring about the ruin of the city. Despite the wealth of knowledge given to her by the mystics, her mind was set. It was the only way to move forward, and the phantom that resided in her to shepherd souls was ripped from within. Her soul shattered and fractured all for the sake of keeping together the realm that had grown far too large in her hands. Celia’nor grew beyond what she ever thought possible with her council stewarded by nephilim and elf alike. Cracks in the facade of impeccability were masked by sleight of hand and diversion from focus by grand tournaments and feasts. She went from having nothing to lose to having everything to lose: a family, children, a home, upholding the oaths of her bloodline, that dream of hers having come near to fruition. Across the lands of Almaris, the Mori’quessir began to slowly encroach on the various realms of Descendents, and hers was no exception to such a fate. The growth of their forces was endless, not unlike that she saw during the end times of Arcas. Everything had a price, a weight to the consequences of the choices one makes. No matter what she paid, it was never enough, and she knew the price would soon have to be paid for all that she had done. If she only had more time, time to build that land she dreamed of amid nightmares that followed her every move. Ivory towers crumble and decay, empires rise and fall, and glasshouses shatter - her nightmares finally caught up to reality and were ripped open from the never-ending beyond. Someone had found their way into the compound she thought was impenetrable, and her palace was consumed by the void that lurked below. It was an explosion that rattled the realm - rattled the very cosmos. Her realm was plunged into political turmoil over the logistics of the tear, and the Mori’quessir used this as an opportunity to conquer. The realms were too distracted by the void to pay attention to the vastness of the Mori’quessir armies, and the endless invasion began. Fi’andria, the hope of the starlit realm, reached the dawn of its final hour. The Mori’quessir armies marched onto the capital in a final stand. They were outnumbered from all fronts, and she had no choice but to call for the retreat of her people through the docks as their only chance of making it out alive. Her people were almost free of the battle when, in the last of their escape, a poisoned arrow stuck into her shoulder by a distant ranger. Blood rushed to her ears, millions of thoughts raced through her mind on the brink of death with every shaking, shallow breath she inhaled. She could not make orphans of her daughters; she could not leave behind her legacy. In a frenzy of the blur of battle, weaving in and out of consciousness, to the refugee camp, utterances of political affairs were put in order, and her being whisked away to the one place she knew she belonged, the one place that was always home. Balthazar, Morur’ei, and Nehtamo brought her to a nearby shrine of flame and ash in her weakened state. Millions of thoughts continued to race through her mind as she felt herself slowly slip away with every moment that the poison coursed through her veins. Only one thought drove her to survive: home. “Do you offer yourself? Your eternal service directly to your Lord?” “As I would offer time and time again. I have sacrificed everything to achieve the dream Keledan set out for me, Father, including my life” “Then you are surrendered. Approach my tower in the Firelands and your penance shall begin.” Forevermore did she begin her song, a song of dragons, of tales of remembrance, of art, of passion, of love, the beauty and pain in all things. She was not the same Leandra, not the same Ithirnaktar, not the same Valyris. What once was a petulant, ungrateful child, ignorant of the realm's atrocities, had grown to a scarred beast locked within the mental cage, burdened by the weight of her choices. She tended to His libraries, His well of knowledge, endlessly scribing what she learned from her dance with the otherworldly. Her mantle of duty, the Keeper of Knowledge, had been taken up again with every little thing during her eternal pilgrimage in the halls of His temple. The little lamb still saw it all, flashes of her every mistake, phantoms lurking where there were no phantoms to lurk, whispers of the horrors that taunted her for what had been done that were relentless in her mind. Penance for chaos, penance for how far she strayed, penance for her failure - every choice on repeat. For half a century, she ruminated as she healed from the poison that nearly brought her to the end. Those decades brought her routine and resolve, something that she had been lacking in the years that chaos had taken root in her psyche. Prayer, writing, art, and endless devotion had filled her daily life. Nightmares of her past were left behind her, only now a path of weaving dreams. The time for her trek from his temple back to the mortal realm was upon her; an eternal pilgrimage and a fate hers for the taking. She was an ember. She was a flame. She was ash. Through the flame, rebirth awaited her once more. OOC NOTE:

How we always handled it in the elves is that it would go to the next of kin after, instead of them not being heir entirely. For instance, if it were the eldest sibling who was gay, then when they died, it would go to the next eldest or the next eldest's child, alternatively, it was based on who most deserved it in the bloodline, which was up to the title holder on who it goes to. This is a suggestion to accommodate the rule change while still only accepting blood relatives.

It was intentional, I hate women. (In all seriousness, great new addition to the server. Happy Pride Month!)

"There is only one Golden Lamb, and it is not this author. Father gave that moniker to me and me alone." A particularly grumpy old elf grumbled from her chambers in the depths of Tor'Praeth. Yet, she paused for a long while, her cosmic hues swirling as she observed the writing of the false Golden Lamb. Whispers in shadow and flame echoed throughout the hall, unheard and unseen by those who bustled within the halls except to her. The shadows and flames called out to her, and so she began her journey. It was as if the very scent of smoke beckoned her closer to who she wished to find. To find a foe or to find a student was a question awaiting an answer; one thing was certain - her hunt had begun.

This. On top of all this, Elrith is an adult; he is allowed to drink in VC with friends, and drinking rp occurs on the server as Lord of the Craft is a PG-13 medium. As someone who has been a victim of domestic abuse and violence, it is sickening that M1919 is being compared to an abuser and that he is using tactics of abuse just because you cannot handle someone being mean to you over pixels. Grow up and realize that there are actual problems in this world, rather than a video game and players on said game making you sad because you did not get what you wanted and decided to post a hit-piece for your temper tantrum. Also, the Ivarielle situation from over three years ago? Really? I am sorry you are upset about how the Vansk situation unfolded and you do not like how things turned out for your rp or your group, but this amounts little in terms of ooc and is mostly just RP issues.

A creak of the floorboards echoed through the lonesome tower that stood tall amongst trees and the glimmer of snow. A singular candle remained in her hands as she navigated to the depths of her home with a letter in hand. What an aged thing she was now, not physically but in spirit. She reflected over what she had once been- the life and death of Leandra Laraethryn and Ithirnaktar, the rise and fall of Valyris Wynasul. Now, she simply was. She took her time before reading the missive, only knowing of its title yet inferring its contents. The elfess reached for the last of her wine within storage that had been waiting labeled "Celian Merlot - 1891", peering over the bottle's age as if wondering whether or not it was too expired. Nonetheless, it was still the time to open it if there ever was one. She flicked her wrist, and a few sparks shot out until the cork lifted from the bottle with a resounding 'pop' to fill her glass. Her accursed eyes finally wandered over the missive's contents, saying nothing. What was there left to say after all? All she felt was nostalgia for what once was. She had come to terms a long time ago with the fact that it was not the place she had built, but something different- yet even still, she felt responsible for the weight of what it had become. She pondered over the friends she once had, the people she met, the countless memories that played throughout the strings of time. The glass remained filled and left on the desk as if an offering for a soul which she knew she would not see. She replayed the last sentence of the missive over and over in her mind, yet for the first time, it was no longer a burden but rather peace that she felt - forgiveness. She only hoped that after all this time, they felt it too. Finally something came to her mind, perhaps the last thing that need be left said; "An oath fulfilled, a promise unbroken, a legacy turned memory, a burden lifted. Wrongs have finally been made right with this final act." With that the candle blew out and she was left in silence, and a hope lingered that they could find that same peace that she had found.